Met my Deadline, the fanfare sounds hollow

(Current background on all my devices courtesy of Knit picks with slight modification by me)

So I finally met my deadline. Yay I got my two thousand word essay submitted on time, just barely.

When coming up to a deadline does anyone else feel the pressure building and building and building… no one? Just me? *flops down with a dramatic sigh*

In a way I think I normally thrive on that pressure. The tension builds up, and I bolster myself by looking forward to that feeling of relief and joy that I usually get as soon as the essay has been submitted. However today that feeling was nowhere to be found, I submitted my paper in turnitin and I just felt like okay. That’s good. You got it done… okay.

Things just rang a bit hollow. You know? I talked myself into doing a little happy dance, just because one of my commitments to myself is to celebrate milestones along the way.

I’m wondering if the recent chapter in my life’s story book beginning its conclusion overshadowed my joy. Im not sure because in terms of that I feel very much at peace and have a deep sense of clarity and acceptance.

Maybe I pushed myself too hard towards the end and my brain just needs a reset. That happens quite often. I mean as much effort as I put into the planning, and as much as that made theessay writing easier, I did still end up writing up about one thousand eight hundred of those words between the hours of 1pm and 3:52 pm this afternoon. That’s pretty radical when i think about it.

Hmm, okay I’ve got it now. Writing is such an illuminating process. My conclusion and introduction were both very rushed, and I have a sense that they may bring my grade down, however a late submission would mean an automatic 5% deduction of my mark. So I chose to submit on time. My takeaway? Even if you have a great planning strategy, you still need to factor in time to write, proofread, and submit your essay.

Ah it’s good to have gotten a handle on my internal thouggt process through writing this. .

All day I just noticed myself being a bit slower, slightly more thoughtful, so very aware of my need in front of my Rabb, and grateful for the small things. Whilst these are all good things not being able to put my finger on why was sloghtly agitating.

Now I can happily get bavk to be grateful for things like taking my kids to nursery and not needing to lug the buggy up and down three flights of stairs, my youngest bubba is getting to be a big boy ๐Ÿ˜ญ๐Ÿ˜ญAlhamdulillah

Take care

Azeezat Adeola,

Fine words weave

P.s. another commitment to myself is to get some writing on this blog once a week. At the very least.

Week 1 โœ…

Welcome to the world

Alhamdulillahi rabbil alamin, All praise and gratitude is due to Allah the Lord of all the worlds. Just over a week ago the new addition to our family was delivered safely into this world. I can not adequately express what a privilege, honour, and humongous blessing it is to become a parent once more. How awed and humbled I am that this honour was written for me again.

It is not possible to thank God sufficiently for all the blessings that He bestows on His creation, but it is possible to try and remember to be grateful always.

Alhamdulillah.

This poem has renewed significance.

My Lord is All-Aware.

Thank you for taking the time to read these musings, take care. Posts might slow down a bit as we get settled in.

Lots of love and hopes for your peace in this life and the next,

Azeezat

โค๏ธโœจโค๏ธ

Hospitalisation and How it Affected my Writing

I was looking back at some old blog posts on a different host site, and I stumbled across a long forgotten post from Novemeber 2010. In it I wrote

…So that’s what’s been going on with me. Well that and a stint in hospital, which I think had completely broken me.

I’ve not been able to write anything, which in turn has led me to be upset… but I just don’t feel things the way I used to. It’s weird and horrible, and I hope no one has to feel the way I feel.

My sense of humour has totally changed. Things I found funny before are now not nearly as funny. I have officially become an unenthusiastic person. It bites and I don’t know how to change it, or how to feel things anymore.

I’m not asking why. I accept that this is something that has had to happen, because it did actually happen, I just wanna know what to do about it.

Reading this seven years later and being confronted with that former version of myself is hard. My heart swells and remembers the faint echo of its old wounds whilst reading this post.

It was written shortly after I was sectioned under the mental health act and hospitalised. I am someone who is pretty open about this having been part of my life experience, though I feel where I come from, both from a cultural and religious standpoint, there is still at times a stigma attached to mental health problems, and being open about difficulties people face in that regard. I stand by my resolve to be open about my experience though, because it is through sharing, open discussion, and sincere reflection, that I believe we all learn, develop, and reach new levels of compassion and understanding.

What is very weird though, is that I’d forgotten that my writing slump coincided with my being sectioned. Prior to being sectioned, I would spend countless nights losing sleep because I was pouring out a new story idea, or working on a new poem, or just scribbling my feelings out in a journal. After being sectioned I just couldn’t do it. I tried, I tried to force myself to keep writing, I even attempted NaNoWriMo from my room on the triage ward, but it just didn’t pan out.

For perhaps the majority of my life words and writing have been places of refuge for me; from spending summers folding a4 sheets of paper in half, stapling them in the middle and designing books, writing endless stories fuelled by a youthful imagination, to journalling during my time in boarding school, even those angst filled poems that littered my teenage years. However, in the midst of one of my most difficult life experiences, that tool and solace was lost to me.

It was not that I couldn’t access writing, it’s just there was something off about it, even now it’s so hard to express this in a way that makes sense. It was almost as though in the same way that my self confidence had withered away during my time in hospital, the creativity I normally overflowed with when it came time to put my fingers to the keyboard or even pen to paper had shrivelled up too. I can still remember the desperate struggle to write, how huge of a mental block there seemed to be, how it was almost as though I’d lost not only the capacity to express myself, but also the will to do so. I believe this is very much a parallel to how things stood for me at that time mentally too. It took a lot of work to get back on an even keel, Alhamdulillah! I do feel that this experience, as much as it knocked me down, was useful in that it was a way to start rebuilding myself with a stronger foundation.

Eventually, painstakingly slowly my love of writing did return. I started of with a journal, a hot pink faux leather bound lined notebook; no dates or days, just blank lined pages a year after I left hospital. I didn’t write every day, in fact weeks would go by and I wouldn’t pick up my pen at all. When I did write, I would write a sentence here, a paragraph there, and there were a lot of days where I couldn’t find the motivation to get out of bed, talk less of the mental effort it took to pick up a pen and organise my thoughts enough to write what I was feeling.

I kept writing though. A new year started and I was still using that same hot pink diary… occasionally. Gradually I was recovering, and so was my writing. Things were not exactly the same, just as I had been altered by my experiences, I believe my writing was too. At times writing can still be a challenge, but I am so grateful that it wasn’t lost to me forever.

To anyone who’s found that mental health issues have negatively impacted their writing I wanted to just put this out there, don’t lose hope. It can come back, it may not be the same, but the challenging things that we go through in life don’t have to forever be dark ink blots on the pages of our life stories, we have the capacity to grow from and learn from our experiences. To transform the inkblots into fantastic illustrations of growth and starting points for change.

Lots of love

Gentleness only beautifies a thing

I think one of the things that we as muslims, especially muslim parents have to realise is that we must not be oppressors. Especially when it comes to our children, they have so many rights over us! They have been entrusted into out care by the Creator of the heavens and the earth.

And yes it’s a constant struggle (jihad ul nafs) to remain patient, and considerate, and respectful but it’s important to remember that raising a child is an act of worship (ibadah), it’s important to reflect and renew our intentions, to aim for the best we can do (ihsan), and to be humble respectful and not feel like you cannot apologise when you slip up asking forgiveness from them and also istighfar.

Look at our examples, look at the beautiful respectful and gentle way rasulallah salallahu alayhi wa salaam treated the young people around him.
One only needs to look to the seerah and hadith to see that he was extremely merciful, and patient when it came to children.

I’ll be the first to admit that I do struggle with this, so this really is a reminder to myself first and foremost. I pray Allah makes our hearts soft, and blesses us with patience, mercy, and compassion for all of the youth. Gentleness only beautifies a thing. ๐Ÿ’•

๏ปฟMotherhood Musingsย 

I love bedtime. Not my bedtime, but my little one’s bed time. 

It’s the time when the toys on the floor get cleaned up, and with them the possibility of stubbing your toe one more time on a wooden block. 

It usually happens after hubby gets home. It’s the time my working day ends … Well sort of, as a mother does your working day ever really end? Your ears are always alert to the cry that lets you know that duty calls once more. (Phrasing it like that, makes mums sound like superheroes).

For me the best bits about bedtime are bath time, and night time nursing.

I love the playful giggles of bath time, and the peacefulness of bedtime nursing. 

The lights are off and the baby smells of coconut oil, warm and snuggled in closely, peacefully nursing (unlike day time feeds ๐Ÿ˜†) and then soon enough he’s drifting off to sleep, perhaps clutching my arm or t-shirt. 

These days the the slow and quiet snugly baby moments are few and far between. At just shy of 11 months old, our baby is a non-stop, always moving, emphatically babbling,  pretty tiring, tiny person. He’s got so much personality, and makes me laugh in wonder and amazement, and at other times cry in frustration or exasperation.

There is so much that is difficult about motherhood, so much that is exhausting, and so much that is emotionally wearing, at the same time there is so much that is rewarding, so much that is empowering and uplifting, and so much about being a mother that fills my heart. 

Alhamdulillah 

All praise and thanks is due to God