To Wax or not to Wax, that is the question!

For the last few days, I've been revisiting my relationship with my facial hair. Most days, when those pesky hairs start poking themselves through my pores, and growing into hard stubborn strands, it's me who gets the brushing of the coat, and not my kitty!

Like many women whose ethno-racial heritage have origins in that most ancient of subcontinents, I have struggled long and hard with coming to some acceptance of my body's unflattering locks. But more and more, as I come to understand the complexity of my own gender identities, I am kinda liking, even loving the weekly Amazonian forest overgrowth.

I mean, at some point in my life, I'm going to have to raise my hands in resignation, and say, "Ok, Chewbakkah, you win!" Incidentally, "Chewbakkah" was the name of my on-air name when I co-hosted a show on CiTR 101.9fm back in my UBC days. Oh yeah, I took the piss out of it all, but deep down - not that deep actually, maybe even a bit shallow - I just hated it all. I hated waking up to it every morning, and hesitating before looking at myself in the mirror, aghast to find that more had grown overnight!! The torture of it all!

So, I'd reach for the ol' tweezers and spend away a beautiful morning plucking the revolting beauty suckers out of their sockets, so I can once again feel like I'm any other normal-as-plaid girlie girl!

But it turns out, I got more in my genetic make-up than I bargained for. Then again, birth ain't a negotiation when you're slipping and sliding outta your mom's passageway! No choice! Just come out already, and deal with whatever package you've been given.

Ok, I think many of us gals could actually deal with our packages if society wasn't telling us ALL THE BLOODY TIME that something's just not right about our face, our arms, our eyebrows, our butts, our boobs, and all the cells of our personhood.

When are we going to realize that all those things are part of our womanhood, and not the other way around? Not ripping our skins out because we don't look like the airbrushed, hairless photos of models who are also going through their silent self-hatred of all things hairy, and some of 'em face even worse terrors that the beauty industry enforces.

This time around, I really wanted to just let it all grow, and be happy with it, to just love every single follicle that all comes together to create this most beautiful of beards and mustaches. I wanted to just leave my home, with courage, to face the morning commuters with joy and contentment as I stroked my stubbly chin.

But it didn't happen. I caved in. Applied those murderous wax strips to my already pock-marked face, and with a force equivalent to a knockdown by a heavyweight boxer, I pulled those damn strips off my chin, cheeks, jaws, neck, upper lip, lower lip, temples, 'tween the brows, and anywhere else I could, holding my breath in hopes that I'd see a sizeable area of now dead hair on the strips, and a clear, smooth region of near baby skin on soon-to-be acceptable visage! Oh, the sheer joy of it all!

Sadly, the strips never quite do their job. Or maybe I'm just not a master facial waxer. Maybe I need to just go to the salon and let the pros take care of it. Ha ha, the irony of it is that I won't let anyone else touch my face for fear that they might harm it during the waxing, because it has happened. I've been burned by the scorching sensation of hot wax. The next day, as the wound dried, friends would wonder if I had gotten myself into a bit of a temperamental bar fight. I kept my chin up, stayed silent as strong as an ox, and allowed them to make up their own stories. That's always fun. I get to have a bit of a reputation then, "Oh yeah, did you hear about Shaz? She's some tough bitch! Gettin' into all kinds of scraps and skittles."

Seriously, though, something's gotta give. One day, I'm going to wake up, and realize that those wax stips, for all the masked beauty they might potentially bring to this very sad of sad faces, did more harm to my sense of self than anything else.

I'm sure if I spoke to my therapist and recounted all those childhood run-ins with the cruel racist jokes my peers would make about me, hollering to the world that I was half-man, half-girl, she'd say my present relationship with my facial hair had a lot to do with all that. No kidding, Sherlock.

Even though my mighty hopes for conquering my facial hair woos did not materialize this week, I do have hope that the more comfortable I start feeling in my combo male-female spectrum physicality and identities, someday I'm going to walk right past the hair killers' aisle and love-a-dub-rub this happy, special body and soul that my mom and dad brought into existence with the genes of their ancestors and with the love they felt in their hearts at that magical pleasurable moment. Two of the dearest people in my life came together and asked the universe for yet another glorious gift: Me.

In this moment of...

Experience calmness of mind and body at Allan Gardens Conservatory. 

Wars were raging out in our world that day. News of children buried under blasted concrete, its mangled pieces crushing the hearts of the ones who never got a chance.

Wars raging here, too. A different kind. Our hearts bleed but we shoot. Fire. Detonate. Crush. With fiery locution.

So, I escaped during a momentary lull in the fracas between two warring souls of the North.

I walked into this breathing space where foliage and flower extended their joyful salutations. Toured the grounds, saw the baby raccoons confused by the daylight, caught red-handed in their overnight traps. But their fate is freedom, not eradication.

My eyes floated with the koi. My ears tuned into the stream's trickling murmurs, and the silent wanderings of its inhabitants. 

Like the turtles treading serenity, popping their stripy slippery heads in and out of their safe hiding appendage, I, too, hid away in this place of irony - where nature flourishes under the care and life-sustaining tools of its dedicated human gardeners. Do the petals bloom in Gaza, even among the most anguished cries of the captive and the killer? Irony blossoms in all spaces, as dark and unyielding as human cruelty is. 

In this moment of tranquility, I will catch my breath, will heal my wounded tongue, will revive my conscience, will honour the dead and dying who will never see my world.

With the memory of this moment, I may face the storms outside again with self-effacing tenderness. 

I may agree to a cease-fire.

How the expression "awww" has saved my day!

It's getting close to that time to reinvent myself. I do it at least every 7-8 years. It involves completely uprooting myself. Giving away some of my prized possessions that I would normally hang onto like an old blankie. Then boxing up the rest and putting it all in storage or on a truck to be shipped to "destination unknown".

In the past, my feet would itch to skip town and move to new surroundings, but I think my love-hate relationship with T.O. is taking a turn. Although I still can't get used to many aspects of this urban jungle, I've met some awesome people who are struggling as I am to find balance and connection amid all the concrete and chaos. They're the folks that keep my feet firmly planted, and I thank them for all the support, care, time, resources, and friendship they've shared, even when I hide away in my cave on evenings and weekends that ought to be spent in warm company. Sorry.

Hopefully the above friends will be happy to know that I am committing to making some positive changes in my life to quell my sometimes intense episodes of anxiety, particularly during the commute to and from everywhere in this city (the main, primary, dominant reason why it's so hard for me to leave my safe cell). When I'm having one of those episodes, my breathing slows down quite a bit, like I'm holding my breath for what might happen next. Then my body becomes as rigid as a surfboard. I try to focus on what I'm reading or listening to on my wee mp3 player, but the closeness of the crowds, the clattering clop clops of hurrying feet, the bumps and jostles, the stepping on toes by the ones who don't hold onto the bars (ok I know it's great for strengthening balance, but do they have to stand so close to me?), the folks talking behind me on their cell phones, the folks talking like they're talking into a megaphone, the tobacco smoke wafting from entrances and alleys, the strong perfumes and musky smells, and then, then there are the ones that head straight into me as I head straight into them, both of us holding our ground in anticipation of the collision!

T.O. - my love-hate relationship. It's a binary. There's no in-between here.

You can imagine what state I'm in by the time I get to my destination. But there is a real comfort in knowing that probably half the population of this city (maybe more) has experienced/is experiencing very similar situations and symptoms, if not worse. Whenever I have commuter stress now, I've found some strategies that work for me:

1) Observe interactions between parents/caregivers and their children - it's so comforting to watch people give love and care to kids, and also how the kids respond to their affection.

2) Stop to watch the chirping sparrows, squirrels, and pigeons and say "awww". "Awww" is a good expression because it helps dissipate my anger and impatience. Try it! It will give you an instant feeling of goodness!

3) Expanding on #2 - watch dogs walking alongside their owners or dog walkers. OMG, the dogs on the sidewalks of T.O. are the cutest, the friendliest, and most well-behaved, except when they're taking a piss or poo - nasty!

4) Look UP! If I'm looking up at the clouds moving across the sky and up, up at the tallest buildings in the city, I immediately feel a sense of calm surround me, but oops! cut the construction noise, please!

5) Listening to slow piano instrumentals are always nice and helps me look at people with happiness, but then the track changes to a Rihanna song, and I get back to being mad poker-faced me!

There are also behaviours that only aggravate the anxiety and frustration I feel:

1) Walk too fast - when I walk too fast, I tend to have less patience - yeah, please move out of my way, thanks.

2) Walk while listening to fast-tempo music (like the Rihanna tune) - this steals away presence and distracts my mind; it also sometimes inflates my ego depending on the song (lol, wish I could dance like Rihanna!)

3) Walk while thinking negative thoughts - these will definitely contribute to some displays of meanness!

Ok, I've digressed from the original point which was about coming to some transitional period in my life. Well, one of those transitions is ironically staying put. But a few other transitions are: getting rid of my electronic piano (I will get an upright later on in life - I'd rather practice on the real thing!), possibly adopting a pet companion to offer them a forever home (here I go - "awwww"!), changing my diet - slowly, slowly, baby steps towards more plant-based consumption, getting back on the running schedule (entering a few 5Ks in the fall!), and the biggest change that will require a heck of a lot of commitment (and sacrifice): setting clear boundaries in my relationships with various people and communities that show respect and care to all. I've spent way too much of my time enabling others because I have the insufferable quality of always feeling sorry for the lot of humankind! Ugh! This trait has brought me many rewards and some valuable transformative lessons, but it has also brought many failures. I've been working on it though through reading, talking to folks, training my brain to think and act differently, and finding some very strong mentors.

I guess as I work through these transitions, I'll eventually get to my goals/destinations, a thought that might also help in my daily commute where the endearing and the infuriating converge.

Awww!

The 3-Day Novel Contest: An Exploration of...

Procrastination.  I've learned in the last 3 years since taking up the challenge of writing a novel in just three days that I'm a procrastinator.  No need for a rocket scientist to tell me that.  And years of therapy didn't quite hit the nail on the head either.  But, alas!  A wee little contest probably originating from some mountainous hut in the backwoods of B.C. (this is my creative guess) gifted me with that momentous epiphany!

And geez, do I ever enjoy those moments of sheer procrastinating bliss!  It might involve something as profound as clicking between Facebook and yahoo mail in elegant repetitive motions (my nimble fingers come from years of practicing beginner piano, and I didn't quite make it any further, and well...you can only guess why) in the middle of writing a descriptive passage of yet another phantasmagorical oddity of a character...because it's always complicated these relationships writers have with their characters.  Or I might take a few or several moments away from the laptop (ok, more like a few hours maybe) in order to stare fixedly inside my refrigerator looking for that palate-perfect combination of snacks.  I have to eat, and this putting together of food might take some time the same way writers put together words.  Switching back to some semblance of normality - and there is no shame in saying that Facebook is my normal - allows me some space to breathe and disconnect from those aggravating characters who can't seem to get it together.  I mean seriously wtf - you non-existent people, get your shit together, puleeeeze!!!

I recently attended a panel discussion on writing fiction, and one of the writers said to the audience that when she wrote, she would let the story take care of itself and that she was the objective element, allowing her characters and plot to essentially run the writing.  My simple-minded reading of her comment is that in allowing my characters to speak for themselves and remove my interfering fingers from their lives, the words would just come out without any censoring.  I'd simply be these characters' transcriber, and that could take only a matter of hours before the story is finito.  Um, why can I not do that?  I mean, why can't I stop controlling my characters, and let them go so they can find their own way of telling these deadline-driven stories, while I can focus on sliding and tapping my way through Candy Crush?  It would be so easy!  Three days would seem like a quick switch of candy in Dreamworld!

Y'know, that is possibly the crux of my procrastination issue.  I want to control every waking moment of my characters' lives so I get stuck on that cruelest of words: perfection.  Why can't I just accept my characters as they are, in all their flawed glory?  In truth, some of the characters in my stories have some serious issues to deal with, and I'm always trying to figure out how to wag my finger at them and tell them what they should do.  If I just accepted them unconditionally, then my novel writing could probably make the 3-day deadline and I'd finally end up with the 100-page whopper that I've been talking quite extensively about (but never producing in all these years) on Facebook and Twitter updates (sadly, it's a conversation I have had with myself on most occasions if the number of "likes" gives any indication of interest).

More importantly, I'd have heaping hours of time well-spent on doing what I normally do when I procrastinate except there wouldn't be a novel for me to get back to 'cuz it would all be done!  Like, how do you say "yay"?!  My characters would take care of it.  I wouldn't try to give them bad advice or try to mold them the way I'd like them to be.  I must say, it gets me quite emotional thinking what a real leap of faith it is when we writers learn to just let go of the puppet strings or cut the proverbial umbilical cord.  We do not need to hide ourselves in embarrassed silence anymore because of the stigmatizing language against procrastinators.  We no longer need to carry around that ill-fitting label that shames us for wanting to spend more time with our Bejeweled Blitz rather than with those dog-gone imaginary and irreconcilable folks who just take up way too much battery power in our heads.

Of course, in taking that route where I hand over the power to these little people on the page, it would mean giving up the title of Procrastinator that I've held with such dignity and perseverance for the new title of...and I'm sure you knew this one was coming...a woman of leisure!

This year's 3-Day Novel Contest will be held from August 30th to September 1, 2014!  And folks, I hate to say it, but I've just registered!  Please, help me manage my control issues this year so I can finally spend quality time with all of you in cyberspace, and not have to run off again to write some novel.  Thanks.

Somewhere over the rainbow...

Humanism sees all the pieces of a being, and most importantly, all the potential and all the goodness.  Love can shine a light into the darkest corners and breathe in new life and new dreams, like glue to gather all of our broken pieces. PHOTO BY SHAZIA ISLAM

Today, I found out that someone I knew had lost his battle.  Today, I found out how much havoc our consciousness can wreak on us when the life we've been given ends up betraying us.  Exactly three weeks ago on Saturday, Feb. 15, my friend could no longer withstand his pain, and he took his life in the loneliest place in the world - inside his prison cell.

Today, I printed out the photo above to send to my friend to cheer him up, give him an opportunity to see another side of himself, not knowing that he was gone.  I had sent him an earlier photo before taken by another very good friend of mine of a rainbow poised in a graceful arc above a small idyllic town.  When my friend received this photo, he wrote to me and said it was the most beautiful thing ever, and that it was what he would look at during those dark days in solitary confinement.

I couldn't find the address information anymore of the correctional institute where he was being held.  We had been emailing earlier, but I had received a notice from the administration of the prison a few days ago that my friend was no longer on the email system.  So, I decided to send him another letter as I had done the first time we made contact last fall in 2013.  I would have included the photo of the shiny disco ball.  He would have seen parts of the park outside my office window.  He would have seen the light reflected from the ball in the shape of diamonds on the ledge.  Another rainbow effect with the idyllic scene in the background, and the shining presence of this beautiful ball of mirrors.  What would he have thought?

But when I looked his name up to locate the address, I discovered the news of his passing.  Nothing much was said about him that humanized him and his life.  His past actions had rendered him unworthy of any kindness from the press, and this, I do understand.  The people who had been tragically impacted by his actions also needed kindness.  But the press did not honour either side - the victims nor their perpetrators; the coverage was just one long gratuitous interlude of the violence that would continue to resound in press articles to come.  No critical analysis of or action against the horrific nature of war, and the debilitating effects of PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), and how young American men and women from lowly backgrounds are often recruited to be sent off across the oceans to fight and kill people who they have been brainwashed to hate - their learning devoid of any understanding of people's histories, livelihoods, and communities.  They maim and kill with the same ferocity that they blame "the terrorists" for showing, and justify their armed invasions all in defense of freedom.  Operation Desert Storm was nothing more but a replay of the age-old crusade of the West to divide, conquer, and destroy the brown-skinned Muslims.  And so the destruction continues, not just in Iraq.

My friend was one of those young recruits.  With already a troubled life, the officers paid no mind.  He was another body/boy to be shipped off to the killing fields.  Killing he witnessed, and killing he did.  When he was discharged, he was charged shortly after, and sentenced to life without parole.  From then on, everyday became work to pay his dues and right the wrongs he had committed.  But those memories stayed fresh in his mind, like a festering wound coagulating into daily terrors with other inmates who knew of his crime and gave him no peace.  People will ask if he deserved any peace.  I ask, how else can one heal if not out of a place of peace, and not misery?  But then people will say, he didn't deserve to heal.  I ask, why do we judge the wrongs of one being while turning a blind eye to the society that created him?

I know my friend committed atrocities, but I also know of his profound guilt and sorrow in the brief letters we exchanged before his death.  He was on a mission at that time, to procure some semblance of friendship and understanding in his life, with someone who represented the enemy he had been taught to hate.  That photo of the rainbow had caught him by surprise.  He never expected such a thing to happen, that someone from across these stolen and plundered landscapes would reach out to him to tell him that there were other dimensions of his spirit he could reach into to find that rainbow.

I hope my friend finds that rainbow in the life beyond, for it is always somewhere over the rainbow, way up high, where that land of lullabies offer glimmering sights and sounds of a once loving and playful child.

"Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raajioon"