Wonder Woman I am not

It seems all I ever do is catch up. Yeah. Take this post, for instance. It was slated to be posted on Mother’s Day. Now it’s the first week of June and I’m still on the first paragraph.

So yeah, my life consists of catching up with –

…. the news.
…. what’s been happening in my friends’ lives.
…. my family.
…. my extended family (meaning: the long-lost relatives who found me on social media)
…. my kids (wow, I nearly forgot to mention them!)
…. my reading (see the photo below of some of the books on my TBR list)
…. my age (a friend recently remarked “Only our body ages, we’re still teenagers!“)
…. my gardening (see photo taken today of my drooping peace lily)
…. my household cleaning (having a maid ranks on top of my wish list till my dying day)

Then again, there’s the laundry. Who has ever caught up with the laundry IRL? Conquering the pile of dirty clothes, bedsheets, towels, etc … would not require Wonder Woman powers so much if, if only the missing sock syndrome didn’t plague our household.

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Okay, so the lonely socks syndrome only affects mommies. Of which I, obviously, am one. That it was not a problem in our household during our blissful BC (before children) days has been lost on the hubby. He fumes whenever it takes him more than 30 seconds to find matching socks I, of course, have the wisdom not to mention that I am not a maid nor a slave to make his life easy.

Here is one solution that I have yet to try because I don’t know what I’ll do if I ever keep the first bag of unmatched socks out of sight and later on forget where it is stored. I am notorious for having a poor memory. There was a time when, while on vacation in the Philippines, the hubby asked, “Where’s our money?

Struck with fear, I asked, “What money?

He calmly replied, as if explaining the alphabet again to a first grader, “You know – our cash for this holiday.

Oh! Are you sure you gave them to me?

Of course, they’re not with me.”

Couldn’t you have stored it away somewhere?

Heck no, I entrusted them to you, remember? I even told you that it was all our spending money.

I kid not, with the specter of losing two months’ worth of holiday currency looming large on the horizon – not to mention the possibility of a word war that I was sure to lose – I turned our entire bedroom upside down. In a matter of minutes, I sweated more than I ever I think I will ever do with a Jillian Michaels workout. Think that you need physical exercise to perspire? Believe not! I’ve never been able to replicate that feat of perspiring a bucket in less than ten minutes in all my dancing since then. Yup – never!

You’d think that by now I’d know every nook and cranny in our bedroom. After all, that was not the first time I’d treasure hunted to find something I’d hidden (usually, my jewelry). But no. On that same vacation, my eldest son found Dh1,700 in the pocket of a pair of shorts in our closet. Which I’d hidden nearly three years before. 😦

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So let’s get back to the problem of missing socks. I’m no Wonder Woman. In fact, I don’t even aspire to reaching Wonder Woman status. Watching Gal Gadot’s achievements actually prompted a question in my mind: how many maids does she have? Does that sound mean? Well, so be it. I’ve no bones to pick with former beauty queens who maintain their looks while having children but every mother knows that one can’t balance work, family responsibilities, workouts, Me time, and stave off the ravages of time without paid help.

Two nights ago, I asked a friend who’s now doing Emily Skye’s workouts, “How was the movie?

She replied, “Her body looks good. From all angles.”

Hearing that somehow depressed me. Yeah, I know, it’s escapist fiction. I have yet to watch the film so I really can’t comment about its storyline but if my friend’s overall impression of the movie was Gadot’s physique and prowess, well … maybe it’s a good idea to pass up on the latest superhero(ine) franchise.

I do watch escapist fiction under duress. And I usually can’t remember the plot the next day. Thus, I prefer my choices to have some semblance of justice for middle-aged matrons with plenty of white hairs and wrinkles. What that means is a plot that has heart, a story that everyone young and old can relate to. Like Kevin Sullivan’s Anne of Green Gables.

Enthusiasm and melancholy, perseverance and grief, romance and regret — in short, a dollop of everything that contributes to the human experience. Still a resonant cornerstone of our national cultural identity, Anne of Green Gables pays affectingly nostalgic tribute to the slower pace and simpler times of an earlier era, while its heroine embodies such “truly Canadian” values as moral conviction, intelligence, and perhaps most importantly, empathy and understanding towards other people.

                                David Davidson in Anne of Green Gables

Maybe it’s nostalgia. Or perhaps it’s because I can recall a time when life was simpler and less grim.  And films did not distort nor deviate from an author’s mood, like Netflix’s dark Anne with an E. Either way, age has a way of distorting one’s views. Even though what continues to be a problem must be addressed and solved, wisdom acquired via experience makes one let go of daily botherations. Especially if it concerns laundry and disappearing socks.  Lonely socks? Let them go to sock heaven!

In the meantime, La La Land beckons so I’ll be off to catch up on some sleep …

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Maybe I should have a bin just for socks? 

In memoriam

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Farewell, furried friend
Though I cannot comprehend.
Tears may fall
At your sudden call
This I know
I cannot show
Life’s bitter clause
Rent by your claws
For all we fear
Grab things we hold dear
Blistering
A tearing of the heart
When the heavens part.

 

Weekly Photo Challenge: Landscape

I haven’t participated in the Weekly Photo Challenge in a l-o-n-g time. For a blog with the the word desert included in the title, it has long seemed to me that I ought to incorporate more photos of the desert.

Having lived here for nearly one-fourth of my life, here are the photos that have been stored away (meaning: forgotten) in my archives (physical photo albums are so much better at reminding us of our past). 

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<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/photo-challenges/landscape/”>Landscape</a&gt;

The Waste Land

When the children were smaller, I looked forward to spring because I always woke up to a rainbow across the white rice cooker in the kitchen. Since I started to garden, however, spring’s association with renewed life and all its extant hopes have all but died. While residents in temperate countries look forward to coming out of winter to a world filled with color, here in the Levant residents literally feel the summer heat even before the first of April. In recent years, April marks the start of a drought of garden blooms. It’s when the gardener uproots the dried stalks of zinnias and other flowers that sparked joy through the cold months of December, January and February.

Lately, the dreariness that April brings has been compounded by grief over friends who leave. Last year a dear friend flew away on April 8. This year another close friend is returning home for good at the end of the month. Who, I wonder, will leave next April?

Perhaps it was fitting then that the month of April began with rain, an anomaly considering that our section of the desert receives rain only once or twice a year and we’d already gotten several days’ worth in early March. Thus when T.S. Eliot’s words popped up on my screen on April Fools’ Day, it seemed like an ironic and tasteless if not apt joke.

April is the cruellest month, breeding  (it sure is starting to feel that way)
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing  (my garden will soon be a dead land)
Memory and desire, stirring                 (why does memory always stir desire?)
Dull roots with spring rain.                   (April began with rain this year)
Winter kept us warm, covering            (winter blooms always warm me up)
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding         (ah snow – I’ve yet to experience that)
A little life with dried tubers.           (what I think of my existence: a little life)

Eliot’s The Waste Land, long considered a masterpiece of modern poetry, is a difficult poem to understand for its many allusions lost to post-modern readers and for the varying voices of its speaker (or the switch between different characters). That it is so long is also a turn-off. Its opening lines, however, grab readers – who, for example, thinks that April is the cruellest month? I sure didn’t until I lived in the desert. In my childhood, April meant lazy summer days spent reading and eating. In my adulthood, April meant continuing work.

There are poems that reveal themselves only after one has undergone an experience that enables one to comprehend, even though you know what it’s all about. Does that make sense? If it helps, I’ve harvested dried tubers from our backyard. Well, anyway, reading the first stanza two nights ago felt like a flash into one’s psyche. What serendipitySo I googled the rest even though I knew it was going to be a long read.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

The second stanza above has three biblical references, would you believe? I have no desire to go through a line-by-line or stanza-by-stanza analysis of the poem here even though there are many, many lines that grab me. Others have done it. Yes, Eliot’s depiction of man’s growing selfishness is a hard piece to follow or swallow since his view of man’s social and spiritual decay is not declared outright but via snippets of conversation (one of which is between two women in a pub discussing the other’s abortion) and scenes of everyday life (one of which is copulation between uninterested lovers as seen through the eyes of the poet Tiresias from Greek mythology).

Suffice it to say that if you’re in a blue mood, Eliot’s pensive, insightful prose can give comfort, yes, despite its desolate tone and gloomy critique of the world he lived in. Eliot’s despair at the collapse of Western civilization as it was before the Great War makes one pause and think that we, like Eliot’s generation, will return to a handful of dust someday and that we should strive to rise above a life that is a heap of broken images.

Then spoke the thunder
DA
Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment’s surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract

By this, and this only, we have existed

Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
DA
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
DA
Damyata: The boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands
 
                                    I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina
Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow
Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
                  Shantih     shantih     shantih

Lastly, isn’t it fascinating that after showing the decline of Western culture and referencing the Bible so many times, Eliot ends with the words Datta, Dayadham, Damyata? Taken from the Upanishads of the Hindu religion, they translate to give, show compassion and exercise self-control.

Does that mean Eliot believes that these tenets are the key to achieving Shantih, another Hindu word defined as the peace that passes understanding? Most probably – his deviance from the Bible (but not biblical principles, remember!) could mean that he was disillusioned at a religion long associated with the West for failing to arrest the decay of humankind into red sullen faces (that) sneer and snarl / from doors of mudcracked houses. Because of this, I personally don’t think The Waste Land ends on a slightly positive note as some readers believe.

PS. Blogging anonymously, I vacillate between having the public read my poems and the fear that Internet anonymity could lead to copyright infringement or worse, intellectual property theft. This being the 20th anniversary of National Poetry Month, I shall be unlocking the password-protected poems here for the month of April. Who knows, I might even publish one from my cache!

March thoughts: friendships and farewells

Well … this week has been an emotional roller coaster one for me. I hosted an Easter egg hunt the day following Resurrection Sunday. It should have been an eggs-ighting affair. But then. My friend’s special needs son tore up the roses that I’d gathered from the garden earlier that day. They  had smelled fabulous. Seeing them as garnishing for the grass, I was almost in tears. But. Roses are a poor excuse for turning on the taps. So I didn’t cry. I think we all had a wonderful time, though. After-dinner conversations after BBQs in the desert are always a delight.

Once the realization is accepted that even between the closest human beings infinite distances continue, a wonderful living side by side can grow, if they succeed in loving the distance between them which makes it possible for each to see the other whole against the sky.
Rainer Maria Rilke

Meanwhile … there are times when my mind gets muddled up and I can’t think clearly to write. Right now is one of them. Because. A dear friend has just given notice that she and her husband will be leaving in one month’s time.

I don’t think anyone ever gets used to farewells. Saying goodbye is a fact of life yet still, when they happen, life gets depressing in a way that no length of notice ever prepares you for.

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Breakfast with my friend who is leaving and two other friends, Spring 2015

If ever there’s a constant to expat life, especially in the UAE where the local population hovers at only 22%,  it is saying good-bye. I don’t know about others but doing it often enough just. does not. get me inured against missing someone’s presence. And. I know. That I will miss my friend terribly. Because ….

This time last year I was steeling myself to live the coming days in the absence of a friend whose baked goodies arrived whenever I had a cry in the loo. How did she know when I needed cheering up? I don’t know. I don’t announce when I’ve wept buckets down the toilet. But real friends … they have this uncanny ability to sense another’s burden.

My friend who is leaving – she’s older than I am. She’s the one who has been privy to all my secrets, my hurts, my fears through all these years … heck, she’s the one who tells me I’m ugly without make-up! I know that if friends arrive bearing food, it was at her instigation. When I declined an invitation to join our church ladies’ plan to go on a restaurant cruise, she – being the treasurer – paid for an extra seat then coerced me into coming along, knowing that I’d enjoy it as a treat away from the kids.

But perhaps I should not let this wave of melancholy wash over even as I feel that staying connected via texts and FB is a poor substitute for face-to-face communication. Reunions happen. Just last week we, the hubby and I, had a lovely time having coffee in the garden with a couple who flew back to our town after returning home for good two years ago. They  had accepted our invitation to stay behind after service even though they were scheduled to travel to Abu Dhabi with their four kids the following morning. While our children bounced up and down the trampoline, I asked questions:

How do you feel about the influx of refugees to your country? They answered in the affirmative. Would you feel that way had you not lived here and interacted with them? Both husband and wife shook their heads. We went on to talk about other sundry matters. Child discipline. Angela Merkel. House renovations. Raising boys. Christian living. After they left, I gave thanks for the experience then reflected on how much we are all the same even though we have different skin colors. How much we are all enriched whenever we reach out and exchange ideas with others! This last was an especially meaningful insight since the hubby had dragged me to a meet-up with people whom I didn’t know just days before this reunion.

A week or two ago, I learned a new word courtesy of The Artidote:

pistanthrophobia
n. the fear of trusting people due to past experiences and relationships gone bad.

My first reaction was “So this is it!” It was a relief to finally put a word to an emotion that has been with me for so long yet remained unnamed.

It’s another fact of life that as you grow older, some friends fall by the wayside. I don’t wish to elaborate further on this except to say that some experiences make you treasure those friends who have proven time and again to be real. Yes, there will be times when you’re pissed off with one another, times to cool off until a day when the warmth returns as if nothing has happened. Right now, even as I ready my mind not to see another friend who will be leaving in three months’ time, all I can think of is …

This friend … she’s real. That’s why I treasure her. We’ve both gone through cycles of cooling off, yes. Funny thing is, when I first met her, I didn’t think we’d hit it off. But then, my friendships are always like that. Those individuals who’ve become close because of shared values and interests are usually those who gave first impressions that turned me off.

In a murderous time
     the heart breaks and breaks
             and lives by breaking.
It is necessary to go
     through dark and deeper dark
             and not to turn.
                                  Stanley Kunitz, The Testing Tree

Ten years ago, I cried a whole day when the family of a friend immigrated to the US. Several months later, I wept for another day when another family left. To avoid the pain of separation, I told myself one must not get close enough to people. But then life happens. Without knowing it, certain individuals – some with quirks you can’t even tolerate in your children or husband – sneak unnoticed into the heart. And expat life does not help. Living so far away from home, one’s walls tumble down over time.

Even as I write this, I know that the symphony of life will continue, the music cresting in moments that catch us unaware till their passing. The coming months will bring new people into my life, some of whom will creep into the heart unknowingly until one day one realizes that they have become friends who – as Marie Kondo so aptly puts it – spark joy.

In the meantime, I will read. Because. Books remain the only unchanging (material) constant in this ever shifting world of mine.

The words you can’t find, you borrow. We read to know we’re not alone. We read because we are alone. We read and we are not alone. 
                                                 Gabrielle Zevin, The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry

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Comfort food for the mind

VDay verses

Hmmm. It appears that my taste in poetry is sadly out of date according to yesterday’s readings. Thing is, one has to buy the latest poetry books to keep up to date (of course these new poets are not going to post their poetry online like you and I do – they’ve usually got tenure and royalty to claim from their published books) and poetry books are at the bottom of my wishlist.

Anyway, thank goodness for the Web!  So. Here below are several sonnets (okay, they’re not strictly sonnets!) that grabbed me the most yesterday. I wonder: does anyone else spend VDay immersed in verse?

                   I love you as the sunlight leads the prow
Of a ship which sails
From Hartford to Miami, and I love you
Best at dawn, when even before I am awake the sun
Receives me in the questions which you always pose.

                                           Kenneth Koch, To You

If you’re sick of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s How Do I Love Thee? read Kenneth Koch’s ode to his love here.

That morning, when she asked me to leave, wearing only
The apricot tinted, fraying chemise, I wanted to stay.
But I also wanted to go, to lose her suddenly, almost
For no reason, & certainly without any explanation.
I remember looking down at a pair of singular tracks
Made in a light snow the night before, at how they were
Gradually effacing themselves beneath the tires
Of the morning traffic, & thinking that my only other choice
Was fire, ashes, abandonment, solitude.
(Larry Levis, My Story in a Late Style of Fire)

Read Larry Levis’ entire poem here (I guarantee you a gut-wrenching read!)

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.

Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.
(Carol Ann Duffy, Valentine)

Sigh! Wish I could write like that … ah well, who else but a poet would try to offer an onion to his/her object of affection? (Update: British Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy is coming to Dubai for the 8th Emirates Airline Festival of Literature on March 1-12 … am so excited! )

i think of lovers as trees, growing to and
from one another searching for the same light,
my mothers laughter in a dark room,
a photograph greying under my touch,
this is all i know how to do, carry loss around until
i begin to resemble every bad memory,
every terrible fear,
every nightmare anyone has ever had.

i ask did you ever love me?
you say of course, of course so quickly
that you sound like someone else
i ask are you made of steel? are you made of iron?
you cry on the phone, my stomach hurts

i let you leave, i need someone who knows how to stay.
                                  Warsan Shire

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Image Source: http://www.azquotes.com/quote/862251

Warsan Shire’s verses contain so much honesty, they make you cry. And think about what it’s like to be a black African woman today. She’s not the only one to write with raw honesty that verges on the sublime, though. Below are some verses written during the Middle Ages (believe it or not!)

If anyone asks you 
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say, 

Like this.

When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,

Like this.

If anyone wants to know what “spirit” is,
or what “God’s fragrance” means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your head toward him or her.

Like this.

When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.

Like this.

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.

Like this. Like this.
(Rumi, Like This)

It’s hard to believe the verses above were written by a Sufi mystic/poet. Read Like This and other Rumi poems here and be stirred by words written several centuries ago. Of course, Sufi mystics and lovestruck musicians don’t have a monopoly on sexually charged verses. According to the Bible, they’ve been around for several millenia. Don’t believe me? Consider these

Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth!
                                                  Song of Songs 1:2

He brought me to the banqueting house,
    and his banner over me was love.
Sustain me with raisins;
    refresh me with apples,
    for I am sick with love.
His left hand is under my head,
    and his right hand embraces me!
                                                  Song of Songs 2:4-6

I will seek him whom my soul loves.
    I sought him, but found him not.
The watchmen found me
    as they went about in the city.
“Have you seen him whom my soul loves?”
Scarcely had I passed them
    when I found him whom my soul loves.
I held him, and would not let him go
    until I had brought him into my mother’s house,
    and into the chamber of her who conceived me.
                                                    Song of Songs 3:2-4

Hopefully, these three examples are sufficient to show that Scripture contains content of an erotic nature. Of course, some of the metaphors are now obscured by time …

Your hair is like a flock of goats
    leaping down the slopes of Gilead.
Your teeth are like a flock of shorn ewes
    that have come up from the washing,
all of which bear twins,
    and not one among them has lost its young.
Your lips are like a scarlet thread,
    and your mouth is lovely.
Your cheeks are like halves of a pomegranate
    behind your veil.
Your neck is like the tower of David,
    built in rows of stone;
on it hang a thousand shields,
    all of them shields of warriors.
                                     Song of Songs 4:1-4

But. Believe me, listening to a read-aloud of certain verses from Song of Songs can put my significant other in a romantic mood. Anyway, for those die-hard romantics, here’s one from Neruda, er, E.e. Cummings (a friend suggested I print it out, hence the photo). The roses came from my garden – yes, roses bloom in the desert soil and aren’t they lovely?

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Speaking of writing in a digital age, The Atlantic’s A Modern Guide to the Love Letter is a seriously funny piece! Meaning, it gave several laugh-out-loud moments. Of course not everyone will appreciate such an article. After all, not everyone remembers receiving snail mail or the fastidiousness associated with writing love letters. But I do since I was sometimes asked to do so by my classmates at university.

Lastly, if the overdose of literary expressions of love or whatever sentiment yesterday made you puke, consider this post-modern take on love from a Romantic poet. Belated Hearts Day, everyone!

And what is love? It is a doll dress’d up
For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle;
A thing of soft misnomers, so divine
That silly youth doth think to make itself
Divine by loving, and so goes on
Yawning and doting a whole summer long,
Till Miss’s comb is made a pearl tiara,
And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots;
Then Cleopatra lives at number seven,
And Antony resides in Brunswick Square.
Fools! if some passions high have warm’d the world,
If Queens and Soldiers have play’d deep for hearts,
It is no reason why such agonies
Should be more common than the growth of weeds.
Fools! make me whole again that weighty pearl
The Queen of Egypt melted, and I’ll say
That ye may love in spite of beaver hats.
(John Keats, Modern Love)

February thoughts: On abortion

Sigh. I was all set to write about the many occasions I exhibited stupidity (why do they occur in January without fail?), lessons on humility (of course these are related to my stupidity), reconciling with a guy who did not speak to me for two years, and the feel-good moment when one is acknowledged as a factor that pushed an old friend to start a blog. But then. I received an unexpected message on Messenger from my bff at university asking my thoughts on abortion.

Now I’d planned to write a post on abortion and was just composing my thoughts on the matter when I read When Abortion Suddenly Stopped Making Sense. Reading that, I promptly lost all appetite for penning a piece. I mean, what else could I add to the discussion? Will articulating my thoughts bring someone a new perspective on the matter? I sure don’t think so. But. Since you asked for it, these ramblings are for you, dear university bff …

                                                                  ♠♠♠

Perhaps nothing has been so divisive an issue for moralists, Christians and modern thinkers as abortion. Because. Where one stands on the issue is a silent declaration of an individual’s values concerning life, liberty, equality and citizenship.

For the record, let me state beforehand that as a Christian I am against abortion. Is it wrong? Absolutely. From a Scriptural viewpoint, abortion takes away from God a right that is His as the creator. To kill a foetus – a living, breathing organism – is downright murder because it is premeditated and intentional.

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The moment of fertilization … to think that an intelligent being arises from the joining of an egg and a sperm! (Image Source: http://www.webmd.com)

Why then is there an epidemic of abortion the likes of which has never before happened in history? I’m not so sure but it’s probably due to a confluence of factors: the women’s rights movement, the rise of civil liberties advocacy, the advent of women in the workforce, the increased divorce rate, the sexual revolution of the 60’s which fueled the rise of live-in relationships, the pull of a professional life for women who want to be financially independent, the rise of educated women who want to have their cake and eat it, too ….

Perhaps the most instrumental of all is the current thinking that children are not a blessing but a burden, an inconvenience that stops females from from fulfilling their potential or achieving their career goals. I must admit – I have been guilty of this many, many times.

In fact, I’ve even discussed it with other mothers of different ages: we don’t make nearly as much sacrifices as our mothers. And yet. We are so quick to complain about the demands on our time. Compared to previous generations, we have it so easy: we order food to be delivered when we don’t feel like cooking (was there fastfood during my mom’s heyday?), we have the Internet to keep up with news and correspondence (they managed with printed newspapers and snail mail), we pay bills and shop from the comfort of our home (they had to get out of the house to pay bills and shop).

So. Let us go to the crux of the matter: pregnancy is a material consequence of sex. An act that usually occurs between two consenting adults. Whether they are married or not is beside the point in today’s climate. But. It is damning evidence that most of the women who signed an amicus brief on January 4, 2016 and credit an abortion for allowing them to become lawyers were single, unmarried and still in school when they did so.

Previously, sexual activity was mostly confined to married couples. Now, we’re taught that it’s okay as long as it’s consensual. But. Training and teaching teenagers on how to handle adulthood have actually gone down as educators place more emphasis on boosting a child’s self-esteem. A lethal combination, if you ask me, considering that the average teenage brain is still developing.

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Image Source: http://www.guttmacher.org

In our house, we have a rule: you must accept responsibility for whatever decision you make. You stay up late to watch a movie during a school night, I won’t spend ten minutes to wake you up. Where’s the analogy here, you ask? Simple. The women who engaged in sex and found themselves pregnant probably had no plans to have their bellies swell for the next nine months. Thus, when confronted with the prospect of spending the rest of their life with the unwanted product of their sexual activity, they chose a quick fix to the problem.

Please notice that I did not say “easy fix.” Quick is not equal to easy. I’m trying not to be offensive here. But. To me, having an abortion is tantamount to declaring “I don’t want to be responsible for whatever material consequence arises from having sex. Yes, I still want to engage in sex but please, not at my expense! The men have it easy, they don’t get punished with a swollen tummy and spend the rest of their life with a child who will curtail my sexual activity… why should I? ”  Also: “I can’t afford not to have an abortion!”

Of course, that’s a crude way of putting it. Many women undergo abortion under duress, believing that it will enable them to achieve success while mired in poverty and a no-choice environment. And. They’re right. Abortion allows them to have control over their bodies and go on to lead productive lives.

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Image Source: Soc.ucsb.edu

In addition, it confers many freedoms. Abortion allows couples to do away with a baby with a defective gene. Abortion allows a career woman to stay on track for a promotion. Abortion allows a rape victim to eliminate the reminder of a harrowing experience. Abortion allows a married woman who had an affair to hide her sin (I’m thinking of the Filipino husband who returned home after his wife committed suicide because she got pregnant by another man). Abortion allows an unmarried woman living in a land where premarital sex is illegal and ground for deportation to engage in sexual activity unhampered.

A selfish choice? Yes, if you ask me because most decisions are based on self-concern, not for the foetus. Ask any mother who struggled with fertility (and believe me I know a lot about this) what her immediate concern was after becoming pregnant and she will tell you: the baby’s health.

“To the world, I am an attorney who had an abortion, and, to myself, I am an attorney because I had an abortion.”
introduction to an amicus brief filed January 4, 2016 by 113 lawyers

Right now, abortion is hot in the news because an imminent case, Whole Women’s Health v Cole, will require the US Supreme Court to decide for the first time in 20 years to make a ruling on abortion. If you can, read the testimonies of the women who contributed to the amicus brief to persuade the US Supreme Court that providing safe, legal abortion is crucial to empowering women economically. A recurrent theme emerges: they became responsible for their destiny only after obtaining abortion. Nearly all are united in expressing that an abortion helped them go to law school, break a cycle of poverty and achieve personal/professional success.

But. Had they been more responsible (notice I did not say ‘selfish’), they would not have gotten pregnant in the first place. I mean, c’mon, there’s the pill, the condom, and the least popular choice, abstinence. Which, of course, is preached in the Bible. And so we go back to Scripture where it states:

For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know
that full well.
My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven
together in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book
before one of them came to be.
Psalm 139:13-16
Lastly, let me just say that I have tried to look at abortion as a woman’s constitutional right to participate fully in the progress of a nation and to enjoy freedoms that are taken away when one becomes pregnant. In fact, I have even written a poem from the perspective of one who regrets an abortion decision. But. I simply cannot let go of the reality that a foetus is a human being, subject to the same constitutional rights as its mother ….

So. You want to know what’s my take on the issue, moralizing aside? It’s this: you want to engage in what adults do? You better be prepared to handle adult responsibilities. Like raising a child.

PS. I just realized that I don’t know whether your friend who had an abortion is married or not. Please don’t judge her. She needs your compassion and help to turn her judgment around to the fact that life is precious.