The Greatest Rewards

5 Ramadhan, 1438

Thinking back to this date in my personal history twenty years ago, it occurs to me that I seemed to know then with absolute certainty that the commitment I was making was so utterly and entirely right for me that it was hardly worth thinking about too deeply. It just had to be, and that was it. I have no real understanding of how exactly I knew that then, but I'm glad I did because I was absolutely correct - a rare state of affairs in my life.

So today has been a day of quiet celebration of that fact, as, I suppose, is every day in its own way.

The Rewards

4 Ramadhan, 1438

Realised with particular force in the course of the day just how often I reward myself as a matter of routine for getting things done. I was marking essays for IB and decided to divide the day's load into batches of five at a time. Now a batch of five is not exactly easy. It requires effort to remain focused on each script and it's physically tough to keep the body positioned optimally for all five. But, having said that, it's not so terribly difficult once you accept the need to just get the necessary done - and it is very necessary with a deadline looming before the end of the week.

The problem I had turned out to be of the mental rather than the physical variety. After each batch my body demanded a cup of tea as a reward. And, of course, it didn't get that cup, not until after Maghrib, that is. But what struck me each time was the sense that it was a demand being sent out, not a request. And it had a distinctly infantile quality about it. When I didn't get the tea I felt distinctly, pointlessly sulky. And very sorry for myself.

It's a painful truth when you confront the infant within and realise just how often life is based around assuaging its demands. Fasting helps you grow up, just a little bit.

Getting Through

3 Ramadhan, 1438

What with needing to help ensure the smooth running of an early morning lecture, meeting a colleague to discuss the marking of some on-going work, getting on with marking for the IB in order to meet an approaching unreasonable deadline, and rehearsing for our forth-coming production, this wasn't a day I was looking forward to. The fact that I'm still adjusting to the fast adding a further layer of uncertainty to my general sense of discomfort.

In the event things went, mercifully, not just well but very well indeed and, to my surprise, I found myself enjoying almost every minute - the only exception being the hour or so in the early afternoon when I conked out. I'm sure I enjoyed the brief kip, but just can't remember.

To celebrate all this, having finished my marking I'm now listen to Maestro Morricone's score for The Mission and wondering why I only mildly enjoyed it upon its release. This listening has taken me to Paradise, well the lower circles I suppose. Utterly gorgeous.

Coming Second

2 Ramadhan, 1438

No major headache today, so it looks like adjustment is setting in, mercifully so. It usually does, but you can't simply take such relief for granted. A wonderfully relevant reminder of one's vulnerability, one of the great gifts of the season.

A long way to go. Good. I need the lessons ahead, even those I've learnt before.

First Things First

1 Ramadhan, 1438

You need a bowl of chicken porridge like this one, on the first day of fasting, I sagely observed to the Missus, supplier of said bowl, just now as I got to grips with its formidable contents. What you don't need is what I acquired around about noon, in the middle of a rehearsal, a clanging headache. Actually it wasn't clanging in the rehearsal, but definitely there, if you know what I mean. And it wasn't caused by the rehearsal, which was of the non-headachy variety.

I don't know, in truth, what caused it, but by 3.00 pm it was clanging on a super-scale and continued to do so through all my marking of the afternoon and early evening. Noi conjectured it was brought on by the thoughts of all the work I needed to do, despite embarking on the fast, and she may well be right. By the way, I'd rather put work out of the way and focus on the demands of the season, but in my world that luxury doesn't exist. Fortunately I have the mild deprivations of Ramadhan to remind me of all the other luxuries so easily, readily, thoughtlessly accessed that I forget they are luxuries. Until a headache usefully reminds me.

Selamat berpuasa! to all who are able to learn those same first vital lessons.

The Centre Cannot Hold

The last few days have been a struggle, and the struggle is set to continue into the few ahead. It isn't that there's one single thing I need to do that's causing that familiar sense of being ever-so-slightly overwhelmed, a sense of needing to come up sometimes for a mouthful of air before becoming immersed once more in whatever it is that urgently needs to be done. In fact, each single thing is no big deal. But dealing with the confluence that comprises the urgent necessities of my working life is wearing, to say the least.

The irony is that I'm officially on holiday.

An Interesting Time

Was chatting with Peter this evening and we got talking about fasting month. I was trying to explain something of what the experience was like and, as always, failed to do justice to its fascinating richness. Why is it that a taste of what is, after all, deprivation should prove so rewarding? The older I get, the more paradoxical life becomes, which is, in itself, more than a little interesting.

The Wrong Side

Moody's bio of Ezra Pound, well, the first volume that is, is the real deal. Helps you into an appreciation of the poetry, even the stuff that isn't so appealing at first glance, and is engrossing on the life without being intrusive. Avoids reading back the later political tragedy into the young Pound, who comes over as a fairly decent bloke, especially with money, even if a bit odd. I haven't got the second volume yet, not even sure it's in paperback, but it's on auto-buy when I find out how to get hold of it. What happened after 1920 to so momentously screw the guy up? Or were the seeds of dumb fascism there all along? Darned if I can see them anywhere in the pre-Great War Ezra.

Frightening to think that we might just turn out to have been on the wrong side of history after the dust has settled, when we were so sure of our righteousness.

Close To Home

Woke up to the breaking news of the attack at the Arena, and came home to hear just how awful it was in terms of the fatalities and casualties - and how it was basically kids affected. Watching the pictures from areas I know so well and learning of the grim horror enacted there was painful. But just the tiniest fraction of the pain being felt by so many back in Manchester & environs. A couple of reporters used the term 'heart-breaking' - and it was.

Still Walking

On my little walk yesterday to Holland Village I got to thinking about some of the hill-walking I'd done back in the UK before the years of exile. The last serious jaunt had been with Tony, some time in the late 80s, but I can't for the life of me remember the route and location. All the serious planning was in the hands of the expert. But I recall being in reasonable condition at the time - still playing for Whiston FC and running fairly regular half marathons. I managed the walk with some ease and huge enjoyment.

And it occurred to me yesterday that had I not upped and left the UK, about a couple of years after that particular walk, I think, I would have become something of a regular, probably walking solo. It strikes me as something I was bound to end up doing, essentially because of the sense of freedom I found in any walk over any reasonable distance. But that was a future not taken.

Do I regret the loss of that alternative self - the solitary, rugged, walker of the fells? No, not at all. Partly because that self wasn't really lost but channelled in other directions. I think I know where he is now. But one thing's for sure. If we do relocate to the UK for any length of time in the near future, he'll be out walking wherever he gets the chance to roam.