Like the Windmills Circling Madly

I'm not doing well. I sit down to do my accounts. It's one of the highlights of the month since there isn't much else to do other than bake, eat, and watch movies. I've diligently tracked every expenditure during the month, as always, in my hand-dandy Excel sheet. I count my cash. I check my bank balances. I lay aside the treasured dollar bills, so scarce these days. 

But I'm not doing well. 

I search for a familiar classical music playlist so I can distract my mind. I breathe a sigh of relief when my husband turns off the pressure cooker and the hood that whisks away steam from feeding the mold in our house. I decide not to try to figure out whether I had converted the offerings into the local currency or not. 

But I'm still not doing well. 

My husband has turned the beans and hood back on. The classical music is too familiar and irritating. The numbers start to blur and I HATE, absolutely hate, working in dual currencies. I know I can ask my husband, and probably should ask him, to set up a new budget system that will work better. 

But I sit frozen on the sofa. 

Anxiety has struck again. 

Today wasn't too bad. I'd actually slept well the night before, which was such a rare treat these days. My hayfever somehow had subsided to the occasional sniffle three or four times a day instead of violent sneezing or uncontrollable itching all day long. I'd lounged about all day, just cooking something, taking a nap, enjoying the rest day. 

But when faced with the reminder of how very fragile and uncertain life is, as I counted paper money that was worthless, meaningless, only able to provide for food and perhaps a car repair or two, I froze. 

Sometimes I have good days. Often I have bad days. When the good days come, I find myself surprised. I wait for something to happen, sure that the goodness cannot last. We live, after all, in a cursed world run by a demon and though we have a hope of something better after this life, there is no guarantee that our trust in a higher power will keep us off the streets, alive, and in somewhat decent condition. After all, small children scream silently at night when grown men violate their soul, so how can we possibly live with that? 

I realized the other day that I have taken the burden of the entire world on myself. If it was almost too much for Jesus to bear, the sins of the world that is, how can I even begin to imagine that I can bear the weight of the knowledge of evil? For that is what we have chosen, since Adam and Eve ate the fruit willingly. We live every day with the knowledge of evil and this is what dances tauntingly with our consciousness. We know, therefore somehow we are implicated in it all even if we do not know where or how people are suffering. We have no excuse because we know suffering exists. 

We are told in the Bible to speak simply. Let our yes be yes and our no be no. We should not swear by anything in heaven or on earth because God is in heaven and we sure have no control over what happens on earth. So instead I swear silently in my head. It's the Christian thing to do. It's the only way I can pierce the boil of terror and fright at what so many people are going through in the world right now, at this very moment. 

Maybe the anxiety has absolutely nothing to do with the figures I try to arrange into a logical order. Or with the pressure cooker that WILL NOT be quiet. Or with the knowledge that yet another gargantuan task lies ahead. Maybe it's none of them; maybe it's all of them. I do not know. All I know is that I feel this way. Often. And I don't know if it will ever end. And I'm scared.

Today I Feel Sad -- Take 2

I am the one who wears a thousand masks, one for each day and time. I am the one who learned to be all I’m expected to be, but is still not sure of who I really am.” (Knell, 2007)

My student asked me if they should use a symbol between the quote and the author of the quote. We were working on a writing assignment in Google Docs and I was switching between tabs as I checked on each student in their virtual writing room. I told her how to properly introduce a quote and then left her to make the changes while I moved on to the next "room." Today was a good day, for class that is. I didn't have to sneak in any possible chance to mute my mic so I could blow my nose profusely. I had slept more than 4 hours the night before, so my mind was alert. I had prepared my class so I was ready to teach. I had a fun game to try to keep my students engaged. 

But before class started, I was irritated. And after class ended, that turned into sullenness. And after lunch, it had subsided into feeling sad. Again. 

I tell my students they should never start a sentence with "But" or "And" and I hammer this into their heads all semester long. They may go into their academic classes still not knowing how to spell "opportunity" but there is always auto-correct for that. There is no auto-correct to catch some grammar mistakes just as there is no auto-correct to catch some mistakes we make in life. 

I guess I'm still trying to figure out if I made the right choices in my life. All too often, they seem to have been made with others in mind. My mom, my brother, my boss, my best friend, my husband. But isn't that what we are supposed to do, as Christians? To make decisions based on what would make others happy? Aren't we supposed to serve others? Isn't thinking of ourselves being selfish?

My mom used to love asking me a question when I was growing up and caught amidst the angst of it all. If you could be anything in the world, what would you be? In this scenario, money was never an issue and I was free to dream up anything my heart desired. Sometimes I was a marriage and family therapist, other times I was a doctor, most of the time I wasn't where I was then. 

I dreamed to going to another university. I dreamed of getting my masters and then my doctorate in marriage and family therapy. I dreamed of specializing in addiction studies. I dreamed of having my own family with little ones to call me Mommy. I dreamed of a little house. I dreamed of traveling to Australia and South America. I dreamed of writing a book. I dreamed of being a teacher. 

Then I grew up. Some of my dreams were born after those teen years and I saw those dreams realized as I sat across from my desk advising students in the registrar's office or traveled across the ocean to live and work in one of my many heart-countries. Some dreams morphed into what I could manage, like my masters degree that was not in any way related to marriage and family therapy but was still a therapeutic and validating experience that I proudly financed on my own. 

Some dreams are still working themselves out. You see, they don't tell you that when you dream, the dream is the wish your heart makes but then that dream is in actuality a whole lot of hard work. The first stage is most likely infatuation, where all seems easy and you are euphoric about finally receiving your dream. Then you move into reality and this is where the dream's ephemeral qualities suddenly tumble into broken pottery. Everything is frustrating and nothing makes sense and the only thing that keeps you going is the knowledge that, once upon a time, this was your dream and you cannot abandon it now. 

So you slog on through. 

When I returned to the country I had spent my teen years in, I felt my dream had come true. I had left this country more than 15 years prior with the sad feeling that I would never be able to live again in the moments that had defined who I was. I was certain I would never see my dearest friends again. Yet somehow fate smiled on me and here I was, back when I belonged. 

I soaked up those first two years, even as I battled through the homesickness. Every free moment was enraptured with falling in love--with a country. Taxi drivers who would have married me for the equivalent of a Happy Meal were incredulous at my jubilant exclamation that I was so happy to be here. Then reality hit. The garbage piled high on the side of the street. The lack of due process and procedure, overridden by connections and the almighty dollar. The buildings crumbling in disrepair as no loving hands respected their precious historical value. The relationships that only meant something if you were someone, or could give something. It became difficult. Too difficult. 

I married. I had a steady job. We moved into a cubby-hole-perfect little first basement apartment. I battled mold, learned to cook complex Iranian dishes, ate roasted sunflower seeds by the kilo, and vacuumed the house every Friday afternoon. I was living my dreams in the country I had dreamed of, and yet I was not happy. 

Perhaps it really was okay to blame everything on the pandemic. Or perhaps I just simply grew up. Perhaps now I was having to accept that the dreams I'd had, when taken off the pedestal and out of the soft light, were revealed as they really were. Just another fact of life. A broken piece of pottery I was now responsible to polish and scrape until it looked somewhat presentable for society.

Because in the end, that was where my circle came back to. Doing things for others. Doing things because others expected them. That was why I went to church every Saturday, cooked pasta with potato tahdig, made endless photocopies and answered inane emails, and tried to grow a garden. 

If I could do anything in the world, what would I do? I would work only enough in the year to pay for my expenses. Then I would take 3 or 6 months off and spend that time luxuriating in stillness. I would sit outside and watch the ants carrying bits of leaves to their nest. I would travel to countries just so I could visit cathedrals and sit reverently in a corner. I would get my doctoral degree in psychology and give seminars and teach. I would adopt three little children, two boys and one girl. I would live in a home with few things but many books. 

Some dreams never die. Others molt and become something bigger and more beautiful than we could have imagined. Some dreams come true but it takes us years to realize that what we have taken for granted all along was what kept our soul alive. 

For me, this is writing. And being loved. Above all my dreams, knowing I matter to someone is the best dream of all and I am so thankful for that. So while there are days I feel sad, or jaded, or I cry for no reason, I try to hold onto a little hope that dreams still have meaning. I still have purpose. I have a future. 

Remember the Forgotten

Dear Friends,

I would like to share something with you that I have carried in my heart for the past two years. This has been difficult for me, to remember, and also now to share. I want to start by saying that I forgive you for the oversight and I understand that it was not meant to hurt me in any way, despite how I may have felt.

When I came to this country, I attended all the church social events. Weddings, baby showers, bridal showers, birthday celebrations, farewells and more. I paid for my seat on the minivan, I paid for my meal, and I bought a small gift or contributed to the group gift for the deserving person. In the summer of 2019, I started to plan my own wedding. In the office there was excitement as I was told, several times, that there would be a lovely bridal shower for me. I looked forward to that special milestone as I had been to those of many others before me.

As things worked out, I had my civil and first church wedding in another country. However, I planned a second wedding to take place here so we could share the special day with all our friends, especially each of you. We had a lovely ceremony and a fun reception.

But there never was a bridal shower. I heard later that one friend had asked if there was going to be one, and was shrugged off with the reply, “We don’t know if she will even get married because of the paperwork.” While it is true that the paperwork held things up, I saw one couple have a bridal shower after their wedding, so it was possible to do one after the fact.

I still don’t know who would have planned the bridal shower, if there would have been one. Before, the women’s ministries used to plan it, but then they started leaving it up to the bride’s friends. My best friend was on annual leave, so she couldn’t plan anything, and my bridesmaids all lived in other countries, but I thought there were many others who would step up to fill the gap.

I didn’t expect anything fancy. I didn’t need a theme with matching paper plates and designer cupcakes. I didn’t need a photo booth with props or expensive gifts. I would have been happy with juice, chips, and a cake. With a couple of cheesy games and gag gifts. All I wanted was to be noticed. To feel special. To feel supported. To feel loved.

Maybe you thought that, because I attended a bridal shower for another bride, and during one of the games I was dressed up in a toilet paper wedding gown, that I had been celebrated enough. At a bridal shower for someone else. With a theme that matched what her heart longed for. With gifts for her. With little pieces of paper that everyone could write words of advice on to give to her.

I guess what I really want to say is, I felt forgotten by you. I didn’t miss out on feeling special and loved because I arranged a day, my wedding, where it was expected to express those feelings towards a bride. But I am still sad today because I couldn’t experience that from others organically. I didn’t have a bridal shower. I didn’t have a bachelorette party. I will never have a baby shower.

But I forgive you for forgetting me because I understand. I was not worth your time. And I have learned, once again, that I have a calling to remember those who feel forgotten. Because every person is worthy of notice. Even with a cup of juice, a plate of chips, and a slice of vanilla cake.

Today I Feel Sad

I sit in the right corner of the blue-gray heather sofa, a pink fluffy fleece blanket with white hearts over my legs to keep me from sneezing from the cold. I'm wearing black sweatpants, a blue fleece jumper over my pjs to keep me warm, and I actually manage to brush my hair today. Laptop on my lap, phone by my side, tissues close by for any sneezes, it seems like a regular work-from-home-day. 

Except for the tears that slip silently out of my eyelids and slide down to cling to my chin. Today I feel sad. 

I don't know why. I wake up feeling sad. Actually, mostly angry. I work through my emails, annoyed with all the unnecessary work Reply Alls from colleagues who cannot take a moment to distinguish between the Reply and Reply All button. I am irritated as I try to find a time for a committee that supposedly could meet anytime but actually cannot. I am upset because I greatly dislike my job but I know I am stuck in it for at least another 2 and a half years. I am scared because I don't feel confident enough to find another job where I can find meaning. 

I don't eat anything. My worried husband asks me why I don't eat. You didn't eat breakfast, you didn't eat lunch, what are you going to eat? He brings pita chips and hummus; I shake my head. He suggests spinach pies; there are 2 in the fridge for breakfast today. I shake my head. He tries to tempt me with noodles; I shake my head. I drink half a liter of water because I know my body needs it, but I cannot eat. I feel too sad to eat. 

Outside, the sky is pale blue without a cloud in sight. A breeze keeps the evergreen pine needles dancing. It's a perfect Mediterranean winter day. Not even the weather is cause for sadness. 

In online assembly today, they tribute Refaat. I am thankful for the privacy of our home so I can let the tears fall. I am thankful for a socially acceptable reason to feel sad. But during the second half of assembly, the tears are still falling. And nobody cries during a presentation on vaccines. 

My immediate and extended family are all fine. I have some things I need to take care of, but nothing too urgent or worrisome. I have my health and shelter and food. I have a regular paycheck. There are no outside reasons to be sad. 

I'm not supposed to feel sad. This is not in my nature. Everyone is experiencing difficulties during the coronavirus time and I am no exception. I should just manage the isolation, lack of community events, online church, no social outings, and no friends over for a meal like everyone else is managing. This is the new normal for now and is no reason to feel sad. 

I try to buy a jar of salsa. We go to a grocery store and they actually have it. I look at the price. 16,000 LBP which, on the old exchange rate, is about $10. I miss haystacks. If I want to eat haystacks here, I have to pay 5,000 for a bag of chips, 16,000 for a jar of salsa, 9,000 for a tub of sour cream substitute, 16,000 for a bag of dried pinto beans, 5,000 for avocadoes, 17,000 for cheese, 4,000 for half a of cucumbers, 3,000 for half a kilo of tomatoes, 3,000 for lettuce, and 7,000 for olives. For a total of 85,000. On the old exchange rate, this is $56 and even taking inflation into account, it is $29.50 for a plate of haystacks.

Grocery shopping used to be a joy for me. I always loved going grocery shopping. Before I got my driver's license, I loved the family trip to the store, cold cans of Hansen's Cherry Vanilla Creme soda sitting in the center console as a treat. After I got my license, I loved the 30-minute drive as I sang at the top of my lungs along to Luke Bryan's Crash My Party. I loved finding good deals, bagging clean groceries, watching with eagle eyes to make sure the cashier rang everything up correctly. 

Now, I hate grocery shopping. I still anticipate going, because somehow my brain still hasn't registered what an awful experience it is. From maneuvering around imbeciles who insist on right of way on the road, to trying to find a place to park, to being pushed and shoved in the fresh produce section while the one who prices the vegetables barks at you where you got the items from and promptly rings it up wrong, to searching high and low for a can of corn that doesn't cost $5, it exhausts me. I enter the store excited about stocking up but after about 30 minutes I reach shutdown mode. 

When I shutdown, I literally cannot think anymore. I stand in the grocery aisle, confused as to which brand of laundry detergent to buy, calculating price per unit on my phone but not comprehending the numbers I see. I try so hard to find a good bargain, a reasonable price, even, but it is impossible. I check the prices online for shredded cheese. It's about $5 a pound if you use the new exchange rate but my monthly salary is a third of what I used to make and that is after our salaries were doubled to help us manage the economic collapse. 

My husband asks me, What's wrong? I cannot answer him. Maybe because everything is wrong. Maybe this won't change anytime soon. Maybe I will be sad tomorrow and the day after and the day after. Maybe not. I don't know. 

All I know is that today I feel sad. 

Fleece Blanket

 I feel sad.

Why?

I don't know. I just feel sad.

Okay, try to think of happy things and put on some nice music. We can go for a drive this afternoon.

Okay, I will try. Thank you. 

I sat in my office, wrapped in a purple fluffy blanket to keep warm, Christmas piano music playing softly in the background. My boss had just come in a couple of minutes earlier and asked me to look up the hiring information for an employee. Perhaps my role did consist entirely of searching for an action in the last two years of minutes, minutes that were taken by a person who was presently sitting in his office and could just as quickly look up the information. After the door closed behind him, tears instantly sprang to my eyes. 

I swallowed hard, even as I let a few tears trickle out so as not to overflow the pool that seemed to never run dry. Reaching for a tissue, I dabbed my eyes quickly, worried someone would come in and ask why I was crying. Thankfully I could blame my seasonal allergies and mercifully, nobody knocked, neither did my boss barge through the adjoining door as he was wont to do. After a brief chat exchange with my patient husband who was in an online class, I settled down. I had things to do, after all, and couldn't dissolve into a puddle of tears for the rest of the morning. I took a deep breath, reminded myself that I didn't have to accomplish much today other than showing up and being present, and turned my attention to a small task I knew I could manage. 

The tears have been coming a lot lately. Twice at work last week. Unbidden. Unwanted. Unstoppable. I tell myself I shouldn't feel this way; after all, many others have a much more difficult life than me right now. I have more than enough food to eat and savings while others are struggling just to afford the essentials for their families. I have my health when many with COVID-19 are fighting for breath. 

But it's been a hard year. Lockdowns, economic crises, the pandemic, and on top of the every day life, the unexpected challenges. 

I told my students this morning that God is there with them in the midst of the storm--He is found in the gentle whisper. I am learning that these times are not for hurrying to memorize tomes of Scripture and dehydrate barrels of apples in preparation for the end times. These are times to hold on tightly to God and sit with Him, listening for His quiet gentle voice of comfort. As I reset my pace of life to what I can manage, maybe just waking up one morning with a smile instead of fear, or maybe just sorting files for a morning instead of tackling another difficult project, I am learning to be gentle with myself. To wrap myself in a purple fleece blanket at work so I can feel like I'm being held in comfort. 

It's okay to be sad.  

Some Days I Feel Lost

I remembered that quick turn into a side alley so I was happy to not miss it as the GPS directed me to turn left. Several speed bumps later I was squeezing past a huge white Mercedes as I pulled up and onto the main road. Except the GPS was telling me to go left and I was faced with 3 roads, none of which went left. I froze for a moment, waiting for traffic to pass, until an angry lady stopped in the converging lane and gestured out of her windscreen to move. I made a quick decision and took the immediate right. The GPS automatically redirected me. Into a square. Back to the same place. This time I didn't go into the small alley but instead continued straight. I thought I would be able to turn left but once again I was turning right. I instinctively knew where I had to go but I could not get there. I found myself starting to panic. Traffic was coming at me from all sides. Where should I go? Left? Right? Straight ahead? 

In that moment I had to do what I've had to do several times in the past weeks, or maybe it's months by now. I had to mentally grab ahold of myself, like a parent does with a hysterical toddler, and tell myself firmly, You have to make a decision. I could not freeze in the middle of an extremely busy street. I had to choose a direction and go. So I did. 

Somehow my internal GPS redirected me to the general direction I needed to go and my phone GPS caught up, taking me the final kilometer to where I needed to go. After doing one more turn around the block to find a parking spot, I pulled in to double-park behind another customer at the business. I had reached my destination. 30 minutes to travel 3 kilometers. 

Some days I come to work and my mind shuts down. My husband asked me at lunch today if I had a lot of work to do in the afternoon. I told him I did. I had reports to follow up on, emails, HR-related items, and of course the never-ending inane tasks that seemed to fill my day. I would probably find time to read the daily headlines so I could know which towns were on lockdown and whether I could have 3 or 4 people in my car. I would search desperately for a meme or three to save to my thousand+ collection. I would look out my gigantic picture window at the calm sea and cityscape over which a collection of birds constantly hovered. Then I would shift uncomfortably on my squeaky office chair and resume typing. Typing, typing, typing. Until the next kalapook came to ask me a question and my mind shut down once again. 

The speaker for the week of spiritual emphasis today hacked out the usual Christian cliche--God brings difficult times into your life. He was trying to illustrate the familiar story of Jonah, the runaway prophet. I cringed inwardly, while simultaneously wondering if I was the runaway prophet. I'd been reading Lies Women Believe and battling its concepts that women should be submissive and obedient to show their true commitment to God. Submission = following God. Not following God = difficult times in your life. So apparently I wasn't a good enough Christian because everything was difficult now. 

Not only was I incessantly fighting to manage in a crippled economy, along with the COVID-19 pandemic, I was trying to get answers for personal and work-related issues. From medical to rental to educational issues, I felt like I had been fighting for months with no answers. Difficult times were my norm now. I didn't know what it felt like to just live life and manage the every day things like laundry, changing the oil, or baking a cake. There seemed to be no end in sight. 

Some days I feel lost. I freeze in the middle of the aisle in the fruit and vegetable market because I cannot accept that I should pay $9 for a kilo of persimmons. The only affordable fruit, pears for $4 a kilo, look like they expired a week ago. I start to mentally panic, worried how our bodies will get the nutrition they need. I load up on potato chips, clearly aware they are junk food, but they are the only affordable emotional snack I can find to cope with it all. Then I head to the checkout and breathe a sigh of relief when the bill is below 200,000 LBP. 

This is my reality now. Life consists of mustering enough energy to battle for the simple things. My meager earnings. Food. Medical needs. Timely decisions. Clear communication. I'm no longer striving for perfection. I'm just trying to exist.

I believe in hell. . .on earth, that is

Hell is preferable to this. At least there you know it's over and done with. You burn once and it's not everlasting, like people would have you believe. Not like this life. It just keeps going and going. Without end. Miserable. Without hope. Hell on earth is not such a misnomer after all.

Life is getting difficult. I told someone not too long ago, "Life just gets harder the older you get, so enjoy it now while you can." At the ripe old age of 40, I know what I'm talking about. Of course, living in a third-world pretentious country adds to my resume of expertise.

I landed in the outskirts of Beirut nearly four and a half years ago with Great Expectations. I was coming to relive my teenage dream, to put the broken pieces back together into the Perfect Picture of what my past had not been. I was coming to recapture joy, happiness, and hope. Or so I thought.

Fast forward 2 years and I had acclimatized and adapted along with the best of them. With my limited broken Arabic, I was jetting around the country on public dirty-white buses or taxis driven by chain smokers who wanted to marry me for papers and the price of a Happy Meal. I went to diminutive art galleries, soaked up classical concerts from the balconies or unyielding wooden pews of stone cathedrals, hiked goat paths through orchards bursting with ripe carob and apples, and devoured falafel sandwiches with florescent pink pickled turnips and spicy pickled chili peppers. My local friends were astounded at my comfort and knowledge and I became the unofficial tour guide for out-of-countriers. I was happy. Or so I thought.

Fast forward another year and a half and I was walking down a very short church aisle on my uncle's arm, then two weeks later down a grassy aisle on my brother's arm as my now-husband and I enjoyed the last of three international weddings (the first being the court one). Now came the new adjustments, to life, liberty, and happiness, as I learned to maneuver compromise and the ever-capable tears in dire situations. We set up our first home and discovered we both loved Poirot movies and adventure. I was lost in the happiness of newly-wedded bliss. Or so I thought.

Then the economic crisis blew up, quickly followed by the coronavirus pandemic. I watched my monthly salary lose its value until it was worth less than $200 on the black market, before taxes. I watched prices skyrocket in the supermarket, as we hunted each week for staple items that would keep, and watched our list of favourite food items grow smaller and smaller. Sunflower seeds, a treat to eat while watching a movie, doubled in price and my husband insisted we didn't need to buy them anymore. I'd stocked up a month ago but the bags were quickly disappearing and when they were gone, well, we wouldn't have those to enjoy. A bag of potato chips, half full of air, tripled in price and I learned how to make potato chips from scratch using a frying pan. The only problem was, it took an hour to make.

The fear reflected in everyone's faces started to sink into my psyche and the happiness I'd felt before was gone. There were no more art galleries, concerts, or restaurants to visit. It wasn't safe, health-wise, or affordable. Our entertainment was reduced to movies; our treats to whichever fruit was on sale that week. We were experiencing what it felt to live like in a third-world country and I was not having it. I'd spent my childhood living in primitive conditions and I didn't work hard to find myself back in the same place I'd left so many years before. I was not happy.

I didn't need luxury. I didn't need two cars and a white picket fence. All I asked for was to be able to save a few dollars every month, to take a trip once a year, to be able to buy food and clothes without worrying about the cost, and to have a fun outing every now and then. Simple things. And yet, now impossible.

It's kind of ironic, when you think about it. The Christian is called to live through hell on earth so he won't end up dying in hell at the end of his life on earth. While he has hope of a life afterwards, the reality is that it requires at least 70 years of enduring misery to reach the end. Yes, if the Christian has hope, this can help them to endure. But if they don't. Well, then. It just becomes a never-ending nightmare of struggling to exist, waiting for it to all end. Because the good Christian always accepts life as coming from God's hand, so therefore any and all misery is dictated to us for our own good. Or so they say.

I used to wonder why people didn't believe in God. I didn't realize there is also the opposite side of that. There are those who don't believe in hell. They think this life is all there is to it and when they die, they float away into oblivion. I guess they are the lucky ones, then. They haven't experienced hell on earth. I have. . .