Cries in the Night

Her cries pierce the darkness. Through the blackened halls, she wanders and calls their names, but only the silence replies to her. Confused, she searches their hiding places. Calling them as she travels from room to room. The panic in her voice growing as she finds nothing but emptiness in their usual hiding places. She cannot understand why they do not come to her. So on through the blackened halls she wanders. Searching for that which she has lost. 

In helplessness I sit and watch. The pain in her voice unmistakable. She doesn't know what I know. She doesn't know of the cruelty that snuck in while she was out. She doesn't know that which she searches for is lost forever. Never to return to her. How I wish I could remove her sorrow. Could return to her that which she searches for, but it is beyond me. All I can do is offer her a kind word as she passes me in the night.

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Every year we have a mother cat who has a liter of kittens on our roof. A couple months ago, she had her annual litter. The kittens are big enough now that they are starting to eat solid food, but not so big that they are weaned. There were four of them. Every day they would come downstairs into our room and eat dinner with us. During the night they would chase each other, play hide and seek, and enjoy the tiny bit of freedom they were denied during the day. Then when the mother cat returned from being out in search of food, she would call them and they would run from their hiding places. She'd bathe them and up the stairs they would go until the next night. Until three days ago. 

Three days ago, they didn't come down for dinner. I thought it odd, but didn't think more about it until the mother cat returned and began to call the kittens who didn't appear from their hiding places. When she realised they were not there, her cries became panicked. A terror filled her voice and she has spent the last three nights crying. I'd never heard a cat mourn before. I didn't even know cats mourned, but the pain in her voice is clear. Her kittens were stolen. Taken from her while she was out in search of food for them. Now she sits and cries. It's heartbreaking. 

I'm not a cat person. I don't like cats, but that doesn't mean I would harm innocent kittens either. I'm certain the kittens will have died unless someone takes them in. They aren't weaned yet. They aren't big enough to fend for themselves. But the way this mother cat grieves for her lost babies is just beyond words. As humans we tend to look at other creatures and see them as unfeeling objects. I'm no PETA follower, I eat meat, I've worn leather and even fur, but I don't abuse animals either. I think there is a fine line in this world and somehow I think the balance is starting to tip. Sooner rather than later.

Stained Nails

I remember how the juice stained my fingers and turned my lips purple as it trickled down my chin. I remember how the thorns stuck in my jeans and tugged at my hair as I pushed my way through. If I close my eyes, I can hear her voice. Humming Amazing Grace softly to herself. Hours were spent the briar patch, picking blackberries. I ate as many as I put in my bucket. Every Saturday was spent there. 

On Monday when I went back to school the other kids talked about their weekend adventures. Movies and the mall were what they chattered about. While I had lots to tell I just smiled and nodded. When asked what I did, "oh nothing" was my reply. There was something magical about that briar patch. It was all mine. I didn't want to share it with anyone. Except her. 

We'd talk about life and I'd tell her all the things I never could find the words for in front of others. Yet when it was just me and her, the words seemed to take on a life of their own. They streamed forth from me. Insisting to be brought into existence. A never ending supply of words and syllables combined together into thoughts and emotions. Secret treasures hidden from all but her.

They use to ask me about my stained fingernails. I would just shrug. Never offering an explanation. Most likely they thought me to be trailer trash with dirty nails, but I knew better. So did she.

15 Years Ago Today

source

I was lying face down in my own vomit in cardiac arrest, moments from death. In a little while they would be cutting open my stomach to remove the 7 month old infant that was living inside of me. The body that had been her sanctuary for 7 months was failing and if she wasn't removed, she would certainly die. All 2 lbs of her was taken from me within seconds, but it would be six more weeks before I even knew. 

Six more weeks of she and I both fighting for our lives.

Six more weeks of waiting and uncertainty.

Six more weeks of my 1 yr old son asking, "When Mommy was going to wake up?"

Six long weeks. 

Summer is rough for me. Lots of memories. My son was born in June and my daughter in August. Today. It makes me wonder what type of young adults they have become. No longer are they the little beings that live in my memories. They have thoughts and opinions all their own and I wonder what they are.

It's been almost six years since I last spoke to her. Since I last heard her laughter. Since I last wiped her tears. I don't write about them to gain your sympathy or to make you feel sorry for me. I accept the consequences of my actions and I wait for the day when she is a mother herself and maybe a bit more understanding. I write so they know I didn't forget them. I never stopped loving them. I write so one day they'll have something tangible to look at and know that even though miles and oceans separated us, they never left my heart.

Road Traveled Upon

The glow of the computer monitor is the only light in the house. Every one is fast asleep. The only sound is the crickets who are singing their nighttime lullabies. In the silence and the darkness, I take a moment to look back. To look at where I have come from, where I am now, and how far I have traveled. Not just distance but within myself. While I have many regrets, I have learned so much.

I have learned an inner strength that I didn't know I had. I have learned about universes and planets that I never knew existed. Visited alien worlds and learnt what it means to be humbled. However as the days pass the pain of regret dulls. It stops twisting within. Stops turning and rumbling. Stops raging and clawing and I become complacent within myself.

Until the shock comes. And it always comes in those moments when the darkness is darkest and the night is quietest. Moments when I least expect it. Moments when I begin to feel that I am almost whole. They jump out from the dark corners and grab me. They pull me back down into the pits of the abyss. Throwing me here and there. Tearing at me. Clawing, biting, riping. Leaving me naked and exposed. When I finally reach the bottom, I lie there and silent tears find their way into existance.

As I lie there, I wonder if the abyss will ever let go of me or if it will forever have a hand on me. Grabbing me, using me when its bored and then tossing me aside when another shiny plaything comes along. The abyss is unforgiving. Its silence deafening. If only it were bottomless then I could fall forever and never have to worry about it spitting me back out only to drag me back into it once again.

I walk the earth wearing invisible chains. Some days they are heavy. Others they seem lighter. Their constant metal clang is a reminder that at any moment the pit could open and into the darkness I will plunge.

Teleporting Hindsight

Ordinarily I have my Indie Ink writing challenge up by Monday, but apparently the bloggy gods decided that I needed a bit of  bloggy break. On Monday I participated in Alex's blogfest, but before I could visit everyone my internet decided to go on sabbatical and stayed there for the next 24 hrs. Then when it finally decided it was rested and ready to work, the transformer blew in our area and the entire city was without electric for the next 24 hrs. Well it would come and go but never long enough for me to get online. So to all of my new followers I apologize for being such a poor hostess and to those who commented from the blogfest I promise I will get by to visit you in the next day or so. My challenge this week came from Heather. She challenged me to write a letter to myself 10 yrs ago. (ie if I am 26 now then write to my 16 yr old self). My challenge went to Trish. You'll be able to read her reply HERE

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Dear Me, 

I realize it must be a shock to read this. After all, it's from me. I mean you. I mean well the you that you will be ten years from now. Damn, this is harder than I thought it would be. Let me start again.

So much has changed in these ten years. They haven't yet been able to transport a human back in time but they have had success in transporting objects. I volunteered because I wanted to let you know that a lot of shit is about to happen. It's not going to be easy on you. I don't want to tell you what's coming because I don't want to alter the person you become, but I just want to let you know that you turn out pretty damn good if I do say so myself. Which I do btw. You make a lot of mistakes. You do a lot of things you will wish you could change, but you learn from those mistakes. You make your life better. You make you better, and the most remarkable thing of all is you survive. You build a life, and you become happy within yourself. You find that inner peace that you have been searching for. Things are still difficult, but yet that's ok. You're ok.

So I just wanted to let you know that there will come a day when things are "better". When things don't look so dark.So just hold on. Be patient, and most of all don't forget to breathe. I'll be here waiting for you. You're not alone.

You're not alone. 

Love always, 

The You that You Become

Graduation Almost

This is for a writing prompt from TRDC. The prompt was graduation. 

Everyone expected I would graduate with honors. Then I would go to university, get my degree, and become something important. Except things didn't quite happen like that. At 16, you think you know far more than you actually do. The war that raged between my mother and I grew more heated and vile with each passing day, and I was constantly looking for ways of escape. That's when I met "him". He became the answer to all of my problems. I was in love, young, and desperate to get out of the hell hole that my mother called "home".

He was dark, tall, and exotic. All of the things that young girls dream about. All of the things you imagine in a fling over spring break, but none of the things you expect from a husband and provider. We married my junior year. I was determined to graduate though. I was determined to go to university. Marriage was not going to stop me from getting out of that rinky dink sink hole of a town. It was a stepping stone. The first step towards a better future. At least, that is what I convinced myself of. That is what I told myself every day. At some point I even began to believe it, but then the universe had other plans.

Six months later I would be sitting on the bathroom floor of our one bedroom apartment. Waiting the longest five minutes of my life for the results of a test I had not studied for. When the two blue lines appeared, I stared at them praying I was hallucinating. Praying that the tears rolling down my face were making me see double. Praying that this was some cruel joke and at any moment it would end.No amount of praying however could change the results of that test.

Five minutes earlier  I was thinking about a cap and gown, but now I had to think of onesies and booties. Five minutes earlier I was only worried about my sash not matching my shoes. Now I would trade that sash for maternity and the bump would keep me from seeing my feet let alone my shoes for the next several months. 

I saw my entire life flash before my eyes in that cramped bathroom. The life that would now never be. The life I had hoped for. Longed for. Now it was dead. Gone in a flash. Nothing anyone did would bring it back to life.

Image Source: accountingdegreesonline.com

It's funny how two little blue lines altered the course of my future. I didn't graduate. There was no university. No degree. Years later I would get my GED, but that did little to fill the void of the life I had let slip through my fingers. The life that almost was. I know most would say I became a mother and that is a great accomplishment. However, I failed that test too.

For 17 years I had been an honors student. For 17 years I held 3.8 GPA. For 17 years I was at the top of my class, but on the most important test of my life (motherhood), I failed.  There are no ceremonies for that. 

Not Your Typical Military Family

Normally on Saturdays, I feature an Indie author, but with the holiday on Monday I thought people might be off enjoying the weekend so Saturday Spotlight will be back next week. Since Monday is Memorial Day it seems like the perfect time to talk about how I betrayed my military family. At least according to them. 

My grandfather served in the Korean war. He was a communications officer. He didn't talk about the combat although he did have a few shiny medals that they pinned on his uniform. I don't know what he did to get them because he didn't like to talk about it and I didn't like to pry. All of his brothers served in the Armed forces as did their sons and their sons' sons. 

My cousin, whom I was often accused of playing kissin' cousins with, unjustly I might add, served two tours in Iraq.  He was special ops. During his last tour, he was MIA for almost six weeks. Then one day a couple MP's showed up on his mother's door saying he was in a mental hospital in Kuwait. Three weeks later, he was sent home under suicide watch, but the MP failed to show up and he killed himself. His mother fought and got him buried with full honors. His younger brother was called home. He had just begun his first tour of duty. He was stationed in Afghanistan. 

Then I also know the other side of war. My ex is from Iraq. His niece and nephew were killed when their house collapsed on them during a bombing raid. I know women who watched as their sons were dragged off never to be seen again, saw their daughters raped and tortured. I know men who were imprisoned, tortured, and beaten for no reason other than daring to have an opinion that differed from the government's. 

Whenever I walk the streets of my backwoods, redneck, Bible belt hometown, I am called a multitude of names, traitor being one of the few I can write on my family friendly blog. I am called these names because I chose to exercise my right of freedom of religion, my right of freedom of speech and my right of freedom of expression. What I find most ironic is that I am considered the "traitor" for choosing to be "different". However I feel that I honour the men and women who shed their blood fighting for my right to be different. If no one exercises their rights, then those men and women would have died in vain and to me that is the real treason.




Note: If you're having problems commenting on mine or any blogs, I have heard one way to fix it is to completely clear your cookies and cache and then restart your computer. Also make sure the "keep me signed in" box is NOT checked. If you're having problems, then maybe this would help to fix it. Or not. Stupid bleepin' blogger. 

Will You Marry Me

If this is your first time to travel across the pond with us, then you read about the guidelines HERE.

Since wedding season is coming to a close here, it seems only appropriate to tell you about the weddings here. I had heard much about them, but my first real experience was last October when my second to youngest brother in law married. My wedding was NOT typical or traditional so his was the first time I had witnessed one of these events first hand. 

There are certain times during the year when people don't get married and this is due to a variety of reasons. Some have to do with religion others have to do with the heat. I mean seriously who wants to get married when it's 50 (122 F) outside, and that is without humidity. Weddings officially are 3 days, but guests usually start arriving a few days before and stay a few days after so at the very least people are in your home for about 7 days. 

The first day of the wedding is known as the "Mehndi" ceremony. The bride will have a mehndi ceremony in her home hosted by her family and the groom has one in his home hosted by his family. This is basically a big "reception". For those who are not religious, there will be music and dancing. For those who are, then there will be qasidas and clapping. The bride/groom sits on a "stage" in front of the guests. The guests will come and sit with the bride/groom to have their pictures taken and to give a monetary gift. The bride traditionally wears yellow for this day. 

This is also the day where the "mehndi" (aka henna) will be applied to the hands, arms, and feet of the bride. Before the designs were done only up to the wrists, but today it is often applied as far as just above the elbow, on the tops and bottoms of the hands, and tops of both feet. Designs are intricate and extremely elaborate. 

The second day is when the actual marriage ceremony takes place known as the "Nikah". This was the only part of the wedding traditions that my husband and I allowed to take place. He and I both do not particularly like to participate in cultural aspects of things so our wedding was very different than the "normal" wedding ceremony. 

Traditionally,  on this day the groom's family, (mother, father, bros/sis, aunts/uncles, cousins etc) will travel to the brides' home where the marriage ceremony will take place.When the groom's family leaves to go to the bride's home, it is known as "Barat". Usually the groom's family will rent a special car for this occasion as well. This will be the car the bride and groom will ride in after the ceremony when the groom brings his bride back to his family home. 

After the bride and groom have been officially married, the bride's family will provide a dinner for the guests while the sounds of the dohl can be heard for miles around. 

dohl

The bride typically wears red on this day. Red is considered a symbol of fertility and happiness and this is why  the brides wear red instead of white. White is (in certain traditions) considered a symbol of mourning and sadness and this is why brides do not wear white to be married in. 

traditional bridal gown

After the nikkah ceremony is completed, the bride prepares to leave her family home and travel with the groom to his home. This event is known as "Rukhsati". It is usually a very difficult time on the bride as this is most often the first time in her life that she will have left her family's home. Once the bride and groom return to his home, there will be more celebrating throughout the night. 

The third day is known as the "Walima". The first two days are often held in the family home, but the walima is almost always held in a rented wedding hall or hotel. If you compared this to a typical western wedding, then the walima would basically be the "wedding reception". The bride and groom sit on a stage and everyone comes to have their pictures taken and offer their congratulations to the newly married couple. An elaborate meal will be served to the guests at the walima as well. 

During the walima the bride often wears red, but the dress will be different than that which she wore for the nikkah. Traditionally the groom's family presents these dresses to the bride as gifts a week or so before the event takes place along with the jewellery the bride will wear during the wedding. 

traditional bridal set

If by now you hadn't realized, getting married is VERY expensive. It is something that parents start saving for years in advance. Little by little they purchase jewellery set, dresses etc and keep them in storage. This way when the event arrives, some of the major purchases have already been taken care of. Even though my husband's family is more conservative and their weddings are more religious oriented, they still follow this basic 3 day guideline. One thing about living overseas I have noticed is that while in many ways we are very different, in most ways, we are very much the same. 

Power of the Written Word

Via: www.pharmacy-technician.net

Getting feedback/critiques of your work is always nerve wrecking, but it is essential if you want to grow as a writer. Some of the most common comments/feedback I get are that my writing is powerful, emotional, and that I am "brave" for having the "courage" to write about such things. The last part of that comment is always so shocking to me. I don't see myself as brave or courageous. I write about my life the same as anyone else does. Every person who blogs writes about their life in some form or fashion and I am no different. It just so happens that this is my life. 

I realize my life isn't "normal" and that I have experienced things in a way that most people did not, but regardless of all that my life is, I still can't see the bravery or courage in doing the same thing that so many others do. All I am doing is writing about my life. Nothing more, nothing less. It really isn't brave. 

Premature Smoke

Finally, after weeks away I am able to get back into my weekly writing prompts. I decided not to participate during April simply because the Challenge was overwhelming enough. Now that it has ended I am looking forward to participating in these prompts again. This week's prompt was a bit different. Here it is:

 When I was little, my grandmother smoked 3-4 packs a day. After she got sick, she cut down to half a pack a day. By the time I was 12, I would walk to the local convenience store and buy her cigarettes for her. Laws in small towns are different from those in the big cities. Of course, it probably helped the owner of the store had known me since I was a “youngin”. Things were different back then.

I often asked her why she didn't quit. Her reply was always the same, "I just can't". Except there was a time when she did quit. Right after my daughter was born. 

I was barely 7 months pregnant when my daughter decided she had been inside long enough and was ready to see the world. Of course her father's fists helped her to make that decision. I guess she was curious as to who was knocking on the door and decided to take a peek as to who was there. She and I spent two months in the hospital and when we finally came home there were lots of rules. Top of the list was my daughter couldn't be around anyone who smoked. Ma was determined to see her great grand baby. No cigarette was going to stand between her and that little 2 pound bundle of joy. 

Once the doctor gave the OK that my daughter could be around her as long as she smoked outside, she started right back up again. I am certain it was more of a nervous habit than an addiction. It kept her hands and mind busy. Ma had lots of reasons to worry. 

Even though she smoked, she would always chastise me and tell me to never pick up the "nasty habit". However, Ma wouldn't have been Ma without that long Saratoga in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

Across the Pond - Roti

Now that the A-Z challenge is over I am trying to get back on my bloggy schedule. Before the challenge I had started a weekly edition of "Across the Pond". If this is your first time to walk across the pond, then you can read the guidelines here. If you are unable to join us, then you can always wait in the Q with the Sabzi Wala.

Roti

I mentioned in one my last few challenge posts that we make bread 3 times a day. Most people had a hard time comprehending it so I thought it would make a great "Across the Pond" post. We have bread with every meal and I know what you're thinking; CARBS, but you would be surprised at how THIN everyone in my husband's family is. Which is totally unfair but that is another post altogether. The bread we eat is called "roti" and it is a flat yeastless bread that is "baked" over a gas stove called a "chula".

chula

This one is a bit more modern than the one we use. Ours sits on the counter top. We don't have an oven so all of our food is cooked on the chula. Breakfast roti is called "prata". The difference between roti and prata is that prata is fried in oil where as roti is more like "pita bread".  The food is eaten by hand with the roti instead of silverware.

how to eat using roti

The fact I can actually do this and eat as well as anyone else shocks everyone. How and what do I eat are the two questions EVERYONE asks me. I have no idea why this is so amazing to people, but everyone is just amazed by this fact. 

I would attempt to explain how roti is made but I found this video on youtube. It was easier than trying to explain each step. There are a few differences as to how we make the roti though. We use a tsp of salt in our dough and they don't in the video. At the end they add oil on top, but we don't. Other than that it is basically the same process. Also in the video, they call the flour "chapati flour" which is basically whole wheat flour, but any flour would work.

This is how roti is cooked in the home, but my favorite roti is the ones that are cooked in a tandoor. All of the roti from the bakery, restaurants, or street vendors is cooked in a tandoor. To me, a tandoor looks nothing more than a hole in the ground with a fire at the bottom, but it is actually a clay oven which is heated by charcoal or wood fire. The roti is placed a long side the walls of the oven and baked. It makes the bread extremely soft and delicious.

Here is a very short video of how roti is cooked in the tandoor. It's only about a minute long but you can get the idea of how they get it in and out as well as see the coals at the bottom.

Two roti is normal serving size for an adult per meal (at least in our household). Until I came overseas I never realized exactly how LARGE the serving sizes in USA are. When I went home to visit a few years ago, it was definitely culture shock. The serving sizes overseas are less than half what you get in the USA. A medium sized soft drink from a fast food place here is smaller than the small size in USA.

sample meal serving with roti

I hope you enjoyed learning how bread is made across the pond.

PS: sorry about the false start earlier. I was trying to save the post but blogger had other ideas (insert eye roll here)

Un-Mother's Day

I am not one that celebrates "days" regardless of what the "day" is. I have never been one that remembered "days' nor do I expect gifts or acknowledgement simply because of a "day". I am awesome every day and I don't feel that appreciation of my awesomeness should be limited to one "day". However, there are a few days that make me catch my breath, and this past Sunday was one of those. It is a great reminder of why the dull ache sits in my chest. It makes it hard to swallow the guilt and regret that I have. 

It reminds me of just how much I have lost and how I will never be able to get those lost things back. They have been captured by time and no amount of sorry and if only will bring them back to me. They are simply gone. 

There isn't a moment that goes by where I don't think of my children. In my mind's eye, they are still the little angels I saw looking back at me from the rear window of the car as I stood in the motel parking lot. That image of two little hands waving good bye haunts me. I don't know if I will ever get the chance to make amends. I hope and pray that some day I do. That someday new memories will replace the years of emptiness, but that hope does little to ease the ache and longing of my heart. Even though there were a great many events which lead to this separation, I blame no one and no thing except myself. It would be easy to blame my bipolar and say I had no responsibility for my actions, but that isn't true. While it might make it easier to accept and understand my actions, it does not excuse me from the consequences. 

I waited to write about this because I didn't want to take anything away from any one on that "day", but I know I am not alone. I know I am not the only mother without her child(ren). I know there are many others like me who feel joy for those mothers who can hug their children and at the same time feel the ache of empty arms. That is why I wanted to share this. For them. For the silent voices that are unable to express the pain of their decisions and maybe give a bit of understanding to those effected by those very same decisions.

S (tylin' A-Z)

Someone thinks I am stylish! Mercy, you may know her from Mercy's World, but what you might not know is that she has a secret identity called Rogue who writes by night and is a slammin' cook by day. Well Mercy a.k.a. Rogue gave me this lil lovely right here. 

Hee hee! I have been called many things in my life, but "stylish" was not one of them. Thank you so much, Mercy err, Rogue whichever you are for making me feel like one of the cool kids. The rules are written on her blog and being the awesome blogger she is, she followed them, but rules and I don't get along so well so here is my version of the rules.

First I will tell you about some awesome blogs to visit because visiting new blogs is always awesome:

1. Beverly @ Writing in Flow   (an amazing writer who gives great tips and suggestions)
2. Chris  @    Chris Phillips       (an extremely funny guy, if you want a laugh then visit Chris)
3. Pencilgirl @ Conquering the World (found her recently through the A-Z challenge, another amazing writer)
4. AbsolutelyPrimed @ Overdeveloped Under Exposed (you never know what you will find at her blog, from "musings with murderers" to strange fetishes she covers all the bases and makes you laugh through the whole freaky ride)
5. Aimee @ Pleasantly Demented (another amazingly talented writer who can cuss you out but make you think it's a compliment)
6. Haven @ Beyond the Borderline Personality (she shares her journey with living with BPD; she has great info for anyone who either has a PD or knows someone who does)
7. Sapphire Dragonflies @ Sapphire Dragonflies (another amazing writer, she keeps it real and that is what I love the most about her)

Now for the second part of the rules I am suppose to tell you 7 things, but I found this neat meme over at Mean Girl Garage. So I thought I would do it instead because well I wanna.

A. Age: 30s
B. Bed size: No bed
C. Chore you dislike: Ones that I have to do
D. Dogs: are smelly
E. Essential start to your day: Washing my face and checking my email
F. Favorite color: blue.
G. Gold or silver: Silver.
H. Height: 5’3. yes I'm short but I can still ride the big girl rides so HA!
I. Instruments you play(ED): Does moonshine jug count as an instrument?
J. Job title: Queen of the Universe
K. Kids: 2 one of each
L. Live: Depends on what time of day it is
M. Mom’s name: Mum out loud (bitch in my head)
N. Nicknames: Bitch seems to be the most popular not sure why
O. Overnight hospital stays: neither of us has the time for me to list all of these
P. Pet peeves: Stupidity.
Q. Quote from a movie: “You met me at a very strange time in my life" - Fight Club
R. Righty or Lefty: Righty tighty
S. Siblings: Nope. why mess with perfection
T. Time you wake up: an hour or two after I fall asleep
U. Underwear: Nope. too restricting
V. Vegetables you don’t like: Ones I have to eat
W. What makes you run late: You obviously don't know me. I do not run late. Late is not an option.
X. X-rays you’ve had:I have broken almost every bone in my body at one time or another so pretty much All.
Y. Yummy food you make: All my food is yummy I don't make non yummy food
Z. Zoo Animal Favorites: Black panthers




So there you have it! Me and my stylish self are going now. Thanks for stopping by!

Q (awwali) & Q (asida)

If this is your first time going across the pond, then you can read the trip guidelines here. If you don't want to take the trip then you can have some biscuits and wait in the Q with the Sabzi Wala. 

Because of the A-Z Challenge I hadn't really done an "official" Across the Pond post although a few of my posts could qualify as such. I thought with Q I would take you across the pond and introduce you to a type of  popular mainstream/traditional music. I had never heard of "qawwalis" before I came overseas. They are very popular amongst the locals here. Wherever there is a celebration, there will be qawwalis regardless if it's a wedding, a religious holiday, birth of a child, buying a new home, etc. Whatever the occasion, qawwalis will be the music of choice. One thing I found interesting while looking up facts about qawwalis to share with you is that most sites translate the word "qawwali" as "Islamic song".  In Islam, all forms of singing and music even if it is about the religion or religious personalities are forbidden and against the teachings of the religion. Therefore, there can be no such thing as an "Islamic" song which is interesting because the majority of qawwalis are about Islam and/or Islamic personalities. 

Qawwali refers to a type of "devotional music". It is popular throughout Southeast Asia particularly in Pakistan. Its origins date back more than 700 years and can be traced back to Persia (today's Iran and Afghanistan). For the most part qawwalis are written in Urdu and Punjabi although there are some that are in Persian and Siraiki. The sounds of the regional and more traditional qawwalis vary greatly from the more mainstream ones as in the second video I have listed above.

Qawwalis were made popular due to the work of the late Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan (first video). Most qawwalis are between 15-30 mins long. However Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan does have two qawwalis which are over 60 mins long each. The longest commercially released qawwali was just slightly over 115 mins long (Hashr Ke Roz Yeh Poochhunga by Aziz Mian Qawwal). Traditional qawwalis are usually accompanied by the tabla, dholak, and clapping. In more mainstream modern qawwalis, these instruments are used as well as harmoniums, sarangis, and rababs. Even the audience is considered as a participant in the "singing" of the qawwali.

tabla

dholak

harmonium

When a "qawwali" is recited without music/instruments and/or singing, it is known as a Qasiday. Qasidas are allowed according to the teachings of Islam. There is no real translation for the word qasida, or qawwali for that matter. Since qawwalis are forbidden according to Islam, many substitute qasidas in the place of qawwalis in their celebrations. Punjabi qasida groups consist of 3-5 recitors. One being the "lead" and the others being the "bazoo" (arms) or back up to the main/lead recitor. As with qawwalis, the audience is encouraged to paticipate in the qasida.








While only some qawwalis are about religion/religious personalities, it can only be considered a qasida if it is about a religious personality in Islam particularly the Prophet (saw) and His Progeny (asws). Qawwalis are only for joyous celebrations. Qasidas are recited in both times of joy and extreme grief and sorrow such as the qasida below which is about the slaughtering of the Grandson (asws) of the Prophet (saw).

I hope you enjoyed today's trip and will join me again whenever I take you for a walk "Across the Pond". 

N (iche)

This is probably the word I have heard  the most since I began blogging and the one piece of advice I have been given repeatedly by other bloggers. They all agree to be successful in the blogsphere, a blogger needs to do two things; find their niche and be true to yourself. 

So for the last couple months I have been trying to follow their advice which is what led me to the A-Z challenge. I thought it would help me narrow down what it is I want my blog to be.

I very obviously am not a mommyblogger so that one is a definite no.

I don't have a finished novel (or even one in the process ) and don't really consider myself a "writer" but I love to write. So while that niche is more my size it still isn't the exact fit.

Then yesterday Kim left a comment on my blog. She writes over at The Child. She is an amazingly talented writer. She writes about the raw truth of the world in such vivid detail, and that is why I love reading her blog. But yesterday, she left a comment on my post that said,

"I'm so grateful you are sharing the important stuff. I'm tired of going to people's blogs and reading about nothing."

And from that one comment I think I finally know what my niche is and I have a clearer idea of what direction I want my blog to go in. I have survived through such events in my life that even I have a hard time believing they are real. They seem more like events you would see in a movie or read in a book. I think it is important to share those with people. Not only will it benefit others who are in similar situations, but it can help those around them spot the warning signs and know how to help, but at the same time I don't want to be just an advocacy blog . I want to incorporate that alongside my writing. I don't plan on making any real changes until after the A-Z challenge, but I definitely plan to sit down and really think about what it is I want for my blog and come up with a plan of action. 

I think by being more open about my past that it would allow me to grow more as a writer. Now I write very vaguely because I don't want to "scare" anyone, but people need to be scared. It is reality and ignoring it won't make it go away. 

This makes me even more super excited about blogging. While I love Seinfield, I hate writing fluff. If I just kept writing fluff, then I know eventually I would quit blogging altogether. It feels nice to have maybe finally found my place in the blogsphere. I will of course have to spruce it up a bit before I invite you guys over.Woo-hoo! I found my niche and no one was injured in the process. At least not yet anyways.

I would also like to share with you all another blogger that I found through She Writes. She blogs at AlwaysMomof4. In 2008 her 19 year old son was killed in an auto accident and the other day she posted a link on the She Writes forum to a blog post of hers regarding her feelings about what would have been his upcoming college graduation next month. She is planning on tying a purple ribbon around a tree in her front yard to commemorate the event and was asking others to do the same. I told her I didn't have a tree, but I did have a blog and asked if it would be ok to tie my ribbon on my blog. She agreed so I designed this button and will have it displayed in my sidebar for the next month in order to honor her son, Jordan's, memory. If you would like to join the commemoration, then please grab the button in my sidebar and add it to your blog. To find out more about Jordan and the circumstances of his life and tragic death, please visit AlwaysMomof4's blog


In Memory of Jordan Moore-Fields 1989-2008 a life of consequence

M (emory)

I would just like to say thank you for all of the encouragement and support I received regarding yesterday's post. I was very nervous about writing it, but am glad I did. I wasn't really sure what to write about today. Yesterday took such an emotional toll on me that my brain is sort of feeling a bit fried at the moment. It was a big thing for you to digest as well. Having news like that dropped on you is quite shocking and hard to digest, even when it's about a total stranger. I spend most of my time trying not to remember but thanks to all of you  the memories are no longer as heavy. So thank you for helping me to carry them  and for making my load a little lighter. I would like to give a special thanks to a few in particular who contacted me via email and shared their stories. For once I have no words, so instead I shall leave you with your memories as I sift through mine. Andrew Lloyd Webber said it much better than I ever could. A new day has definitely begun.







Daylight
See the dew on the sunflower
And a rose that is fading
Roses whither away
Like the sunflower
I yearn to turn my face to the dawn
I am waiting for the day . . .

Midnight
Not a sound from the pavement
Has the moon lost her memory?
She is smiling alone
In the lamplight
The withered leaves collect at my feet
And the wind begins to moan

Memory
All alone in the moonlight
I can smile at the old days
I was beautiful then
I remember the time I knew what happiness was
Let the memory live again

Every streetlamp
Seems to beat a fatalistic warning
Someone mutters
And the streetlamp gutters
And soon it will be morning

Daylight
I must wait for the sunrise
I must think of a new life
And I musn't give in
When the dawn comes
Tonight will be a memory too
And a new day will begin

Burnt out ends of smoky days
The stale cold smell of morning
The streetlamp dies, another night is over
Another day is dawning

Touch me
It's so easy to leave me
All alone with the memory
Of my days in the sun
If you touch me
You'll understand what happiness is

Look
A new day has begun

             

L (ab-o-) L (ahjah)

No, it is not a the latest latte from Starbucks. Although it does have a nice ring to it, doesn't it? I'll have a grande lab-o-lahjah with whip cream on top please. Where was I now? Oh right, lab-o-lahjah. It means "style of speaking, tone" in Urdu. From the various writings I have done for workshops, challenges, and posts here, I have noticed that my lab-o-lahjah is sometimes not clear to my reader. I often want my audience to see the story from a certain point of view or only know certain things. Sometimes because it is controversial and I just don't want to get into it. Other times because it is just too painful to put into words, but a part of me needs to share it so I share what little I can and hope that you all will be patient until I am able to share the rest. 

The other day I signed up for the Indie Ink weekly writing challenge. This week was my first time participating and I was very nervous. There are some amazingly talented writers over there and I am hoping some of their awesomeness rubs off on me. For my submission, I wrote about a very painful moment in my life and while everyone understood and felt the pain of that moment. No one was able to understand why the pain existed. So I thought I would share the reason for that pain and maybe it would give my readers a bit of insight into why my lab-o-lahjah is the way it is. I apologize in advance because this post will be extremely Lengthy, but this is L so I guess that is ok.

I have mentioned before that I have bipolar. It is not something I talk about a lot but occasionally I do speak about it. I first heard the word in 2003. However, I had originally been diagnosed as "manic depressive" when  I was 13. Although, nowadays they use the term "bipolar" as a way of removing some of the stigma associated with manic depression. By the time 2003 rolled around, I was in my mid-20's, a single mother of two, and caring for an ill grandmother. My (now ex) husband and I weren't divorced yet, but he had been in and out of mine and my children's lives from the time of their birth in 1995 and 1996 until then. Then in 2003 my grandmother passed away and I took it very hard. I had a nervous breakdown towards the end of the year and really should have been hospitalized, but I somehow talked my way out of it and into outpatient therapy instead. This was a very bad idea. I was in the beginning stages of a manic episode which slowly grew over time. 

I moved to another state far away from my home, friends, and family. I worked two jobs and did the best I could, but I was stressed and in a very bad state of mind. For almost a year I somehow managed to hold myself together. Then in late 2004, early 2005, I began to lose my grip. 

I started having delusions. Visual and auditory hallucinations. I started being unable to tell the difference between fantasy and reality, and was starting to be unable to care properly for my children. I was yelling at them constantly. Yelling is too polite a word. I assaulted them with words. They walked on egg shells trying to not upset me. They were good kids to begin with. Amazingly intelligent, polite, and not the typical selfish bratty kids that I have had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting. We didn't have much. No TV. We slept on the floor. No movies or new toys except on birthdays. Their one and only real treat was on Mondays, my off day. I would take them to McDonald's for a McFlurry. It wasn't much but they always looked forward to Mondays. 

Then in April of 2005, I didn't pick them up from school. I simply "forgot". How do you forget? Well I don't know, but I did. When I showed up two hours late, they were sitting terrified and worried in the principal's office, and I gave some lame excuse about being ill and taking meds that made me sleep so I hadn't heard the alarm. The principal knew I worked third shift and slept during the day while the kids were at school and because they were good kids and had the appearance of being well taken care of, she didn't report me to CPS (child protective services). Which was standard procedure btw. Instead she gave a single mother who worked two jobs a second chance. Which I blew 12 days later when I repeated the incident. Again I made feeble excuses and she made it very clear there would be no third chance. Next time she would call CPS.

With the threat of my children being put into foster care sitting over my head and the ever increasing delusions and hallucinations I was experiencing, I phoned their father and told him that I was bringing them to him the following day. That he would have to take them for a little while because he was their father and it was just as much his responsibility as mine to care for them. Up until that point, I had never really forced him to take care of his responsibilities. He paid child support when and if he pleased. In the amount he felt he could "afford" regardless if it was actually enough to meet their needs, but that is another post altogether. 

He reluctantly agreed and I drove the 22 hrs back to my homestate where he still lived and in the motel parking lot. I said good bye.  A part of me knew it was going to be the last time I ever saw them. I don't know why I felt that, but I did. That was 2005. Since then I have spoken to them briefly a handful of times, but that is about it. After I dropped them off, I lost my hold on reality and fell off the map for quite a long time. Once I started to make my way back, I realized what exactly I had lost and fell off again. I have fought long and hard to regain my hold back on reality. It is a struggle that I face everyday. I live with the fact that most likely I will never see my children again. I miss them deeply. 

I don't regret sending them to live with their father. I was and am in no shape to truly care for them properly and as they deserve. Whatever wrong he did to me, he has at least given them the home that I couldn't, and that makes up for anything he has ever done against me. I do however love them and miss them very much, and I don't know if I will ever see them again. The only way I am not consumed by the pain that lives in the pit of my stomach is by writing. 

I write my pain away. Writing has become my means of survival. This is why my lab-o-lahjah is often consumed with pain and why sometimes I am unable to make the picture clear.

K (ara updated)

It's funny how a small circle of metal can cause so much trouble, but it can. I have worn karas for more than ten years.  When I lived in USA, I only wore one or two. Having lived abroad for close to seven years now, I have acquired quite a few more. Once they are put on, there is no taking them off. Well, the wrist ones are relatively easy to take off, but not the ankle ones. They do not come off, at least not without tremendous effort, several people, and a vicegrip.

I often forget how "different" it is to those living outside of here. However, I was very quickly reminded of this on my last visit to the US and was given the Very Very Important Person treatment at the airport when I was attempting to return back overseas.

 no that is not my arm

I get they are just doing their job and I get the reasons why they have to, but still it is difficult being treated as an outsider in the country I was born in. My favorite moment though is the look of shock and confusion on the officers faces as I hand them my passport and the blue cover instantly says I am "American" and a quick look inside tells them it is by "birth" and not naturalization which only adds even more to their confusion.The chun chun sound they make as they hit against each other when I walk also tends to make people nervous. The scarf doesn't help to lessen their anxiety either, but even with all of these "inconveniences" I wouldn't remove a single one.

Karas come in various shapes and sizes. Some are small and intricate with various writings and designs on them while others are large and heavy, plain and simple with no designs at all. They are worn for religious and/or cultural reasons. Some wear them purely for religious purposes as a symbol of the shackles worn by the family of the Prophet (saw), men, women, and children, who were shackled and chained. Then forced to march from the desert plains of Karbala, Iraq to the court of an evil tyrant in Damascus, Syria. An event that occurred over 1400 years ago, but is still fresh in the minds of those who believe; the same as if it occurred yesterday.

Others wear them simply because their mothers tell them to wear one so they do out of cultural/traditional obligation. Nowadays amongst the younger generation, it is also seen as a "fashion statement" or "cool" to wear them. The karas carry a different meaning and purpose to each person who wears them.  No two people wear them for the same reason. While on the surface it may appear as if they do, the truth of why they wear them lies in their heart and is something they do not share with others. It is a closely guarded secret between them and those they wear the karas for.


edited to add a bit more info as per suggestion by the Writing Goddess.



Some other random awesomeness that I am just tacking onto the bottom of this post:

I so totally almost forgot. I was given another award. I so have to get a speech all prepared instead of just wingin' it, but since I tend to procrastinate be spontaneous I most likely will continue to wing it. I was awarded the Versatile Blogger award for the second time this week. This time it was from Stacey from Nailpolish. You must check her blog out btw. Super fabulous. Now for the icky part of the awards.

The rules,uck.

• Thank the person who gave it to you. 

This I can do. THANK YOU!!! Now you all go visit her and say hi!

• Tell 7 facts about yourself

Well I already told you seven facts so I am just gonna post the link to those facts. Don't act surprised. You all should know by now I very rarely follow rules. 

• Pass it onto 15 other bloggers

I didn't do so well with this one the first time and I am pretty certain this time won't be different. So instead I will just tell you about some new blogs I found during the A-Z challenge and you can go visit them instead. Just cuz it's more fun that way. 

The Modest Peacock

Expressive Impressive

Giggle, Laugh, and Cry

     

H (ome)

Every child deserves to grow up in a home. Not a house, but a home. Not a building with four walls and a roof, but a place where they are protected and loved. I grew up in a house with four walls and a roof. It kept out the wetness of the rain and the chill of the winter, but it also kept in the pain of physical, sexual, emotional, and verbal abuse. It hid the bruises from the world and contained within its walls the hell that I faced each and every day. Many people knew what was hidden behind those walls, but I grew up in an era where "you didn't get involved in other people's business" and "what goes on behind closed doors, stays behind closed doors". 

I had no where to turn to. No one to ask for help. Silence was engraved upon my soul. That silence almost took my life. More than once. April is National Child Abuse Prevention Month. By breaking my silence, I hope that more children will grow up in a home instead of a house. I hope to give another little girl the chance to thrive and truly live. A chance I wasn't given. 

Even though my voice was silent, I was telling others through my actions. It is important to listen to what the actions of an abused child is saying because more often than not a child of abuse doesn't tell they are being abused by their words. They tell it through their actions. We are all in this together. It takes a village to give a child a home. So please if you suspect a child is being abused or that there is just something not right, then please give that child a voice. Every child deserves a knight in shining armor.Every child deserves a home.

Below are some links if you would like to know more about preventing or recognizing the signs of child abuse:

Signs of neglect or abuse

Prevent Child Abuse

How you can get involved