The Food of Love

love is a sandstorm

undulating sand-dune sea

a map is useless //

love is a marble

hard glass encases a core

that’s unreachable //

love is an onion

it’s got a hundred layers

and it makes you cry! //

love is a corner

of the street or of a room;

according to choice //

love is a cycle;

flowers bloom, and then wither

leaving seeds for more //

like unravelled wool

love is so complicated

not one end in sight //

I snapped my school diary shut. It wouldn’t do for Brown Cow to ask what I was scribbling – again! Heaven knows the stick I got when I said I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. That made me decide never to open my mouth in class, ever again. It was one of the things the teacher seem to enjoy worrying my ma about; they even mentioned the term “elective mute”. We had a good laugh about that.

Being a Charity Nerd is not nice. That is what they called me… because, perhaps, they were jealous of me. If I had to choose a nickname, it would have been Scholarship Geek. I had been awarded a place at the prestigious academy because I scored straight As in all the subjects of the 11+ Secondary School Entrance Examinations.

There were only four of us who achieved these scores, nationwide, and we got to choose which institution to attend. My mother and I discussed it, and logistics and expenses decreed it would be Melita… because I could walk to school, rain or shine, and we would save transport money.

My mother had brought me up on her own. She made sure I had all I needed – but we never had enough money for fripperies. My lunches were always wholesome and interesting; the ham-and-cheese sandwiches brigade tried to make fun of me for those, too.

My father had done a bunk when he discovered he had knocked my ma up, and he never paid a penny of child support – which is just as well, because he therefore also forfeited visiting rights. I know who he is – but I never even smiled at him, when we ran into each other (it’s a small city) before he emigrated. Truth to tell, she never bad-mouthed him to me, though. I admire her for that.

Years later, I found out that while I was at Kindergarten and Primary School, she went to do chores and cooking at other people’s houses. But she was always there when I went home, and we always ate nutritious food made from scratch. She sewed most of my clothes herself, staying up late into the night to do so.

She bought stuff from the charity shop, and unpicked the seams, and used them as a pattern. She saved money by re-using the zippers and buttons. The word ‘frugal’ in the dictionary had her picture next to it, because she could turn a penny into a pound.

My only aunt had married into money, and she disowned us – lest, perhaps we expected hand-outs. My maternal grandparents were both dead… and the family of my ‘father’ avoided us like the plague. 

The years passed uneventfully. The “single parent” stigma was always there – and once, in a moment of weakness, my ma told me she had considered moving and telling people she was a widow… but then she thought better of it, because she didn’t want to bring me up on a lie. She wanted me to be able to keep my head high, proud of who I was, and proud of the way we were a team, and how we managed to beat the wolves that would otherwise have come to the door, before they even thought of starting their journey.

Then came the Scholarship. I was so proud of myself. I determined to make the best of it.

The school was an elite one, and my ma had misgivings. Yes, even then, I was so mature that I said I would be going there to learn, not to brag of my aristocratic forebears. My ma laughed, and hugged me… but I could see that her eyes glistened. She was my hero, and taught me resilience, courage… and risk-taking.

It’s tough when you don’t fit in. And it’s even tougher when you are the butt of jokes. But my life that far had made me feisty, and I managed to give the appearance that no comment was snide enough to get under my skin.

I knew even back then that what I lacked in beauty, I more than made up for, in brains. I also knew that the clique made fun of my appearance because they were beautiful, but deep down they also knew that they had next to nothing between the ears. Money could buy them schooling, but it could not buy them education.  

I always sat at the back of my classes. That way, I could observe everything and everyone, without anyone throwing paper balls at me. Some of the meanest girls, however, did turn around to poke out their tongue at me, when the teacher would be writing on the blackboard – and I smiled sweetly at them, thereby infuriating them further.

I made sure never to raise my hands to ask questions, or to answer them, during lessons, so as not to draw attention to myself.

To be honest, I sat at the back also because I could observe…him…my crush… without making a fool of myself.

I was just a child, yes, but I fantasised about how we would grow up and get married, and have five beautiful children who looked like him, and who would be as gifted with intelligence as I. Each of their names would begin with a vowel…

He never noticed me, except once or twice when he opened the door for me; but then, he was very shy and into sports. Although some of the girls flirted with him, he didn’t give them the time of day… and I heard them wonder (loudly) whether he was gay, as they made limp-wristed motions.

I had always wanted one of those Varsity Hoodies with big letters or numbers on them. I had seen one of them in then sewing room, and I knew my ma was going to use it to make one for me – exactly like it, but far nicer, and obviously with my own initial. But the temptation was too great. I snuck it into my bag and changed out of my blanket capote as soon as I was round the corner, and wore it to school.

My ruse backfired badly. As soon as I walked into physics class, The Meanest of Them All pointed toward me and said – “Hey, look, y’all. Charity Nerd is wearing my hoodie – I recognise it from the foie gras stain on the left cuff!”

Her cronies looked at me and sniggered. I was mortified. But I raised my chin and said “So?” and walked into class. This incident made me even more of a loner, and more determined than ever to show them up when we sat for our “O” Levels.

love is but a dream

intangible images

that evade my grasp //

love is a mountain

sheer cliffs; dead drops; an ice-cap;

but no lush valley //

love is an alloy;

as elusive as mercury,

but precious as gold //

love is a journey;

bad signposts and bumpy roads

drive you up the wall //

love is a ball game;

when it sends you a curved ball,

make sure to bat it! //

Writing poetry helped me relax. It still does. I never let anyone see my file; not even the teacher of English Literature. I didn’t trust her enough not to speak about me in the staffroom.

And ‘he’ never noticed me – because I developed a knack for fading into the woodwork.

As suddenly as it had begun, it was over. We left the Academy as soon as we got the results – or, at least, those of us who did not have to take re-sits, did.

I just assumed he was out of my life forever, all the more so because he attended an exclusive Sixth Form, but I went to the Public Education one.

My love for writing grew – I branched into fiction, and I got a temp job at Associated Newspapers, in the Culture and Entertainment Department, while attending University. It honed my skills, and gave me pin money to add to my stipend.

But my break came when my lyrics won me first prize in a song-writing contest organised by Amiamo Magazine. The prize was attending the concert where the lyrics would be sung for the first time by Imperial Kings. It was ironic, really, because I had never even heard of them before I decided to send in some old haiku of mine.

When someone who introduced herself as Kathy called me to tell me that Cynical had won, I thought it was a joke, actually. She quoted my lines back at me, to show me that she was for real.

love’s a delusion;

on the surface all’s perfect;

but below’s rotten //

love’s a fairy-tale;

and one day you’ll wake up

to the bleakest truth //

love is for living

don’t save your kisses because

they’ll all go to waste //

love is a blanket;

it will give security

but it may smother… //

love is a fire;

stray too close, and it burns you;

good servant; bad boss //

love is a statue

when it stands, it’s lifeless

if it moves, it’s false… //

“Well done!”Kathy said. “As we speak, the courier is on his way with your airplane ticket!”

I squealed! I screamed so loudly for my ma that she came running into the room, thinking something awful had happened to me.

I breathed deeply, twice, to concentrate on what I was being told. From then on, it was a whirlwind, with all systems go. I applied for vacation leave, and packed my bag. I would be travelling with Kathy, and we would be staying at the Hilton for a week, all expenses paid.

When we walked into the hotel lobby, the band was there, having an impromptu karaoke session with the guests. The Manager recognised Kathy as the Editor of Amiamo from the spread she had done about Imperial Kings, and came toward her, arms outstretched.

“Look who’s here, guys!” he said, to no one in particular. I blinked. I blushed scarlet. It was him. Incongruously, I looked to see if he had a wedding ring – as if all married men wear one.

Kathy introduced me by my full name; not that the shortened version would have rung a bell with him, anyway. I knew what his name was, but waited to hear it being confirmed, just to be doubly sure.

He led us both toward the band, and repeated my name each time – the way he said it, with his slight lisp, was music to my ears. I could tell he didn’t know me from Adam’s off ox.

Kathy announced, with an exaggerated yawn, that she was going to order room service, because she had to catch up with the editing. She turned to me and said, “Have you got any plans for the evening?”

I smiled wryly. It was now or never.  Speak now or shut up forever, or words to that effect… but not quite… “No, not really. Not unless he (and I pointed) would like to go for a pizza… five-star buffet be damned…” I mentally crossed my fingers and toes.

“Well… I… of course I would…” he said. “Give me a moment to fetch my jacket…”

I distinctly heard the drummer say ‘that was quick’, but the side-eye he got would have melted steel.

As we bit into our second slice of pizza, by way of conversation, he told me that he was originally from Durham.

“I know.” I said.

“My accent always gives me away!” He sighed dramatically.

I said his old address. He gaped. “How…?”

I revealed all. We talked and talked, pizzas forgotten, making up for lost time. We spoke of what had befallen us since we left Senior School, and reminisced about our teachers, and the Mean Girls. We came to the conclusion that the we both had not fitted in with the snotty environment… leaving it hanging in the air that we ought to have got together back then, for exactly that reason.

“Oh! Look at the time… we won’t make it to the concert tomorrow if we spend another three hours chatting.”

“Yes,” I replied. “There will be time enough for us to catch up, later…” He walked me to the end of my corridor, kissed me lightly on the forehead, turned on his heels, and ran up the stairs to the next floor.

I’d swear I floated into my room. I kicked off my shoes and just fell into bed, and slept until the alarm rudely woke me up.

I scribbled a few haiku in my head, while I chose my clothes for the morning. Kathy, all dolled up already, knocked on my door. From the look on her face, I could tell that she wanted to know why my hair was dishevelled, why I was still wearing outdoor clothes, and why I wasn’t ready yet.

I gave her a quick run-down, and ran into the bathroom. When I came out, I asked her to write down the haiku I had just composed, lest I forget them, while I brushed out the tangles in my hair.

love was born last night

almost-strangers became friends

what’s in the future? //

love gives you lemons;

be sour or make lemonade,

you pick your option! //

love is a cascade

it takes your breath away, and

purifies your soul //

like ducks to water

our souls have melded as one

tomorrow is now

“Brilliant!” Kathy said, “But we really have to get going now.”

Breakfast was fun. The guests at the hotel, some of whom had tickets for the Concert, said that having the Band there during their stay made it the stuff of legend.

…

Annie, Eamon, Iain, Olaug and Ulrich always come over for Sunday Lunch, with their families.

It’s an exhilarating, noisy, wondrous time. Our story never gets old.

House Hunting

“This is the year I will get out of here.”

You call it the Psychiatric Hospital. I call it the Funny Farm – funny as in weird, not funny as in hilarious.

The day I checked myself voluntarily for hospitalisation into a psychiatric ward, I didn’t quite know what I had let myself in for. But my state of mind – or rather the voice reverberating in my brain – told me it would be the best thing to do.

I was the only remaining sibling from a family of seven. Our parents were dead, too, and I was all alone… no one on either side of the family had wanted anything to do with us, and I had no friends to speak of. My job as a maid did not leave me much time for socialising… and employers are never friends… not even the ones who pour out their woes to you as you cook or iron mountains of laundry for them.

Although I was not a minor, I was still young enough to qualify for admittance into the Young People’s Unit, they told me. They asked whether I understood what I was doing, and why I had not tried to get a referral from a doctor. How eccentric. Somehow, my replies made sense to them, and I was asked to sign on the dotted line.

I didn’t know what to expect, so I expected nothing. Nothing would be better than the less than nothing I had going on in my life, anyway.

They asked me a gazillion confusing questions, ticking off the replies in a list. Did I ever want to ‘end it all’? Did I iron my pillowcases? Did I hate washing my hair? Did I hear voices in my head? Did I assume people were talking about me? Did sugar taste sour or bitter or salty or sweet to me? Did I think photographs steal the soul? Was I colour-blind? Did I like swimming in winter? Did I have feelings of angst? Could I say the alphabet backward? Had I ever spoken to a psychiatrist / psychologist / therapist? Did I frequently lose things? Did I think demons manifest themselves in animals? This barrage of words left me breathless.

I was told I had both, quote, “dementia praecox, and maniac depression, which these days are called schizophrenia and bi-polar disorder” unquote… a rare case, since it’s usually either one or the other.

I was lucky to have admitted myself at a time when medication, and weird stuff like lobotomies, were not the only effective treatment considered, for mental ill-health. There was a lot of mumbo-jumbo about balancing corticotrophin hormone, progesterone, oestrogen, cortisol, and thyroid hormones…but at the time I didn’t understand anything about this at all.

They said I would need around-the-clock monitoring, so I had to wait until they found me a cubicle in a division where this was possible. Later, the man in the white coat said that when I change the way I see the world, myself, my situation, my relationships, and my life, would change. He didn’t use the words Cognitive Behavioural Therapy because he thought I couldn’t handle them. Little did he know.

In my mind, I am staying at Hotel California – the song, not the location. But it’s time to leave after check-out, now. I have killed the owners of the voices that hijacked my mind, so I am free. The aides love me, so I must be doing something right. The song was actually about addiction, I know… but I am clean.

When I came here, it was the right place at the right time, but now, I want to – I have to – leave. My brain no longer malfunctions. I have perfect mental health. No more issues. No more night terrors.

I read voraciously, and that is how I know I can earn my way out. It’s a good sign that these days I am allowed stuff that was taken away from me when they placed me on suicide watch – scissors, Swiss knife, belts, nail clippers, shoestrings, belts, hoodies, razors… I have gained their trust. I am an exemplary worker. I encourage the others, even though the work they give us (assembling tiny toys) is repetitive and boring. I am frugal, so I have quite the nest-egg – and that, apparently, has impressed them, too.

Some of the patients are apt to turn violent… I keep away from them, because I do not want to trigger them and hamper my case for being discharged.

This place is ugly. I told them I could paint murals that would make it more aesthetically pleasing, and they gave me free rein in the television suite. I knew that the Four Horses of the Apocalypse, which is what I really wanted to paint (one on each wall) would raise some eyebrows, so I painted a continuous herd of horses galloping around the room, manes and tails flying, free as the wind. I bet you didn’t know that many horses together are also called a stable, a team, a harass, or a stud, depending upon the situation.

I hated the television room when I first came here – I still do. All the audio-visual stimulation and sensory overload are bad for the mind, heart, and soul. So is the stench of stale sweat. Not everyone is as fastidious as I am about personal cleanliness.

I hate smells – in fact, my sheets (I am told) are the only ones not washed with bleach.

Books are my best friend – or have I already said that? Also – I write. I write only when I am lucid. I write what I want them to read; pretty stories about friends and talking animals and people who live on faraway planets.  They encourage me, telling me it is therapy. I know it is one of the keys to my freedom, especially since I know they read what I write, when I am asleep (I place hair markers in the pages, and they are never where I leave them).

Family Therapy is out of the question, since – have I said this already? – I have no family, or as good as that. As bad as that, I mean. The irony is that although I checked myself in, I cannot just up and leave – I have to be discharged.

They tried Interpersonal and Social Rhythm Therapy, as part of the psychosocial treatment that has coming to the fore of late. It is supposed to be an adjunctive therapy for people like me, with mood disorders, partly to improve medication adherence. Ha! Whenever I can, I secret my pills under my tongue, and spit them out when I go to the toilet. They trust me too much to suspect me of doing this – I am their model client, they tell me, and, they add, that is why I should find not problem with being released.

I appreciate the fact that IPSRT teaches me skills that help me cope, and how to protect myself from the occurrence of future episodes, though.

There was a time when even waking up five minutes after my usual 3.00a.m. time used to have me in a tizzy. But now I know that it is what it is; worry will not change anything.

I know that insomnia can be a trigger for a manic episode – so I always find something to do, even if it’s going down to the kitchen to peel spuds for dinner, now that I can move about the place. Like this, I function better. I like it here. No rent to pay; good food; nice company; no cares. But all good things must come to an end. I would have loved to remain here until I die.

I never had visitors, not until the day a Drama Group came to do “research”, like Jack Nicholson did for One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and Robin Williams did for Awakenings.

There is a true cute story about the latter. Robin Williams had put on a doctor’s coat for Patch Adams, but before that, he was Doctor Malcolm Sayer. The character was based on the neurologist Oliver Sacks, whose distress about a group of catatonic patients leads him to revive Leonard Lowe – played by Robert de Niro – in a medical trial.

During one of his visits to a psychiatric ward, one of the patients somehow recognised him and yelled “Mork!” with reference to his role in the silly late 70s / early 80s sitcom Mork and Mindy. This affected Williams profoundly, perhaps because, as we now know, he had mental ill-health issues himself.

I know that one of the rules is having personal boundaries, but it’s not my fault that mine was one of the Case Studies presented to the troupe of actors. I know that they say familiarity breeds contempt; but in my (our!) case, it was exactly the opposite. Therefore, this is the year I will get out of here. Or have I already said that?

Now that I am no longer monitored 24/7, I have spare time and personal space. They allow me to help in the kitchen – or have I already said that? –  and I write about that, too. I invent recipes… it’s a tad surreal, when on the morrow I tell the Cooks about them, and they act as if it’s all new to them. But I know they know what I would have written; their knowing smile gives them away. 

I could, and did, petition my case for review with the Administration, since I voluntarily admitted myself; but they told me there was a period of grace which had nothing to do with for how long my symptoms had disappeared. Nice. But I had the opportunity to hone my act, and show how far my coping skills have brought me. I ken they were watching me, for signs of a relapse.

Everyone must be made aware that it’s not an Easy Come, Easy Go, to borrow a phrase, situation. I was comfortable enough here, to not want to leave… safe, fed, and cared for. But there is more to life than basic needs… and I am getting older, so the Socioemotional Selectivity Theory came into play.

I have impressed them – or have I said this already? – because fellow clients come to me with their problems… some of them labour under the idea that I am a member of the Staff, not one of their peers.

Playing it by ear, I have learned how to de-escalate uncomfortable situations; crazy people are ready to take offence at ill-conceived statements. My approach has been praised by the Administration; I had nothing to lose and everything to gain, and it worked.

I never bicker about religion, football, politics, or current events. I say I don’t watch television, which is true. I don’t say I read the papers, because I like to be au courant of things in preparation for when I get out of here. Nobody has cottoned on yet to my method of discouraging conversation. I simply qualify the vowels (Ah! Eh? Yiyi! Oh? Um?), and the person I do not want to engage with, thinks I have nothing worthwhile to say. I know how to do poker-face and deadpan and play dumb just as much as I can hold an interesting conversation about flowers and herbs, insects and sea-life… or reel off the relative merits and downsides of amisulpride, aripiprazole, clozapine, olanzapine, paliperidone, quetiapine, risperidone, etc – because I read voraciously – or did I already say that?

They asked me what I wanted for my birthday, which is as close enough to Christmas as does not matter. I said that since I wanted for nothing, I wanted nothing – and they laughed heartily. Only, I wasn’t making a pun-joke… it was the truth. So, they got me a sheaf of paper and a score of pencils, since I go through them like the proverbial knife through hot butter. 

As it happened, my Release Documents came through on Saint Stephen’s Day, when we were having the Christmas Party. The Drama Troupe was there, too.

I cried. They thought it was because I was equally sad and happy to be leaving… but actually, it was just relief – I was elated at having fooled them.

“This is the year I will get out of here.” That had been my promise to myself. And I’d made it come true.

My beloved soulmate from the Drama Troupe winked at me. He will be waiting for me round the corner, as agreed, when I leave here at 6.00p.m. sharp. 

Mind Your Language

Saturday, September 3, 2011

https://museituppublishing.blogspot.com/2011/09/mind-your-language-by-tanja-cilia.html

“Yoghurt!” my son David shouted. He was not even one year old at the time.
 
We were on our way to the beach, and I assumed he wanted a frozen tub of the stuff to eat until we arrived. I turned around in my seat to give it to him, reminding him that he ought to have said ‘please’.  He was pointing a chubby finger at the vehicle right in front of us. There, on the tail-gate of the pickup truck, was the word “Toyota”.
 
Before formal schooling begins, literacy skills are picked up in subtle means, before they are actually “taught” to a child. And that ought to be an indication that the “sit and study” method does not suit each and every child.
 
Learning styles differ:
 
·    Aural (auditory-musical) is a preference for music and sounds;
·    Logical (mathematical) uses logic, reasoning and systematic methods;
·    Physical (kinesthetic) makes use of the body, hands and sense of touch;
·    Social (interpersonal) is when one learns better in the company of others;
·    Solitary (intrapersonal) is teach-yourself;
·    Verbal (linguistic)  uses words, both in writing and speech.
·    Visual (spatial) chooses graphics, images, pictures, and spatial perception.
 
Unfortunately, most parents and teachers insist a child follow the praxis obtaining with the peer group, be it recitation by rote or point-and-say. Children who could, and would, learn faster and better in their own preferred style and method of learning are forbidden to do so because they would ‘distract’ the rest.
 
“Learning Through Play” is a concept old as the hills. 

Everyone has packs of cards that are no longer usable. Just cover the front with blank paper, stick a picture on the top two-thirds of each card (two for each letter), and write the initial of the object, in lower and upper case at the bottom. If you can laminate them, so much the better. 
 
These  may also be used to play an interminable game of “Snap” or a  “Memory Game.” If whole words are written on the cards, they may be utilized as flash cards.
 
If you find fabric or plastic sheeting (of the type used for tablecloths) that incorporates an alphabet design, all you have to do is attach the “pages” at the side, by sewing them. Hey, presto: you have a Bath Book. 
 
Forget what the experts say  – unless they agree with you.  

There is no need to teach the alphabet in sequence.  Teach sounds. Teach recognition. Teach shapes. Just teach whatever is didactic but fun.
 
Use sandpaper, or corrugated cardboard, or fridge magnets.

Use sand trays, water-colours, sidewalk chalk or Plasticine  to add another dimension to this exercise. 
 
Some children learn faster when ‘lessons’ involve some kind of mess; a pile of magazines, glue, glitter and stickers will encourage children to make their own  Book – upper case used for obvious reasons.  Haunt charity shops and stock up on old magazines!
 
Children love rhyme, rhythm and repetition, alliteration and onomatopoeia.  This is where alphabet songs come in. You can use the tried-and-tested ones handed down in specialized books – or you can make up silly songs that will have the child giggling gleefully along in no time at all, even if he does not understand all the words. This is especially important, because if a child “knows” the Alphabet Song it does not necessarily mean that he understands what the alphabet is.
 
Action songs and memory games such as The Clergyman’s Cat prepare the way for teaching abstract concepts as well as encouraging lateral thinking skills.
 
Always keep in mind that a laptop is not a lap; don’t delegate the teaching of letters to a machine. Not only because of the insidious fashion of misspelling “on purpose” in order to appear hip, or to “save time”, but because otherwise you will be missing out on “us” time, too.

My Shadow

http://www.bartleby.com/188/119.html

Prompt: Which poem would you ban from the School Syllabus?

One poem I would most certainly ban because it will have a lethal effect on young impressionable minds is “My Shadow” by Robert Louis Stevenson.
It is clear that this poem will unhinge the minds of children, because it will make them as obsessed with their shadow as the poet appears to be, and they will not be able to walk straight along the road if, as in the Irish Blessing, their shadow falls behind them, because they will be forever turning around to check whether it is still there.
They will also do naughty things like throw stones at windows and climb walls, to see if their shadow follows suit.
Indeed the poet knows that the fixation with his shadow has taken over his life and challenged his mental stability. He insists that he can see the shadow jump into his bed before him. Now we all know that this is ridiculous because there is no shadow that would willingly go to bed at night when it can have so much more additional fun, accompanying the Sandman out on his Darkness Rounds.
The poet says his shadow is alive – what nonsense! He says it grows longer and shorter as he feels like. It is clear that the poet was sleeping during his geography, physics, biology and chemistry lessons, because he would have known that an shadow is only the product of one’s imagination and as such will only grow fatter and thinner and longer and shorter and wider and narrower and bigger and smaller according to how much the imagination feeds it and I have run out of breath so I will stop here.
He does not realise, by the way, that the shadow sticks close to him because it is his, and no one else wants it.

Meta l-Fast Food Isir Soul Food

Is-Sawm jgħallmek tagħżel bejn dak li hu importanti, u dak li m’huwiex

Il-fast food mhux xi ħaġa ta’ daż-żminijiet.

Fl-istorja ta’ Ruma, insibu li l-fqar kienu jgħixu f’mandraġġi f’apartamenti ċkejknin msejħa insulae, li ma kellhomx kċejjen, u kienu jixtruh mingħand bejjiegħa tat-triq, jew mill-hwienet imsejħin popinae.

Kitba tat-Tieni Seklu tad-Dynasty Han tgħidilna li kien hemm karretti li minnhom stajt tixtri t-taljarini, li kieny jibqgħu miftuħa l-lejl kollu. Fil-Medju Evu kien hemm bejjiegħa tat-triq li kellhom torti, pasti, flans, waffles, wejfers, pancakes u laħmijiet imsajra.  Postijiet viċin il-kosta kienu jidu l-frott ta-baħar mal-bejgħa.

Fl-Amerika, l-iskjavi ħtieġilhom jieklu ikel mgħobbi bil-kaloriji sabiex jibbilanċjaw il-keded ta’ xogħol bla heda. Dan wassal għal-ikel moqli fil-panura, stuffatijiet, eċċ. Dan l-ikel, li kien jhenni lir-ruh, issejjah Soul Food.

Il-Fast Food, bhas-Soul Food, ikun ikkritikat għax fih ħafna xaħmiijiet u lamtu, imluħa, zokkor, kolesterol… u  kaloriji, kif ukoll l-ingredjenti li spiss huma ta’ kwalità baxxa.

Meta wieħed joqgħod attent x’jiekol biex inaqqas il-piż, għandu jaħrab kemm-il Fast Food kif ukoll is-Soul Food… sakemm ma jagħtix definizzjoni oħra lil dawn iż-żewġ termini.

Fl-Ewwel tas-Sena, nagħmlu r-Riżoluzzjonijiet.  Fl-Erbgħa tal-Irmied, ukoll inwiegħdu li għal dan l-istaġun l-iktar importanti fis-sena liturġika, nagħmlu xi ħaġa tajba; u fil-biċċa l-kbira din tinvolvi l-intenzjoni li niċċaħdu mill-ikel li nħobbu, iżda bħala sagrifiċċju, mhux bħala “dieta”, minbarra li nżidu fit-talb u fis-sagrifiċċji oħrajn.

Is-sawm m’hu xejn għajr li tibqa’ lura minn dak li trid, li tħobb, u li joġgħbok; li tkun taf tgħid “le” meta b’qalbek, b’moħħok u b’ruħek tkun trid tgħid “iva”; li tagħmel penitenza mhux għax itik tewba l-Konfessur, u mhux għax hekk fettillek illum, jew għax iċ-ċikkulata tħaxxen jew għax tippreferi l-ħut mill-majjal… iżda għax hekk trid.

Is-sawm jeżisti fi kważi r-reliġjonijiet kollha tad-dinja. Dan l-aħħar, is-sawm sar ‘moda’ – biex jippurifika u jibbenefika lill-ġisem, iżda, mhux lir-ruħ; telf ta’ piż, sistema immunitarja aktar b’saħħitha, riġenerazzjoni taċ-ċelloli aktar effettiva, u ġilda u xagħar isbaħ.  

Importanti iżda, li fir-Randan is-sawm ikun dixxiplina spiritwali. Nafu kif ir-regolamenti dwar is-sawm fir-Randan inħallu matul is-sekli; kien hemm żmien fejn is-sawm kien għall-40 jum. Mur ġibna, lilna, li ma nkunux nistgħu nieħdu mug kafe bill-ħalib, kull meta jkolna l-ħajra.

Id-dinja tgħidilna li t-tbatija u l-iskumdità rridu nevitawhom, biex ma nkunux imdejqin. Is-sawm irawwem fina l-umiltà, u d-dixxiplina. Meta niċħdu lilna nfusna l-affarijiet, il-kumditajiet, u l-pjaċiri, bħala mezz biex noqorbu eqreb lejn Alla, it-tbatija u l-iskumdità jsiru taraġ ta’ tiġdid spiritwali.

Ħadd ma jiżżattat biex jagħmel maratona bla taħriġ sfieq. Biex issegwi l-programm li jtik l-għalliem trid  għalliem trid awtodixxiplina rigoruża. Ma tistax tgħid, “U le, jaħassra, illum m’hemmx training; illum għnadi aptit nofs tużżana pastizzi, imbagħad għada, naraw…”

L-għan tas-sawm hu t-tiġdid li jurina kif ngħidu “le”; inkella, għalxejn nitolbu lill-Mulej biex iħarisna mit-tentazzjoni, jekk inkunu qed nistiednuha aħna stess. Inutli nippruvaw nidħqu bina nfusna, bħal dawk li jgħidu li ‘ma jmissux il-laħam’ imbagħad jieklu l-burgers tat-tofu, jew, kustilji tas-seitan, qed taparsi tal-majjal, jew stuffat tat-tempeh li jtuh togħma ta’ ħaruf. Jew ħa tiekol il-laħam, jew le – jew ser issum, jew le – jew ser titħarreġ għall-isport favorit tiegħek, jew le. 

Billi tagħmel xi ħaġa bil-fors, jew nofs kedda’, ma tkun qed tiggwadanja xejn.       Jekk inwaħħdu l-ikel tas-sawm (‘fast’ food) mal-ikel tar-ruħ (‘soul’ food), nimxu ‘l bogħod mill-kultura tal-“issa”, u nlestu ruħna għall-“imbagħad”.