Late Sunrise

You came. You came late but you came. My sunrise was late to etch that smile. It was too short but you came. You looked at me with the same adoring smile. You brought serenity with you. I have missed you so much I forged my dreams. Thank you Allah for that momentarily grace. Her sweet-loving smile hugs me now.

Al-Fatihah

Plan B

I missed August. In between the what-if and whatnot, I forgot to word August. It was in short, a conundrum of blessings. Alia was home and the four of us managed through an Eid together after four years of misplacing the globe. Alhamdulillah. We welcomed Eid this year by celebrating her 21st birthday. She has, if not always, been walking under the blessings of His grace. I miss you already.

So, how are you readers? (Cricket cricket). I apologize on the lack of sharing. Not too sure what was I occupied with but I blame Shawal. “Keep on writing,” she said. I thank her for giving me that wakeup call. I had forgotten how comforting this blank page is. I was recently downed with a remark on how awful my writing was, which – in defense – was not entirely crafted from the nook of my noggin. Although it was funny how the critic made a few grammatical errors, herself. A lesson well learned. Thank you.

I hope all is well with you. My daily lift-me-up these days – “The only thing constant in life is change”. Change is the unconscious act of purifying your intention and the conscious act of optimizing your potential.

Tomorrow

I miss them. I miss him
Albeit dimming memories
I miss her, so I
Envelop myself completely

;Sometimes. I wish they’d
Visit

in the unseen,
untouched but

a lasting security.




Al-Fatihah

You Make Time

“You make time, not excuses,” he said.

I was yapping about finding the right time to write – the right time for another milestone. I was silenced. No, I could not possibly be busier than him. What excuse do I have making a detour from accomplishing my dream? I’m privileged. In so many ways I’m privileged and I should be humbled to share. To give is never less than to receive.

I know I’m wee later than the thingamajig of father’s day but I’m making the time now to perhaps bid you goodnight or good morning with an appreciation – to thank the man who deserves more than words for his sacrifices and love. The man who will always see me as his two year-old and will make the most out of his time to ensure that I live a happy life.

“I know, I mark your words,” he said. I was silenced, again. I shared the news with my parents first. My breakfast with the editor was enlightening. We bonded over coffee, of course. I was always en route to name myself a writer but I was never a step ahead in making it a reality.

“Please hone the skill because it’s few and far between to find good writers these days,” said the editor. God is great and a father’s prayers promises. Ayah is a man of less word. He is that man whose action speaks louder than words. If a mother has her instincts, my father just knows when I am in distress. When I was miles away trying to toughen myself up, ayah would intuitively text me “I love you. I’m proud of you.”

I know I have not done enough to make him proud but I also know that my father will never give up on me. Thank you ayah. May Allah reward you handsomely hereafter. Happy father’s day.

Caffeinating Your Query

“You’re a coffee addict,” he said. I put down the latte and smiled at him. “How did it start?” I let out a shy laugh. I swiveled my chair facing him and we took a five with my journey of being a coffee addict. “I was in college and I needed something to keep me awake,” I said.

I had the privilege of pursuing my degree in the United States. In the land of opportunities I saw a door welcoming me to the world of caffeine wonders. Sipping a cup of latte is seen a lifestyle rather than a quotidian necessity in Malaysia. One cup is too fancy for a local who enjoys a mug of kopi at the mamak. “Why should I pay more? It is still coffee,” dad said. I was in my final semester at the University of Iowa and my courses compromised of mostly English studies. It was hard not to hold a cup of coffee while your instructor holds a cup in a hand and a marker pen in the other. “It’s like you wake up and you take a shower. It’s necessary,” I said trying to ease his puzzlement. It is essential to induce some caffeine in you to kick-start the day or your body will be at lethargy without it. My colleague was even more confused.

Caffeine increases attention and alertness as I Googled the dos and don’ts of caffeine. True. It decreases fatigue as it increases metabolic rate. Spot on. However, it creates anxiety and addiction, which explains my hyperactive reaction when I have too many for a day. I have managed to control my caffeine consumption to one cup a day. I first noticed my hands were shaky and I befriended the restroom too amiably when I consume two or three cups a day. To reduce the daily need however was unjustifiable when I was in the States. A dollar to a ringgit, a regular cup is equivalent to a mug at the mamak. We even get free flow of Starbucks at the library every exam week, no kidding. It was not an addiction but rather an essential.

w

“Why not tea?” I was more Americanized in that manner. I stumbled upon articles that magnify the good of coffee, “it reduces the risk of cancer”. It was mostly cold in Iowa City and being born in the tropics, coffee is an instant heat because even a bubble jacket fails to give you enough warmth. “That seems legit,” he said. Coffee houses were an alternative to do homework when the library is too crowded. You’ll find people having rendezvous in between the MacBooks that project lecture notes. It is a refuge to charge your dying laptop as oppose to the coffee houses in Malaysia. It was to me, a place of comfort. Finding Starbucks at home is like finding the many coffee houses in the States – a familiar feeling. I was getting attached with that necessity it was challenging to talk myself out of the addiction when I returned home last year.

“You’re holding a cup!” I commented. My sister was never a fan.

“You’re in its territory, you’ll succumb,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s a mocha. Still some chocolate in it,” she said.

I liked her Instagram post recently at the first Starbucks store in Seattle.

It hurts my expenses but an addiction remains an addiction. Bags of green tea to detox the addiction and a hefty of willpower to ignore its need but I know well my body screams for it. It’s bad enough to be addicted but I refuse to call it a bad influence. It was a friend to me when I was uninspired and lonely with a blank page. “That’s some love for coffee,” he said. “You once tried to give up coffee and replaced caffeine with crying spontaneously,” item 41 from 50 Signs You’re a Coffee Addict by Thought Catalog. I couldn’t agree more.

Mother

I was 14 and my English teacher applauded my essay. “You should all have a read,” she said. I stood in front of the class holding an inscription of Mother. 10 years later, I write, if not daily every now and then to relive that day. If not for Mother, I may not have been of a perusal. Continuum is birthed today to encapsulate the yesteryears of blogging and to magnify the good that writing has had on me. Today is a beautiful excuse to celebrate a reader – my mother – who has never left a writer through her discovery of verbal marvels.

We were in the car last night and mom told me she read of mother’s day to soon be discontinued from celebration in Malaysia. We sneered. The amplified celebration was always on birthdays. My mom and her elder sister will go all length to commemorate the birth date of their children. None of us was left out. I doubt we each remember the gifts we received every year but I know the education was to understand that an act of giving is worth more than receiving. So are we soon discontinuing birthday celebrations? “Niat kita tu penting,” she said.

Mom teaches. She educates. She brings down the wall that pauses kids from jumping off cliffs. Some of us are afraid of the unknown without inquiring the known. “You should be thankful for the exposure that you have,” she said. On a recent day, she told her students to be ashamed because even her daughter who has no professional background in videography won third in a competition. She was proud. “That is why you and Alia are always pushed beyond your limits,” she reminded.

“They don’t have the privileges that you and your sister have,” she said. We’re all a student who teeters the grading seesaw once. We know how difficult a teacher can be. I had a lecturer in UiTM who only showed up 20% of his classes in one semester. Then I had a teaching assistant who graded Muslim students poorly. How many do we know truthfully teach for the sake of education? How many do we know inspire us to better ourselves and to give back in any way we could? “Syaza, the essay on your late grandmother was so tender I cried,” Rachel wrote to me. Mom was more than proud.

“You’re a good daughter I cannot deny that,” she paused.

“I am your mother and my job to remind you will not retire.”

Thank you mak. The many essays that I’ve written on mothers will never measure up to the time you spent carrying me in your womb, the time you sacrificed to provide me with a wealth of knowledge and the time you endlessly pray for my wellbeing. It may be today that we emphasize on celebrating our mothers but it may be today that God grants our prayers for His grace and blessings on them this life and hereafter.

A special wish to my mak lang, who is a mother more than an aunt to me.

Happy Mother's Day. God bless.