Inshallah is an Arabic word meaning "God willing". Arabs use it with the frequency Valley Girls afford "like" or Paris Hilton uses "hot". It follows any and every statement about the future; everything from a preditiction about the weather to getting into the college of your choice. It was not uncommon for my Teta to say things like "when you pick me up for church in two hours, insh'allah, we'll go to the McDonalds", or "Insh'allah, I'll be home in time to watch Urkel." My grandmother loooooved Urkel. Point being, there was no point in talking about the future unless you were guarding against potential tragedy at every turn. It was not in one's best interest to temp fate, or God, or whatever, by being presumptious in your prediction about whether or not you were having chicken salad for lunch.
But there is another side to insh'allah, and the one that I wish to discuss today. Insh'allah also carries with it the promise of things being out of your hands in a refreshing and hopeful way. Insh'allah reminds you that there is a force greater than you out there, and it is calling the shots. You can make recommendations, you can pray, you can express preferences at how you want your life to go, but at the end of the day, yours is not the final say. It's not about fate, in the Greek sense that you can't change your destiny, it's just a subtle reminder that life will unfold in the way it is supposed to, and you can choose to give yourself over to that flow, or you can beat your head against a wall trying to force life to fit the predetermined plan you made.
When people ask me about my faith in God, it is my Teta and insh'allah that I think of; her steadfast trust and absolute certainty that our lives were filled with purpose and meaning remains my center. My grandmother was what one might call a "determined" woman, although "relentless and single-minded in purpose" might be more accurate. Despite her stubborness, even she was able to offer herself up to whatever was to happen next. Knowing that you have tried your hardest and given your best there is nothing left to do but release it to powers greater than yourself. Hers was an incredible, adventurous, astonishing life, in part because of her sheer force of will, and in part because of her willingness to surrender it.
Suprisingly, control-freak that I am, I find this concept very encouraging. Sometimes when I get all in a tizzy and freak out about what is happening next or where I'm going or what I'm doing with my life, I remember the simple philosophy contained in insh'allah. Right now is one of those insh'allah moments. I don't know where I'll be next year, I don't know what my living situation is going to be for the next 6 months, I don't know if I'll like the schools I've gotten into or whether or not I'll be able to handle life without my friends. Hell, I don't even know if law school is the right decision for me right now. But it's ok. Or it will be ok. It has to be. Life has a multitude of choices; there are any number of potential paths any of us could take in order to be happy and successful in this life. Some are better than others, without a doubt, but how are we to know which those are before we explore them?
So, when i start to panic about what happens next, I remind myself to take a deep breath and say insh'allah. God willing, it will all be just as it should be.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
The Obligatory Valentine's Day Post
sigh.
I don't really want to talk about Valentine's day, and not because I'm single and have no Valentine and not because it's a media inspired bullshit frenzy, but mostly because it's such a non-event. I literally don't care, and yet, I have to comment on it. It's the type of thing we sassy, clever girls are expected to comment on, perhaps with insight on the sexual habits of the modern man. I think I have written plenty about the sexual habits of the modern man, and they are both repugnant and confusing. For reference, please see my earlier posts "Yak Balls" and "the Hooter" (Actually, that would be a good cover-band name, as in "Yak Balls and the Hooter playing your favorite hits by Air Supply"). Since then the cavalcade of the bizarre and awful has not ceased, not do I see it coming to a close anytime in the near future. I keep dating, and they keep getting weirder. In fact, the absolute worst Valentine's Day I've had was when I was with someone. He bought me flowers from Rainbow. Rainbow, people! The grocery store. I had to pretend to be excited about some yellow carnations and a daisy. Then he had a panic attack in the middle of the event we were at and ruined not only my night, but the nights of most of my friends. And there was no sex. On Valentine's Day. Not that I was remotely attracted to him after that ridiculous display, but it was the principle of the thing. Needless to say that was the beginning on the end.
I don't get it up for little candy hearts, pink makes me think of pepto bismal and I think red roses are the quintessential example of male creative deficiency. In fact, when I worked at the hotel I delivered so very many dozens of red roses to rooms on birthdays, anniversaries and Valentine's Day that I swore to myself that if a man ever gave me a dozen red roses I would dump his ass for his shear lack of originality. That was before I got what were basically gas station flowers- now I have amended my vehemence to say I would appreciate them, then gently guide him to other flower choices as our relationship blossomed. Ahem. My point is that you can't just throw a red bunch of petals at a girl and expect her to get all hot and bothered.
I'm not bitter, I'm not sad, I'm bored with it all. Maybe I'm so bored with it because this year has really tried my whole patience with the two-cats-in-the-yard-married-with-three-point-two-runny-nosed-brats bull. For reasons passing understanding I have been made witness to the dark and ugly side of many a marriage (no waymy, I don't mean you guys), and would frankly rather be single and self-aware than married and clueless. At least I know what I'm up to. It's pretty hard to lie to yourself about where you are at night. But more than that, I'm really enjoying being single, having no one to answer to and no one to please or worry about. Maybe that's selfish, but I don't care. And really, no it isn't selfish. It would be selfish if I behaved that way and was with someone. So, it's good that I'm being selfish in my solitude.
Just remember: St. Valentine was martyred by the Romans... let that be a lesson to your cookie-bouquet giving selves.
I don't really want to talk about Valentine's day, and not because I'm single and have no Valentine and not because it's a media inspired bullshit frenzy, but mostly because it's such a non-event. I literally don't care, and yet, I have to comment on it. It's the type of thing we sassy, clever girls are expected to comment on, perhaps with insight on the sexual habits of the modern man. I think I have written plenty about the sexual habits of the modern man, and they are both repugnant and confusing. For reference, please see my earlier posts "Yak Balls" and "the Hooter" (Actually, that would be a good cover-band name, as in "Yak Balls and the Hooter playing your favorite hits by Air Supply"). Since then the cavalcade of the bizarre and awful has not ceased, not do I see it coming to a close anytime in the near future. I keep dating, and they keep getting weirder. In fact, the absolute worst Valentine's Day I've had was when I was with someone. He bought me flowers from Rainbow. Rainbow, people! The grocery store. I had to pretend to be excited about some yellow carnations and a daisy. Then he had a panic attack in the middle of the event we were at and ruined not only my night, but the nights of most of my friends. And there was no sex. On Valentine's Day. Not that I was remotely attracted to him after that ridiculous display, but it was the principle of the thing. Needless to say that was the beginning on the end.
I don't get it up for little candy hearts, pink makes me think of pepto bismal and I think red roses are the quintessential example of male creative deficiency. In fact, when I worked at the hotel I delivered so very many dozens of red roses to rooms on birthdays, anniversaries and Valentine's Day that I swore to myself that if a man ever gave me a dozen red roses I would dump his ass for his shear lack of originality. That was before I got what were basically gas station flowers- now I have amended my vehemence to say I would appreciate them, then gently guide him to other flower choices as our relationship blossomed. Ahem. My point is that you can't just throw a red bunch of petals at a girl and expect her to get all hot and bothered.
I'm not bitter, I'm not sad, I'm bored with it all. Maybe I'm so bored with it because this year has really tried my whole patience with the two-cats-in-the-yard-married-with-three-point-two-runny-nosed-brats bull. For reasons passing understanding I have been made witness to the dark and ugly side of many a marriage (no waymy, I don't mean you guys), and would frankly rather be single and self-aware than married and clueless. At least I know what I'm up to. It's pretty hard to lie to yourself about where you are at night. But more than that, I'm really enjoying being single, having no one to answer to and no one to please or worry about. Maybe that's selfish, but I don't care. And really, no it isn't selfish. It would be selfish if I behaved that way and was with someone. So, it's good that I'm being selfish in my solitude.
Just remember: St. Valentine was martyred by the Romans... let that be a lesson to your cookie-bouquet giving selves.
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