Ramadan Journal '16 | Week Two
19:30
Day 8 | Suhoor
I wish I had a really artistic picture to share of my suhoor (the "breakfast" we have to make the fast) but the truth is, I stopped eating after the first fast. I was geared up to stuff my face with yoghurt, fruit, dates, danish pastries, hot chocolate - and I kind of did the night before the first fast - but after that, it just went downhill. It doesn't matter that I'm eating to keep me going for 20 hours, but making and breaking the fast in the space of four hours makes it damn difficult to eat at 1am. It is an actual struggle to force food down. Last week I was so exhausted, I was barely functioning and the thought of food was enough to make me hurl so I just had strawberries dipped in fresh cream and nutella. But my now-"normal" suhoor is simply a teaspoon of honey, a lemon-and-raisin pancake, a date and a glass of water. And to break it up a little, I'll swap out the pancake for a jam tart or salted caramel cookies or a slice of pecan pie or a Krispy Kreme doughnut. Oh God my diet is doused in sugar. But you know what, it works for me so...
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| My super healthy, energy-rich breakfast for 30 days... |
Day 9 | White
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| Because white roses are infinitely beautiful and because I'm going to be obsessed with A Court of Mist and Fury for a very long time... |
Day 10 | Prayer
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| 09.06.16 - وَإِذَا سَمِعُوا - 13/06/16 // لَا يُحِبُّ اللَّهُ |
Day 11 | On my mind
I'm probably meant to write something profoundly meaningful, inspirational or witty here but I'm opting for honesty! What's on my mind right now? Thursday 17th June @ 15:07 - I am thinking (correction: stressing) about all the Eid gifts I have to buy and that I have no clue what to buy for any of my recipients...oops? I'm writing this on the back of hours of intense internet browsing and my head hurts, my mind is boggled, and my stomach is begging for food. Can I get away with not buying anyone gifts this year? .....no? Okay then...*re-begins google search of "gift ideas for 50-year old dad with no hobbies" *
Day 12 | Special
My relationship with God. It's not perfect; I'll put my hands up and say that it fluctuates, that some days are a real struggle to do right by my faith. And on those days, it's hard to just sit, block out the world, and have a conversation with the Almighty. But then I remember the times in my life when I was broken. Completely and utterly broken. It was not wanting to wake up to face the day..it was sobbing on the bathroom floor, struggling to breathe while the world caved in..it was a hurricane of emotions that would slowly wreck and damage and destroy from the inside out..it was spending hours sleeping because sleep let me forget..and it was the days in which prayer was my salvation.
Five times a day, I would have an escape from my own living hell. Five times a day, my head touched the ground and I found my peace. Five times a day, I begged for Him to fix my broken soul and five times a day, I felt Him stitch together my fragmented soul. My healing was in prayer. The pain, the heart-break, the most desperate, broken parts of me that chipped away at my heart with each new day, no one could know it or understand or heal it. And yet those moments when it was just me and Him, I would pour my heart out till there was nothing left and there would be an endless quiet, a relief, a sense of peace in a world of chaos. And that right there, that was my anchor. He answered, He forgave, He healed.
Say what you will, but having a connection with the Almighty, finding the only solace from this cruel world in talking to Him about the highs and lows, praying and finding that He answers, knowing that when the world turns its back on you, He is always on your side...I think that's pretty damn special. And if you're lucky enough to have felt it, hold on to it. Because it's a little miracle that will get you through the days of hell. And if you struggle to find it, keep searching. Because He will always always always call you back to Him.
“When they slept, He was awake. When they broke, He held you up. When every means failed, He saved you. When all the creation left you, He remained. He always remains. Never forget when the storms pushed you to your knees and there was no one else who could help you, He carried you. When you were broken and you swore this time it couldn’t be fixed—never forget who fixed it. Never forget what He saved you from. Never forget how He put you back together. That moment when you felt helpless and alone, never forget who never left. To forget this is the greatest heedlessness. No matter who or what may be beside you now, never forget those moments when it was only Him. Only Him. That is loyalty.” - Yasmin Mogahed
Day 13 | Bedtime
I never saw myself as one for adult colouring books because I simply don't have the patience for it, nor do I get the peace and quiet to sit and colour. But when I was gifted some beautiful colouring books, pencils and pastel colours for my birthday, I figured I may as well start. Just before exams were over, I started to set aside half an hour before I sleep to plug in my iPod earphones and get colouring. And you know what, it is surprisingly therapeutic. Try it - it may surprise you!
Day 14 | Colour
I was once gifted a blank canvas and for years it stared at me, daring me to ruin its perfect, smooth, unyielding space of white. Until I was four, and I scribbled in crimson reds and vibrant oranges as I was swallowed whole by the energy of the world and all it had to offer. I scribbled for years, wanting to fill the corners and crevices with electrifying innocence and care-free excitement. But no one ever told me that too much of it and it'll burn red-hot.
Then I turned seven and I muted those flames with tones of yellow, lost in the warmth of sunny days and the discovery of new things. Like those books that now line my bookshelf and the scrapbook that won't close shut because of the array of leaves tucked between its pages from the days I went leaf-collecting with my father who loved teaching me something new - even if it was as mundane and as fascinating as appreciating the simplest of God's creation - and my mother who loved to come along for the breath of fresh air, clutching my hand tightly as my brain silently memorised names and the science behind the respiratory tract of a plant. I drowned in the yellow hues of memories and the echoing peals of laughter off my bedroom walls. But no one ever told me that too much of it and my lungs will collapse.
The summer I turned eleven I splashed on shades of green, from a vivid emerald to a quiet spring, as I anxiously, excitedly left the throes of blissful ignorance and crossed the threshold into a playing field where popularity thrived and intellect was measured by how quickly I could commit to memory a passage from a complicated classic wrapped in its figurative language, and sequences of letters, numbers and foreign symbols that could be decoded to find the value of unknowns. I frantically painted in-between football games in a playground cage and running down fire exits when the lights went out and racing down corridors to beat the sharp trill of the bell. I could have painted and painted and painted in that green until my brush clanged against the empty metal tin. But no one ever told me that too much of it and I would suffocate.
When I was sixteen, I stumbled upon a deep magenta in which I breathlessly sketched the myriads of visions that clouded my mind and clutched at my heart. I was bewitched by the endless stream of stars and dreams and illusions that spilled from the wrist of my hand, staining that canvas as it soaked my deepest desires and wildest imaginations. But no one ever told me that too much of it and my bones would break.
I hit seventeen and I fanned the harsh sea of fuchsia into soft pinks. It was roses and fairytales, sweet promises and whispered nothings and a dizzying tilt of my world on its axis as I drifted off to cloud nine. I lived and breathed the intoxicating temptation of tracing blush-tainted rays across the board, weaving them between the threads of chromatic pigments that sighed with their stories and secrets, the faint lines of pink the biggest secret of them all. But no one ever told me that too much of it and it corrupts.
At nineteen, my rose-tinted glasses shattered into a million pieces and I scrambled in the box in the attic for blood-red that leaked and ruined, much like the toxin filtering from my heart and poisoning my veins. I savagely smudged in the indigo blue that I could see even with my eyes clamped shut, my veins stark against pale white as I clenched my knuckles, stuffing a fist in my mouth to stop the sobs from escaping my throat and taking me under. Red and blue red and blue red and blue, sadness wrapping itself neatly around the rage and knotting it tight, forcing it into a choke hold with no room to breathe. Red and blue red and blue red and blue, blood and carnage and despair. But no one ever told me that too much of it and I would slowly die on the inside.
Twenty-one was the year of purple. When I dulled that destruction and melded it into introspective art and spiritual awakening. I composed a music piece that sang just in high notes; a melody of hope and success and adventure. I forgot the low notes. I wrote and wrote in that purple, my hands aching whilst I was high from the addicting promise of violet tones. But no one ever told me that too much of it and my heart-strings would snap.
As I reached twenty-two, it darkened into black. A black hole of secrets and a fear of the unknown. I damaged it with the graffiti of ravaged emotions and unspoken regrets, sweeping it in currents of murky grey confusion and casting shadowy doubts. I dragged it into an inky void, devoid of starlight and sucking me in with the force of gravity as I tumbled head-first into nothingness. But no one ever told me that too much of it and I will crumble into dust.
There lies my mural of broken years and forgotten innocence. It reeks of nostalgia as it sits there, mocking and taunting. It is the bearer of my secrets and lies, my memories and stories, my shattered dreams and fragmented tales. I wonder if it waits for me to give give give more colour. But I get it. I get it I get it I get it. So I adamantly stare back, unflinching, daring it to ask for more."
Then I turned seven and I muted those flames with tones of yellow, lost in the warmth of sunny days and the discovery of new things. Like those books that now line my bookshelf and the scrapbook that won't close shut because of the array of leaves tucked between its pages from the days I went leaf-collecting with my father who loved teaching me something new - even if it was as mundane and as fascinating as appreciating the simplest of God's creation - and my mother who loved to come along for the breath of fresh air, clutching my hand tightly as my brain silently memorised names and the science behind the respiratory tract of a plant. I drowned in the yellow hues of memories and the echoing peals of laughter off my bedroom walls. But no one ever told me that too much of it and my lungs will collapse.
The summer I turned eleven I splashed on shades of green, from a vivid emerald to a quiet spring, as I anxiously, excitedly left the throes of blissful ignorance and crossed the threshold into a playing field where popularity thrived and intellect was measured by how quickly I could commit to memory a passage from a complicated classic wrapped in its figurative language, and sequences of letters, numbers and foreign symbols that could be decoded to find the value of unknowns. I frantically painted in-between football games in a playground cage and running down fire exits when the lights went out and racing down corridors to beat the sharp trill of the bell. I could have painted and painted and painted in that green until my brush clanged against the empty metal tin. But no one ever told me that too much of it and I would suffocate.
When I was sixteen, I stumbled upon a deep magenta in which I breathlessly sketched the myriads of visions that clouded my mind and clutched at my heart. I was bewitched by the endless stream of stars and dreams and illusions that spilled from the wrist of my hand, staining that canvas as it soaked my deepest desires and wildest imaginations. But no one ever told me that too much of it and my bones would break.
I hit seventeen and I fanned the harsh sea of fuchsia into soft pinks. It was roses and fairytales, sweet promises and whispered nothings and a dizzying tilt of my world on its axis as I drifted off to cloud nine. I lived and breathed the intoxicating temptation of tracing blush-tainted rays across the board, weaving them between the threads of chromatic pigments that sighed with their stories and secrets, the faint lines of pink the biggest secret of them all. But no one ever told me that too much of it and it corrupts.
At nineteen, my rose-tinted glasses shattered into a million pieces and I scrambled in the box in the attic for blood-red that leaked and ruined, much like the toxin filtering from my heart and poisoning my veins. I savagely smudged in the indigo blue that I could see even with my eyes clamped shut, my veins stark against pale white as I clenched my knuckles, stuffing a fist in my mouth to stop the sobs from escaping my throat and taking me under. Red and blue red and blue red and blue, sadness wrapping itself neatly around the rage and knotting it tight, forcing it into a choke hold with no room to breathe. Red and blue red and blue red and blue, blood and carnage and despair. But no one ever told me that too much of it and I would slowly die on the inside.
Twenty-one was the year of purple. When I dulled that destruction and melded it into introspective art and spiritual awakening. I composed a music piece that sang just in high notes; a melody of hope and success and adventure. I forgot the low notes. I wrote and wrote in that purple, my hands aching whilst I was high from the addicting promise of violet tones. But no one ever told me that too much of it and my heart-strings would snap.
As I reached twenty-two, it darkened into black. A black hole of secrets and a fear of the unknown. I damaged it with the graffiti of ravaged emotions and unspoken regrets, sweeping it in currents of murky grey confusion and casting shadowy doubts. I dragged it into an inky void, devoid of starlight and sucking me in with the force of gravity as I tumbled head-first into nothingness. But no one ever told me that too much of it and I will crumble into dust.
There lies my mural of broken years and forgotten innocence. It reeks of nostalgia as it sits there, mocking and taunting. It is the bearer of my secrets and lies, my memories and stories, my shattered dreams and fragmented tales. I wonder if it waits for me to give give give more colour. But I get it. I get it I get it I get it. So I adamantly stare back, unflinching, daring it to ask for more."
- walking through the artist's quarter
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