BELONGING TO AN EXCLUSIVE TRIBE

Tumultuous days of questions, answers; more questions, more answers that require  finding the correct truth; however hard to accept.

If you were born  on a high platform of social significance but wish to seek  normalcy like the rest of the population; by nature and rules of societal law that this is denied because you are what you come from.  Perhaps better explained that  you carry with you your ancestral heritage.  Your parental heritage dictates who you are; what you are allowed to do; hence follow your path without anger, disappointment and dutifully take your place where you belong.   Tearing off to do your own thing, whether it be philanthropical,  believing in another faith, or simply marrying into another tribe, changes the "belonging" that we all seem to covet.

I found that hard to swallow.  

Anthropology studies tells us we are tribal.  Bringing in beliefs  sanctioned by elders who are deemed wise and knowledgable suggests continuity of sustained tradition.  Whether it be those that perform circumcision to young unflinching pubescent teenage boys in Nigeria, ritualistic ceremonial requirements of being a tough "man"  belonging to the Masaai Tribe.   Not doing the painful cutting leaves you out of the tribe so necessary to fit in.    

Most significantly India's caste system  is a set of "prescribed unequal laws for different castes based upon their status in society" and it "justifies the caste system as the basis of order and regularity of society".  Unfortunately Hindu's have no opportunity to marry into a different social group, so are confined to their caste group for life. Social climbing the  ladder from the lower castes were impossible so they remained where the were, stalling economic progress.    Only Gautama Buddha sort to do the reverse of climbing down in order to find Nirvana.

Simply what seems to be the bone in my throat?   

I come from a certain tribe that reminds me of my conduct and behaviour at all times. While it behoves me to follow the correct path, the temptation to step out of those guidelines continually persists and in the end  I did follow my heart.   The struggle to keep everything balanced  became an art form and my survival instinct sharpened to conduct my journey with grace.   Because of such belief in freedom of rights and privilege, I genuinely feel for anyone wishing to step in the public domain of service to the country, whether it be religious or political, when it is forbidden by whatever laws and familial codes of conduct. 

Finally I was given an answer I could stomach.  It was a simple answer to my voluminous thought provoking question:

"Freedom to choose our hearts desire is ultimate in the path of progress however seen to be disrespectful or against tradition."  

My homage lies in those that try, paving the way for others to seek advancement in developmental growth.

HEAVEN

I live in a country where the women are exotic, the food world renowned, the temples spiritual, a traveler's utopia (or hell,  should you abandon your senses).  

Here you can find anything from US's low-end fastfood Taco Bell to UK's Jamie Oliver's  restaurant - or the bipolar effect of Michelin Star sky-high restaurant to entrancing car-fumed  Street Food.   

Butterkuchen

 

Linzen torte

 

 

Brownie Crisps

 

Clafoutis

But to find the most delectable and authentic home made European cakes;  like Austria's LinzenTorte, French's  Clafoutis, or Germany's  Butterkuchen all emanating from a Thai kitchen in metropolitan Bangkok is unusual.  An assortment of a variation of Brownies that became wafer thin crisps takes on
another kind of kind of  


decadence sipped with mid morning Cappuccino.
 
For the Chef d'Patisserie did not graduate from any elitist Cordon Bleu in Paris, or Castello di Vicarello in Tuscany or even Edelweiss Cooking School in Austria;  but as an accomplished Asian Pianist with a teaching degree from the University of Music and the Performing Arts in Vienna.

Not only can she play the piano with precision but suffocated teaching Beethoven's Fur Elise to the likes of me. She uses the skill of precision, tried and tested, practice until perfect, (much like her dedication to music);  to the delight of  family and friends the pastries she creates. 

Decades of friendship; countless cookies, dozens of brownies, endless tortes later;  she still refuses to give her recipes.  Our friendship remains intact despite my pleas, enticing her with novel presents and even writing this accolade of addictive pastries; her secret recipe stays secret.   If my addiction rears its ugly head, all I have to do is ring her. 

All you readers have to do is direct message me, to taste these exquisite delectables; from wherever you are.   My naughty way of getting her to give me her recipe.   It might just work.

CANABIS THAT CURES

Listening to John Lennon's "Imagine" in my locked bedroom suite, the smoke filled room distinctly smelling of sweet cloying odour of MaryJane.   

A flower power 70's chic with long, waist-length hair stopping  just six inches above the hem of  a miniskirt lost in a world of  envied calm, cool  inner peace.  With all the wisdom a 16 year old can possess, I learnt to disregard parental control; dismiss scolding older siblings; minimise familial duties and enjoyed the world of dopamine enticed by marijuana to the sounds of Lennon's "Oh my Love" and Three Dog Night's "One is the loneliest Number".

How epically heaven that year became.   I seemed to have sailed through high school with Grade A in everything but the ridiculousness  of Algebra.  Hot on the agenda were boys, boys and boys; induced by weeded home-made brownies and the natural sensuality I seemed to possess in large quantities.  My poor mama, she must have gone mental with worry.

Decades later, taken on motherhood, came with worries over crack, cocaine, and crystal meth circulating my teenage son's lives; subsequently I became the authoritarian disciplinarian controlling adult I had so despised as a child. Unwittingly happy hour for me was a double-scotch on the rocks; several doubles later, the hypocrisy was embarrassingly ridiculous.

Somewhere between yoga, palates and quinoa avocado salad lifestyle, the sun-downer double-scotch on the rocks tradition faded; to be paired with freshly squeezed pomegranate juice and a drop of CBD oil to calm all aches and pains.

Legalising medical marijuana is now a subject of much debate.   Far ahead of the times, along California's Venice beach, medical marijuana shops are wedged between surf board equipment rentals, and hamburger joints.  Although lagging behind; Thailand's forward thinkers are pushing giant pharmaceutical companies to the side with forceful medical results in easing cancer pain, MS conditions and multitude of ailments enough that the Government is loosening its tight grip

A son of a dear departed friend, whose unfortunate luck was struck with multiple sclerosis in the prime of his years.  He did everything possible to alleviate the pain; expensive medicines, medical trials, that proved ineffective.  He took copious amounts of alcohol to one extreme and then came  the devastation of heroin.  A man of broken dreams, a broken body, subjected to vast pharmaceutical concoction of chemicals, that weighed down his grandmother's small fortune.  Some kind soul introduced CBD oil  and the dramatic change, viewed from sceptics was astonishing.  Born handsome, the disease took its toll and the stooped body, lagging leg, frustrating anguish would bury any positivity.

Off all medications, today, his 4 daily doses of CBD has renewed his spirit.  He resumed his position in the work place; the body strong, positive mental attitude, back straight, head up, his stride and passion in life was determined.   A new man.   And all because of nature's plant deemed an illegal substance.
 
Decades later, my music tastes have matured, Debussy, Vivaldi, interwoven with Adele and Maroon 5.  No more cloying smoke wafting my condo for I have moved from damaging my lungs, to CBD oil under my tongue.   The stress of city living, the stress from psychotherapy, the aches and pains from chronic disease, disappear replacing a much calmer Ruby Tuesday with a smile.

Lesson learned :  take everything in moderation.





 

FREEDOM - IS IT A MYTH?

https://rubisred.blogspot.com/2019/01/freedom-is-it-myth.html

RAHAF MOHAMMED

FREEDOM
 
Heavy subject.  We cry for freedom, we demand freedom, we move continents for freedom.  But do we really  have it?

Governed by our customs, traditions, morality and religious faiths, freedom  is  a myth.

Guidelines are controlled by constitutions, law,  religious sects,  parental supervision,  and morality.  Among a long list, I'll touch on a few;  female equality,   LGBT,  criticism of  leaders and royalty. 

From a child, being the youngest of five, the rules I had to abide by were suffocating.   Growing older, female equality was just a reach too far.  As a heterosexual  living happily along conventional rules, I feel for those that yearn  and yet are denied  happiness to legalize same sex marriage.  In certain countries, criticism of ruling governments or royalty seeks punishment of jail time taking away the freedom of speech to be controlled in a confined space for decades.

The life choices I made, stems from touching on the first controlling factor in life; religion.   Growing up in a strict Theravada Buddhist household; no matter where we lived, the family altar with many significant Buddha images, grandparents bones, relics and the joss sticks lit  three times a day were indications that only faith would bring good karma.

Imagine that small altar room in Kensington in such contrast with London's swinging sixties.  The inconsistency  for a young girl to sing hymns at the local school and attend a Protestant Church of England to come back every afternoon to the Buddha room wafting of incense smoke.    

Six years into daily swapping C of E and Buddhism, it was time for my parents  to move  the family Buddha altar to an Islamic country.  

I was enrolled into a Pakistan strict private Catholic school, and learnt to dip my fingers into holy water and make the sign of a cross, and absorb Catechism  taught by Pakistani nuns.   Not long into the Virgin Mary, and Jesus's disciples; in their effort to broaden my horizons, I was sent to the sister Muslim school and forced fed  Allahu Akbar five times a day; dabbling in Shia and Sunni and enlightened with Parsi worshipping fire.

All of that pressure served me well for I am now an atheist.

I married outside my tribe and besides love, the doors of freedom  allowed me to have a voice, choice, and finally, solid in my views, an adult with a real core self belief.  

So why do I say Freedom is a myth?

To really be free, is to live without social, traditional customs.   But we humans tend to over step the rules if allowed that freedom. 


Rahaf Mohammed رهف محمد‏ @rahaf84427714 20h20 hours ago

Don’t let anyone break your wings, you’re free. fight and get your RIGHTS!

1,026 replies 2,316 retweets 7,691 likes

From a less brave girl to an even braver girl Rahaf Mohammed al-Qunun,  I wish you constraints of another kind in the western world, dominated by rules and regulations; yet it would allow you to try lesbianism, eat bacon, ride the waves of Bondi beach in a bikini and pursue your dreams in the wildest way possible. 

May this be the best decision you ever made.

 

NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION - PAST & PRESENT

As I pimp myself to celebrate  bringing in the New Year, a time for reflection is needed.

Of all the countless past New Year's eve on this planet, some resolutions have stayed; unfortunately most went out the window at the first light of new year's day.   The resolutions that have admirably stayed have got me to where I am today.  Only five to show, the rest was pie in the sky on a drunken night. 

On the eve of 1973:   I vowed to take "freedom" within boundaries and never cower to power.

On the eve of 1981 :  I vowed to be an exemplary mother.   My kids should have the last say on this matter. 

On the eve of 1997:   I vowed never to cry over spilt milk.  No regrets whatsoever.

On the eve of 2000:   I vowed to have discipline.

On the eve of 2011:   I vowed to unearth some skills locked inside and allow them to flower.

On the eve of 2019:   I vow never to doubt myself.   Others will be the judge.


Happy New Year to you all.  

TELOMERES

Shoelace Caps

Life-span determination. 

Would you like to know how long you have to live, barring accidents?  Medic-mad me would be the first to join the very short queue in finding out.   

Given moments to evaluate, 9 out of 10 would back out, leaving the odd crazy enthusiast like me to be first in the queue.   

Why would I want to know?   Curiosity is one component, the other is planning out my now limited life. 

It could be argued - why not plan regardless?   Well, who does?  There's the "bucket list" types that do and see everything on their list before they die.  

I just want to be in the controlling seat of something uncontrollable.  Essentially mad but it captivates my enquiring mind.

Longevity compared to the caps on shoelace?

Hard to fathom but have you heard of TELOMERES?   If not, you should.  Your size of telomeres determine your time left on earth. 

Telomeres have been compared with the plastic tips on shoelaces, because they keep chromosome ends from fraying and sticking to each other, causing damage to genetic information, the caps  shortened as they divide.   

Brave enough?  Telomere diagnostics works by analyzing a drop of blood much like diabetics use to check their blood sugar.  The shorter the caps the less time you have.   

Anti-climactic to preserving the length of Telomeres for people like me is once you know, the act of preserving life becomes the end goal and not living the moment. 

My reminder of the day as I tie the shoelaces of my Trainers, is accepting mortality with grace.  No Telomere measuring ensures anything; to know or not only does one thing, the race to prolong life under your own control.  In itself, that is too much stress.

THE PHENOMENON OF FILTERED SQUARES

Psychological damage on a daily Instagram scroll is quietly visiting us with depression, resentment, low self-esteem and loneliness.  Yet millions use it to project their seemingly successful lives through percolated lens and cropped pictures projecting envy inspiring lives.

What makes us green with envy  through these filtered pictures of a couple toasting champagne on a business class cabin  jetting off on a far-away holiday serves to remind us of the toll and grind of everyday commuting life on a budget.  It should stop you to think the need to display wealth, culture, good taste and a care-free life, when if fact their troubles are hidden behind; you just choose not to see it but to envy.

Another is "food-ism"   Along with eating at Michelin star restaurants, or invited to Ambassadorial dinners, the picture perfect mounds of Beluga Caviar,  elegant Scottish salmon;  or some foreign delicacies,  each showing off our perfect taste and our unlimited pocket.

Yet another is “oh woe is me”  -  those pictures taken from hospital beds, saline drips connected or hospital wrist band  indicating expensive private hospitals.   It says,  please send me well wishes.  A retinue of “speedy recovery” messages inundate the pings that count into the thousands.

One more pet-peeve is the “ultra-sound” polaroid of a baby in the womb.  Anyone who knows me, knows I am not a screwed-up, old fashioned, lack-lustre, bitchy barren woman.  It is indeed a wondrous celebratory occasion best kept to those who really care and not the Instagram world at large to feast upon.

This process of "I want to be rich like him" or "I want to be thin like her"  this mindless showing off through these square filters, are breeding a culture of people fascinated with stalking  and permanently aware of being stalked; of people fascinated by half realities that the real world is just too boring.

Fancy dinners

Business class travel

Michelin Star dessert

I'm guilty of these very sins.  A scroll through my own Instagram you can see all of the above.  Despite shooting myself in the face,  I shall address this with my own vulnerability of how I wish to be perceived.   My filtered square showed an opened Apple Mac to a  saucy chapter of my novel I had just written.... the background displayed a sunny day by a pool at an exclusive club.    

The message?  

1) Apple Mac says it all. 
2) My life in a tropical country,  (not godforsaken Chicago in mid-winter )
3) Boasting my literary skills as a burgeoning author; (education prowess)
4) Writing under the enviable privileged club that many could hope to visit but difficult to belong.  
 
I was recently invited to join in a wedding ceremony and lunch on an exotic beach.  The invite  had an RVSP and  a reminder of how wonderful the day would look on Instagram. 

Everything looked right, the bride & groom, the families, the friends, the wonderful occasion set in one of the most romantic places in the world.  So what was wrong?   The crassness of the Instagram reminder.  

So what should we do to improve the psychological harm this affects people?  Maybe you might think what is so wrong to flaunt your laurels to the world?   None of these people are really your friends, that wish you well.  Some are even strangers wishing to be followed so in turn follow you first - hoping your generosity will adversely add their numbers.  

Not much can change an addictive one billion users with numbers  rising monthly.   Only awareness and self correcting -  could perhaps help ease the depression, low self esteem, resentment and learn to live in the NOW.