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. ūüė¶

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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 ‚ÄĒ 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 ‚Äútruly Canadian‚ÄĚ 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? 
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Valentine’s Day 2017 (on dealing with non-expectations)

Is there anything in Me
That can’t be fixed by a cup of tea?

Ugh. So yesterday was another busy day of homeschooling. And. Wanting some comfort, I turned to my cache of tea boxes bought from Germany last summer. Only to discover that creeping crawling insects had invaded most of them. So now I’m throwing them away. Ack! The meandering thoughts they would have inspired while being sipped! Alas, adieu was the order of the day …

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Some of the tea that I threw away … and they cost more than four times as much here in the UAE!

Anyway, I had a most pleasant surprise yesterday. Like I wrote before, we don’t normally celebrate Valentine’s Day so I was not expecting anything nor taking the hubby’s mutterings about not having a present for yours truly seriously. Truly. I can’t remember if he ever gave me a rose before we were married. (In fairness, he started giving roses after we were married and it was only last month that he gave me tulips)¬†

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Sadly, these tulips wilted within two days of purchase

So. He took youngest son out for a haircut. And returned with these and an apology that they were the best he could find in our desert town.

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I’d seen them advertised on Facebook and thought “Who would ever give those kind of roses to their dearly beloved!” I couldn’t help it – I laughed. And told him he need not have bothered – there were roses aplenty in our garden. Thereupon he articulated his hurt and vowed never to give another Valentine’s Day gift again.

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One of the rose varieties that grows in sandy soil – these are not sweet-smelling

Realizing that I’d crushed his delight in giving (not to mention jeopardized all future chances of ever receiving a Valentine’s Day gift again), I immediately sought to rectify my thoughtlessness. Articulating my gratitude, I remained mum concerning the box of chocolates that accompanied the rose. Though really, my first thought was “Oh no, are you sabotaging my calorie counting?

Anyway, I’ve since then been enlightened by Joe Carter’s piece on How to Write a Love Letter.” He says

Being in love has nothing to do with being reasonable. In fact, love requires that you make completely irrational choices. If we didn’t there would be no romance, no second marriages, and no jewelry stores.

So maybe purchasing a long-lasting rose is unreasonable, irrational ¬†and downright corny. Yeah. When I think about it, what rose is supposed to last a whole year? Still … after all the busyness of yesterday and the middling musings on life and marriage that kept me awake till one in the morning, I finally found a way to allay the hubby’s hurt (who knew men could be so onion-skinned?)¬†and express my appreciation for his selflessness throughout the year… by finally writing the dedication/Christmas greeting in the book that I gave him for Christmas. I’d asked him to read it prior to reading the book and was perplexed to find that I’d never written it. Who knew I could be unreasonable and irrational to ask someone to read something I’ve never written?

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Honestly, I don’t know whether to feel gratified that hubby is turning romantic as he ages or mortified at the thought that we’ve now been swept into the tide of crass commercialism of a day commemorating the gruesome death of a Christian martyr. No one needs a special day to convey his/her love when it’s communicated everyday, eh?

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Image Source: The Idealist on FB

Belated Heart’s Day from the sands of Arabia!

Expectation

Daily Prompt: Anticipation

Okay, so Madam’s death squeezed out all motivation to post for the longest time. A pet’s death, however, doesn’t dry creative juices completely. Just as Billy Joel says in his song, “there would still be music left to write” ¬†if only because life goes on despite what one is feeling.

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So. Going through my emails today, I was so excited to learn that yesterday’s Daily Prompt was “Anticipation.” I haven’t participating in The Daily Prompt for some time. But. Anticipation is the only the word that describes my state of mind right now. The church which we have hosted for the longest time (nearly ten years to be exact) is due to move out in a month or so. And all I can now do is imagine our house having more space. And what not.

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That’s a Kitty Meijering printed canvass I found in the Philippines (okay, it’s probably a fake but KM is one of my fave artists)

It’s so hard to put everything into words right now because interior decorating is a part-time hobby of mine due to the fact that it is a very expensive one at that. Plus. It takes me ages and ages to conceptualize and think about where to place furniture and what furniture to use/buy for a particular need.

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For example, the hubby right now is using the top of a shoe rack in our kitchen as a countertop for his coffeemaker. That is going to change, of course, not least because he’s been making noises about it, ha, ha.

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One thing’s for sure: we need more shelves for our growing library.

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Anyway, I’ve been looking at the current and present IKEA catalogs and my cache of color-coordinated bric-a-bracs, wall decor, table covers, sofa covers, cushion covers, curtains, etc … The last time I changed our color scheme was 17 months ago in June 2015 when I adopted the color purple.

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Ugh. Now I realize I didn’t take pics of our house with the purple curtains, carpets, etc … except for the one below.

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Anyway, the photos here do not show our current living situation which right now is very messy since I’ve been “springcleaning” soon after the end of our homeschooling year. They’re how our house looked like two Christmases ago. Meanwhile, anticipation beats steadily through my days …

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 Anticipation

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 held dear
Blistering
A tearing of the heart
When the heavens part.

 

Keeper of my dreams

Keeper of my dreams
At your altar do I bring
All my person’s pride and pain
And a sinner’s dross and shame.

Keeper of my dreams
Gladly do I give you everything:
The fears and tears of yesteryears –
Free them, please, on an angel’s wings.

Keeper of my dreams
To you I surrender all heartaches
Carry me so my soul won’t break
Strengthen me for thy Spirit’s sake.

Keeper of my dreams
Gently sew these tattered seams
Of long dormant desires and whims
Into a garment of psalms and hymns.

Dimly through the world I see, 
Dreary though my life may be –¬†
Forever will a praise I sing,
Seeking not a blessing
But the strength to come shining through;
Clutching at your hand as children do
Clinging to nothing else but you:
       Tender keeper of my dreams.

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 serendipity!¬†So 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‚ÄĒO 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!