Have you met Domesti Kate?

A side effect of living in the South is, of course, that all us Southern girls know how to cook. With my luck, not only am I Southern, but I'm Pakistani-American Southern...American, which is a fantastical idea to wrap your thoughts around: Pakistani girls should know how to cook too. I know there are others like me, and I can only wonder if they defy stereotypes as well. You see, it's not just cooking. It's cleaning, gardening, laundry-ing, ironing, darning, mending, baking, child-rearing, husband-pleasing: all of it. And, because I'm a sweet docile woman, who "knows her place," I'm supposed to be okay with all of this.

But there's an exception. Enter The Working Woman. The South and Pakistani standards make allowances for The Working Woman, but there's more to it. She not only has one task, but two. And if she fails in one area, then she certainly shouldn't be a mother or The Working Woman.

I have a lot of respect for domestic woman. Maybe my problem is that this is not who I am, nor who I will ever be. I have great traits about myself, but I can realize and own up to being deficient in some areas that others thrive in. I want to believe that when I'm in the situation where I am a wife, and potentially, very soon, a mother, that the cards will fall neatly in a stack before me. I really do. I just think it's more responsible of me, now, to admit my faults, and come to accept them, before anyone or anything can accept me for who I am not.

This being said, I love challenges. Challenge me to cook you a delicious turkey dinner, and it's on. Dare me to weed a garden, and watch me. I like to prove others and myself wrong.

So.

I might yet become a Domesti Kate one day.

God help me.

:-)
Saira

back to the drawing board (for words)

I am going to make a list. If there's one thing I've picked up from reading this book recently (or the start of it), it's that: lists are perfectly acceptable, even helpful at times. This is one of those times. I will call this list...

Stuff Potentially, Maybe, Almost, But Ultimately I'm Going to Try to Write About 

1. a series of failures, the stuff of truth and pain and sorrow and eventual small spurts of joy

2. a collection of vignettes about random everyday happenings and occurrences

3. a book of photography and interviews with women in the community

4. a fictional story based on the identity imbalance of a Muslim American girl raised in the South

5. unconnected stream of conscious ramblings

6. I. Don't. Care. End. This. List. Already.

Epic FAIL, Saira. I'm also epically unmotivated and I lack serious creativity today, as opposed to unserious creativity that is rampant in my mind right now.

So let's end this with some Eisley. I'm still giddy I get to see them in June. Life, you look good, dude.

Toodles (but I need more doodles),

Saira 

woman. hood.

Yesterday's commentary on this blog was a huge resounding yuck. Some things are probably better left closed up in a wet cardboard box in an attic somewhere. Nonetheless, stuff has to find a way seeping out, and the best way I've decided is in writing. It's fortunate and unfortunate that it is on a public forum.

Back to the nowness of now. I relish in anything that celebrates women. I found out about an online conference for women broadcast online and available for viewing/listening convenience after the broadcast as long as I am registered. I signed up right away. Has it become common place to give high fives and hugs to people because they are women too? It never gets old, I think. In fact, there need to be men celebrations as well, but it seems men are collectively unsure about expressing their emotions, and this type of ceremony might be disastrous, or at least socially awkward for menfolk.

Remember that post I made about BIG, CRAZY, WILD ideas? I have one. I really do.

I want to in some small way contribute to the celebrating women phenomenon. I want to start a online community that discusses women's issues; I want to write a book for specifically for women; I want to photograph strong women and tell their stories; I want to shake the hand of every woman I meet and thank her for being who she is. I. Don't. Know. It is a bit of struggle sometimes just to settle on an idea and stick with it. So let that be my goal today.

I have to
1) study Praxis math
2) take a Praxis full length test, or at least one of each of the three in separate sittings
3) go for a run
4) deliver prints
5) make an online print order for clients
6) do laundry
7) buy Pasha some cat litter (poor cat)
8) perform prescribed prayers
9) book a flight to see brobro
10) work on the novel

Uh oh. This is more than an "idea." This is a sum of lots of little ideas that subscribe to my day. Off to the shower where all the deep thoughts start. Then I shall emerge fresh and empowered and supercharged for the day...all before 2:00 pm. woot!

hop to it,
Saira

dear jerks, I love your drive-thru syndrome

If I have learned anything since last year it's that there is a time to cry and there's a time to refuse to show any emotion for something that pales to deserve credit. Since I have gotten divorced I've witnessed what I am coining as drive-thru syndrome. People meet each other with the notion that they have ordered an individual of the opposite sex, made to order, and if this person fails to meet the standards they set in their mind, it's back to the restaurant, with the notions of trying a new place all together in the future. Although, maybe we should look at it this way: they get the woman burger and dissemble her based on her unique traits, and if the lettuce is iceburg instead of romaine, then by God it's bad news, not what was expected. People are lately it seems less and less accepting and more and more likely to drop and run as fast as they can in a more appeasing direction.

So when I meet rejection I stare it down, and I have to roll my eyes a little. Especially when someone tries to console me and reassure me that I am "an amazing girl." I know that already. It's as if people think their words are the frosting of confirmation I need to put one foot in front of the other. I have survived the grand slam of breakups, and I have a brain that works and a body that obeys my commands. I'm not dying, and I'm not dying for acceptance either. If I stare at my face in the mirror five years from now, and I'm not looking behind me for someone in the room with me, then I'm going to be just fine with myself.

I've run across this type of guy too often in my life and in the stories my friends tell me. They are concerned about whether or not they hurt your feelings, yet they proceed to lay on the unnecessary garbage about the "it's not you, it's me, but it's really you" sentiments.

I understand that everything I write may be incriminating, but if someone really wants to judge me for my honesty, then so be it. I'm here to be real, starkly real, and that's it.

haters stay clear. self, stay clever.

How much time do you spend on those who don't give a damn one way or another? Whether you work with them, or just have to talk to them from time to time, how does it make you feel when you are someone who truly cares about others and you are faced with someone who hates that sort of thing? Haters don't tip me in the restaurant. Haters spread animosity and ill feelings in an otherwise cheerful room. Haters gossip, judge others, and are epically rude. How to deal? In my Saira fashion I keep my wit sharp, and I slice off my words that are tactful and appropriate. I speak with more edge in my voice. I refuse to lower myself to their morals and their lack of decency. I have spent years of my life surrounded by negativity. I had to come up for air and grasp at any straw that held a supportive, uplifting vibe from it. People who are unhappy with others are really  unhappy with themselves, so I want to be compassionate and caring toward them instinctively, but I have done this too long. All it does it get me hurt. Haters don't respond to kindness unless it kills them. All I have is one Saira, one self, and she has to survive. So I am looking out for me; of course I am. And you should do the same. We can find ways to be nice and continue the hard fight, but we need to dispel toxic people and compel ourselves to put our voices out there so they are louder and more prominent. Just like I don't stand for terrorists who paint themselves as Muslims, I don't stand for fellow people who try to be good people but treat others poorly.

I will feel a pang of pain when I am left with a zero tip. I will cry quietly to myself when someone puts me in my place. But I will persevere. And one day soon when I have the strength I will counter the behavior with my words of steel.

 inner calm amidst adversity,
Saira

don't fail me now

Life is a blink, a flutter of the eyelashes across the cheek, the brush of lips against a glass of water. In these moments, these millions and billions of moments where the heart continuously beats, what did you do with your time? Like many, including me, you might have wasted away. The clock ticked and tocked and the time faded into the past but you stayed in your chair, in your bed, or in the cobwebs forming in the corner of your mind. I remember when I was twenty. I walked across campus watching the squirrels scamper up tall trees. I wore Pakistani dress on top and gym pants on the bottom with a side ponytail and fake designer sunglasses. I photographed blades of grass, dead baby birds, and cigarette butts on campus--nothing ceased to perplex or fascinate me. I was enthralled with every exhale of the Earth. People were mysterious even when they spoke blatantly. School was my passion and my existence. I lived for myself, but despite myself I was so innately connected to this life force around me that lives and breathes in every soul.

I haven't felt that delicately aware of the cosmos in years. I turned a page and saw fires and hurricanes and starving children in my mind's eye. These disasters and nightmares were me, they were my life, and the choices I was making. I lost my desire to be authentically true to me and to the One God I worship. I withered and fragmented, surrendering to the wants of people who would sooner board a train and leave in the face of the impending storm.

All I can do now is try to remember. What did I do once? Where did my feet fall? Is left worse than right? Questions do have answers, even for me. As much as I wonder and wonder about what is staring straight at me, and I know when it is time to push the plate, which is quite full, and give it to Someone, Something, Unspeakably, Unfathomably BIGGER than what I can ever, ever imagine.

It's time, God. Take the mess I've made and release a cage of doves. Beckon a double rainbow to illuminate the southern skies. Take my cliches and my narrow understanding of Mercy and Deep Love and let me fall in love with the world again, not the small part of this life, but the part that matters, the part that serves and seeks to feel your embrace.

I'm finished with fighting,
Saira

the lesson

I started asking friends what I should write about, and I got a good suggestion last night. I was told to write about the most important lesson I've learned in life so far. When he told me this my brain raced with the possibilities of what I could consider as potential. I've had a lot of tough lessons come in my life that came at inconvenient times, or at least when I didn't feel ready (but isn't that when those guys show up?). Amidst everything I've actually taken in and benefited from in at least some small way, the lesson of kindness has stayed with me.

Back in third grade my class was playing a trivia type of game, and one of the girls on my team didn't know the answer to her question. At recess I shared a few words with a friend about how disappointing her performance was. Unbeknownst to me my teacher was right around the corner, and she heard me. In a flash she was in my face, widening her eyes, scary effect I might add, and spit flew from the corners of her mouth. I had to walk to the big tree and back and think about what I had said. I was in trouble. I don't know why my mind goes back to that day, but the event has never left me. I still remember that girl's name, and some of her expressions that day. I don't remember what my teacher said, but her intentions were not wasted. I have not always been kind or understanding in the face of disagreements, misunderstandings, or other like situations, but in almost everything I do, especially with people I don't know, I try to be warm, welcoming, friendly, courteous, and accepting. Unfortunately the people closest to me get the brunt of it, as they see the raw real Saira when she feels like unleashing herself, and I'm sorry for that. But for the tables I serve, or for the students that come into my classes, I have a smile, a laugh, and a generous spirit to share. 

So it's funny, but reflecting on this lesson has helped me realize this art is no art yet in my book, and it has yet to be fully developed and honed to better usage.

Have you been kind today? Kind to yourself and kind to all life, inanimate and animate?
Saira

for you, who gave my world light

How do you trace a memory, a collection of moments in time beside half of your heart in human form? I like to, in traditional fashion, start at the beginning.

This is the first time I saw you.

You were playing a show in your band. Lead guitarist. Unassuming, with no knowledge that that night, this picture would change my life. I would look at it, marveling at it, wondering about the person in it. This was actually when I first realized my passion for photography, when I knew the depths in a photograph.

I would learn your name, Shane, and I made it my mission to know you, to be a part of your world. I would succeed. Not only did we become close friends, best friends, but we fell for each other, we spent days together, learning about each other. You said I was so random, the most random person you'd ever met, and you always made me laugh, smile, and forget my problems. I'm sorry I ignored you that summer, a few months after we formed our bond. I was immature, and I needed time to heal. Years later I'm healing again, but you're not here with me to make the hurting less painful.

I love your family--I still do after all. I indulged in the delicious times we spent up there surrounded by laughter and love. I was a skinny bitty thing when we met, but that changed. Food helped, as evidenced here.

You came in such a delicate whisper into my life, and when you left it's as if the oceans flooded the beaches and the land, all of it, and don't forget I can't swim. I'm drowning every day, some days I come up for air, and I have these pictures, the glimpses into the past that remind me about who I am, who I was, who I will always be. 

It happens that whenever you spend enough time with someone and you form a consistent commitment that you want to spend forever together. 

Here's one of my favorite things I remember about you, your love for music. We got to create this in our engagement session.

I made a lot of mistakes, and I couldn't hold on to someone so bright that the stars paled in fear of your brilliance. I have to face this now, and I think even as I write this I struggled to coherently communicate my thoughts. Isn't that the bitter reality of life, that we have this insight when everything is gone and we are standing on a shaky cliff overlooking the ocean I mentioned earlier? This is as high as I could climb, and my only choice is still to fall to what must become of me.

Guitar Hero? You were mine.

You probably wont remember but there were days we would sing together? We would think of a song to sing and we'd join voices. Mine wasn't much to remember, but I think that's what it must feel like to make music with someone you love.

We adored each other. See that shirt I'm wearing? It's the first shirt I saw you in. I'm smiling so big because I'm probably thinking about that. 

Then it finally happened. We got married.

Even though I was an hour late, this was the happiest day of my life. I was yours in name, in fact, in every reality. Life was just beginning all over again.

We went to Hawaii. 

No matter what how can I thank you for that experience? I may never see a place more beautiful in my life. 

But then we came to odds. We fought and fought. And I cried. You cried. We were standing on two different steps, and no matter how much love there was it couldn't help the crumbling of where we stood. 

Why do I write this? Why do I put it out there? For months I've tried to dull down the pain with every distraction I can imagine. At first I tried to keep myself busy, going, going, going from place to place, never staying quiet, nor still for a moment to reflect. And then I wanted to experience every regret, every sorrow, and I cried for nights, every night, I cried myself to sleep. I always wondered what you were going through, too. I envied you for moving on so fast while I scrambled in vain to pick up the pieces of the past five years. 

It is my sincere hope that this post will help someone who feels like his or her world is over right now. I want to offer you solace that your world is not over, that the world never leaves you nor deserts you; God is not like that. Oh my God it is going to hurt like hell sometimes. At first it will feel like you are in a type of hell. You can love someone so so so much, and sometimes life gets in the way and it tears apart two people who were once perfectly in sync. 

Nothing can take away what I remember though. And if you are reading this, whoever you are, I want you to remember that. Days from now, years from now you will smile and laugh and cry and thank the Universe that he or she was in your life. And if God is Good as God is then they will return. In what form only God knows, but be faithful and patience and true to who you are, what you want to be. And wait.

I love you, and stay strong,

Saira

PS: Listen to this Allison Krauss song and reflect on all of this.

sweat. sweat. sweet sweat.

Yesterday I spooned a piece of spoon cake in my mouth. I later indulged in a late night dinner of delicious Mexican food, complete with chips and salsa aplenty. I woke up feeling like yesterday was some scene out of a dream, determined to make healthier, more productive choices. Cereal for breakfast, check. Giant water bottle of water before workout, check. And then the monster of them all, a 45 minute Turbofire workout. Maybe I exaggerate a little. This is definitely a sweat pouring workout, but I find it manageable now, especially after doing similar workouts in the program since December. It's a 90 day workout regimen, complete with nutrition advice, but I find myself working out hard for two or three days in a row, then falling off the workout wagon, only to desperately to try to stay on a week or two later. Have I lost weight? You bet. Do I feel better? Heck yes. Am I satisfied with where I'm at? No way! Until I can commit to six days a week of activity I will not rest in my head. I'm not trying to achieve any ideal physique or form anymore. I just want to be able to exercise for an hour in a tolerable fashion. I want to always feel sweet pangs of pain that make me push harder, ironically enough, but I want to always try to achieve more and better myself from the day before. Working out in a catharsis for me. My sweat is like a forgotten sister of my tears. I've cried enough tears for two or three people in this short time. Maybe that's it. Pouring out the sweat puddles gets some of my angst out, and I no longer have to sob about it. Whatever the reason for this attitude, so be it. I'm having a great time, and I check out my form in the mirror every 10 minutes or so. I look good. I feel good. Good.

Getch yo workout on today. You will feel hot and incredible when you stop and cool down. Your clothes will seem to fit better, and you wont be able to stop smiling.

Bring it on Wednesday,
Saira

PS: I collapsed on the floor after I stretched, and I looked something like this.

oh PLEASE pick me.

If today had a theme it would be the raw, ugly, but completely honest validation. It has once again showed its unwanted face in my life. I have made a shrine for that stupid word and worshiped it like no other concept to date. I could go back to younger years and count incident after incident where I sought approval from someone, something, anything. And today was no different. Crying, I called friends for comfort, support, and advice. Sometimes I just felt like I wanted someone to say, "You're right to feel that way." I'm still reading A Complaint Free World in which the author tells us over and over to avoid the deadly traps of complaining, and what to do when people around us complain, how to get around it. When we complain, at times, we are seeking importance and significance. It's like the quenching answer for a bruised ego. And boy do I ever have a bruised ego. It's as if in the past three months someone has taken what I was and stepped on it, left it to soak in the soggy mud, and then laid it on scorching rocks and thrown me off a cliff to fall indefinitely and seemingly forever into nothingness. Vulnerable is such an understatement.

Then why do you care if anyone reads this? Why do you post it on facebook? Honestly, truly, I don't care if another person thinks anything more or less of me from reading this. I only hope that something I say is of some help to someone, something, anything. If one sentence I wrote shook hands with the inner you and made you smile or realize something you've been searching for, then great! That's why I'm here. I figured out a long time ago that I was created to help; it's the best good I can amount to.

It feels good to say this, but to someone I never know, that I will never meet, thank you Shakira. Your music, attitude, and passion has drawn up a fire inside of me that has doubted myself for far too long.

A second, but most hearty, thanks to my friends and family for consistently giving me arms to fall back in. The fall is scary, but it's a reality.

Fall hard and land soft, beautiful,
Saira

PS: It's never too late to learn to dance. I think I'm going to teach myself a style I have desperately needed to hone and fine tune.

the next BIG thing

What do you secretly, or maybe not so secretly, in your wildest dreams want to do? Not too long ago I had a talk with my brother. He told me that the facebook age is one of narcissists. And in school we are often told we can "be anything we want to be." All we have to do is dream it, then work to achieve it. We had a back and forth over this mentality, with me on the side for the dreamers. Who's right?

Let's consider what it's like to think you can do what you want. You're 10 years old. You relish in the idea of owning an ice cream business. You go through school, and you hear the other zany ideas your friends have. But when you're at home, your parents tell you about how they have their own dreams that you will become a doctor, and you can help treat them when they older. You start to think that maybe being a doctor wouldn't be so bad. You would get paid well, and you could afford to take care of your family. Then you get to college. You focus. You make straight As through your hard work, and that lingering idea of owning an ice cream business seems like a childhood notion. Med school application it is.

Does this sound familiar? I have nothing against conventional occupations. Most of them are direly, importantly necessary for our society to be what it is and has been. But what about the dreamers who want to be doers? Do they stand a chance?

I completely understand that it's unrealistic that everyone who wants to run wild with a great entrepreneurial idea is not going to be successful. Most people will fail. I like to think that it's a worth effort to try against all odds to achieve what seems so deliciously good.

I sometimes wake up in the morning with a calm yet energized feeling; I think, "I am going help someone today." That is all it takes to motivate me on the spot. Then I go through my day, get hung up over issues that are much smaller than they seem, and suddenly my perspective is shot, and I retreat to my bed downcast and thankful I get to close my eyes and end my miserable day. You see, what I lack is constant application of what I'm trying to achieve. I need a game plan.

So here is what I am going to do, and I encourage you to do the same. I'm going to go home and make a list of five BIG, CRAZY, INSPIRING ideas I want to set in motion. I am going to spend a few lines elaborating on each one. Then I'm going to put it away and revisit it tomorrow. So grab a pen and some paper, or maybe start a new Word file. Do this simple step, and I'll be back tomorrow with more.

I dare you to dream,
Saira

PS: Someone needs to invent a way to keep drinks cold. Watered down drinks are not that yummy. Ice should be a thing of the past.

consider me slashed

It started yesterday. I drove down a slight hill to find a decent, off road, parking spot at the jogging trail park. As it was bloody gorgeous outside at least 1/3 of the town was there. Well. Not really, but every parking spot was taken, and at least seven cars were lined up in the grass. I thought it would be easy to get down there, but as I shimmied my car down the hill, I heard a resounding thud at the final destination. I shrugged it off and went for my run. When I got back on the road I heard a jah-jah-jah sound, and dumbly I ignored it. It returned this morning on my first trek into town, and it only got louder each time I drove. When I turned up the base of a big hill on the way to my parents' house earlier tonight that car was complaining big time with each inch it traveled. I got home, somehow, miraculously, considering the severity of the sounds, and I shone my phone light on the back right side, by the tire. And would you believe, that puppy was slashed and separating, completely flat. This ijit drove around several times today on a low air/flat tire. My first instinct: "someone slashed me!" And I think I'll stick with that story. It creates a motive and a bit of suspense. Who did it? And why? And then a story forms. But if some stupid nail got stuck in the side or if that fateful hill made its mark, well then that's much different. That seems far more predictable and uneventful.

And in other news the 'ol hormones have gifted me with a pimple. It's on my chin, and that dude is painful. I caught up with another photographer for coffee a bit earlier, and I somehow swung my arm against my chin, and I must have winced at least a little. I don't know if it's a female thing, to get pimples well into my 20s, or if it's a "Saira, you are so clearly stressed and you know it" thing.

(I think I will start adding a PS section with a random thought of the moment to spice up the posts.)

Make it BIG,
Saira

PS: I avoid the news at all costs. If it's important I'll hear about it another way.

preggo? I just get legos.

Another friend is pregnant. My small world goes through waves of marriages and pregnancies. My knee jerk reaction is a pang of pain, and I follow it up with a quick "Congratulations." What else do you say? Do I escape into my mind and pour out the swamp like depths of jealously? Or do I go to my blog and write out the thoughts that are too negative to say to anyone experiencing such a joyous moment in life? It wasn't always this way.

Almost two years ago I thought I would be on that same path toward motherhood in the next two years. And now I look back, look forward and see just me standing on this path. It's weathered and shifting, and all I can do is hang on with my super grip feet. My nails are talons, and I dig into the earth, refusing to budge. But the grounds keep moving, and like I'm on a conveyer belt, I move even when I'm standing still.

It's not so bad being alone. I am a lot of time to be myself, even at the expense of others wanting me to change. I get to practice genuineness and good manners when I feel like a pile of wadded up paper balls from neglected rough drafts and attempts at the right things to say.

Time to turn on emo tracks,
Saira