comic interlude

It seems to be one of those little rules of this wonderful thing called life, that a day (or a week, or a month) of grand epiphanies and solemn thought be followed by such moments that will leave you shaking your head ruefully for aeons.
Last night I misplaced my phone.
This happens on a fairly regular basis, because I have four bags I cart around depending on the situation, with the phone actually in the current bag for preference. And when I'm at home, a whole new set of locations enters the equation - the tops of the television, the computer monitor and the washing machine, any place in any of the three bookshelves, the sinks in the bathrooms, any of our four beds, my cupboard, my mother's cupboard, my father's cupboard, the balcony, and anywhere on the floor I might have dropped it.
The usual practice when I've misplaced my phone is to call it. That sets off the loud and insistent ringing and every member of the family currently in the house is roped into the rescue efforts. The average is two calls before it is found, and I was, until recently, justifiably proud that we'd got the system down to such a fine art.

Last night was different. My phone had been on low battery for a few hours before it went AWOL; and when I called it, instead of the reassuring sound of the ring tone I'd been saddled with by Hutch (completely against my will), I heard instead a poorly recorded automated message telling me the phone I was calling had been switched off. Panic ensued in short order.
I systematically turned the entire house upside down, all the while whimpering "my phone" in a pathetic little voice, aware that there were far more important matters in the world needing attention. After about an hour of concerted effort, we'd found numerous items previously given up for lost (isn't that always the case?) including my mother's spectacles, assorted stationery, and a coat hanger (don't ask). We went through every room in the house, some of them twice, but to no avail.
I went to bed desolate and disconsolate and phoneless.

This morning, my mother found my phone. In the freezer.
The joy of life.

in the family

I cannot imagine a single civilization that does not honour its dead. That's something about humans, surely? That we recognize not just our own mortality, but also the mortality of others. That's probably where religion comes from; the knowledge that we will all die; that we all will die.

Yesterday I watched my father and his siblings bid farewell to their father; and watched my grandmother reassess her idea of herself as a woman, rearranging her thoughts to accomodate the idea of herself as a widow. Here was a woman who, almost singlehandedly, raised four children; who turned out, every one, into successful, happy adults. A grandmother with an open mind and an enormous heart. A grandmother who would take English lessons from even such a capricious teacher as a ten year old me; who would, uncomplainingly, satisfy every whim of five demanding grandchildren. A grandmother who would think nothing of cooking omelettes for her grandchildren if they wanted them.
And there she was, rearranging her mind to accommodate the idea that she was now a widow. I stood behind her and watched her hold on the iron railing of the window into the room where the ceremony was taking place, and I held her hand and wished I could do more.
This morning she is in the kitchen cooking breakfast.

There is not a woman in my family who does not deserve respect. Aunts who have handled demanding and thankless in-laws, scraped and scrounged to make ends meet, worked for eight years to reach a PhD, refused to go on their honeymoon so they could finish their MSc. Grandmothers who will, everyday, teach you that there is a reason to be glad that genetics mean you might just turn out to be half as wonderful as they are someday. If, before I die, I can look back and say I lived with a fraction of the dignity these women have invested their lives with, I will be content. Every cliché about the strength of women is an understatement.

centennial

I just finished reading this book.
If you haven't read it yet, what I've written below may spoil it for you. Not by much, but it might.

I had a dream one night that led, over many months, to a sad hotch-potch little story that you could, if you really wanted to, read here. I wouldn't advise it, but I had to have it said. I did think about it. I did try. I got nowhere, but I tried. I was so reluctant to talk about what I'd dreamed that I did not address the issue even here, letting it end, instead, hanging. Happy. Safe.
I didn't feel right talking about something of which I had no knowledge.
What right had I?

And yet, I know the fear. As a woman, I live with that fear every day. I don't know if all women do this. I know I do. Every time I am out walking by myself. Every time I'm carrying bags, so my hands aren't free. Every time I smell drink on the breath of the driver of the auto I am in. Every time I find I am alone, anywhere, with a man I don't know beside me. Every sense is suddenly heightened, every thought is about possibilities. Every cell is afraid.
See, I'm not stupid. I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't do drugs. I don't party, I don't stay out late, I don't hang out with strangers. (much). When I'm alone, I'm alert. When I walk out at night, or late, I walk with an umbrella in my hand; the cord wrapped around my wrist; as a weapon. When I'm on a public bus, I stand with my elbows out; I sit with my arms wrapped around my body; as weapons, as protection. I try to draw as little attention to myself as a female as possible.
But not always.
Not always.

These are my scariest nightmares. I have dreamed of a day when I'm not as careful, when I let down my guard, when I'm vulnerable; when I suddenly become a victim.
My mother believes that I am too naïve, too trusting, too gullible; she fears for me all the time. I know she worries about me; when I'm alone, out late, at a party, at a pub. She worries, but she never imagines it. I do. I know that there are too many. I know how easy it is, how common.
Until today, I always felt that I had no right to imagine it because it had never happened to me. I had no right to imagine it because it was something that could not be imagined. I read about hundreds of women who had been raped, by people they knew, by people they trusted, by strangers; and all I could think was that trying to write fiction about it would belittle their pain.
Now I will attempt it again. I don't promise it will be better; I don't promise it will be good. I just want to be able to imagine the horror of a violation of my own body.
It's my body. I believe I have the right.

Five months. A hundred posts. Have I ever said anything worthwhile?