MAHDI: From east to breast

Deeply engrossed in procrastination, I didn’t notice an elderly woman clutching a thick, hardback book in her hand. Her head was wrapped in a red fleece headband, an eye patch covered one eye and a frame with a protruding lens hung from the other. In a contradiction of manic placidity, her mind ferociously clawed at the information before her. As I was awakened from my studious coma by the closing announcement, the woman declared, “The book is telling me to go to Jerusalem. I must go, in order for me to begin my spiritual journey. I must begin my spiritual journey…why should anyone stop me?” The setting sun allowed a glint of light to emanate from her crooked glass frame. Had my ascension into the sanctity of the written word unpredictably confronted me with the spiritual awakening of another?

Spirituality, or the quest for it, has certainly been in vogue since Julia Roberts in “Eat, Pray, Love” traipsed around the world, allegedly finding spiritual bliss in exquisite tortellini and an equally steamy Spanish, emotionally tortured lothario who whisks her off her feet and into a flaming sunset. For the rest of us who aren’t reaping the benefits of artificial serendipity, this quest for a spiritual purpose manifests itself in more plausible forms. The most prominent spiritual encounter I had that day was a plea to a higher power for spring break to begin as soon as possible.

My mind meandered back to that image of the stranger in the library when I happened upon the story of Sheila Jonas. A loyal listener of Family Radio, she decided to join their “Project Caravan” team. Sheila, faced with the prospect that she would die in about three months, wanted to spread a message to fulfill a need often deemed irrational by the vast majority of our cynical selves. Was this a message spreading universal peace and love? Perhaps even a plea to developed nations to aid the disenchanted and underprivileged? At the very least, a rousing protest against the heinous Ugg boot and skimpy denim skirt combination. In summer. It really isn’t very flattering. Nevertheless, Sheila Jonas has vowed to alert the world that the end is near.

On May 21, 2011, everything we know is allegedly going to disappear. Humanity’s mania with mystical doomsdays is evident in religious scripture as well as the subject of tragic, mindless blockbusters. Sheila spreads her beliefs along with a team that hails from all over the United States, relinquishing their varying occupations ranging from food to the disabled. Enraptured in an extraordinary leap of faith, each of these people abandoned the lives they had created for themselves, including their homes, children and significant others. As moths to a flame, these “ambassadors” spread the “awesome news” with renewed fervor and undiscerning belief. Being confronted with all walks of life, including most notably drunken merrymakers on a mobile pirate ship, the collision of spiritual and cultural variation is inspiring.

So, was I obligated to be wary of the tealeaves collecting at the bottom of my mug every morning and knock on the synthetic substitute for wood which plagues all our dorm rooms in the form of furniture? Before I had a chance to dash to the dining hall and toss salt over my shoulder, careful not to blind anyone in my superstitious wake, my spiritual musings were brought to a crashing halt at the discovery of Baby Gaga. Bizarrely, this concept was more terrifying to me than my initial assumption of a Lady Gaga offspring walking the earth. This was ice cream consisting of human breast milk. With an optional topping of Calpol or blister gel. The impending apocalypse doesn’t seem so whimsical anymore. In typical British fashion, the dessert has since been seized from the London-based stores, but the “monster” has been released. Hilariously underwhelmed, the BBC news presenter grimaced before concluding that it tasted just like normal ice cream.

While out culinary exploits seem to indicate that the world is really coming to an end, the less jovial implications of a doomsday show the sheer anarchy we have descended into. In a world where dying women preach of impending doom to us all while gorging themselves in ice-cream provided by the milk from a stranger’s breast, I shall continue to avoid walking under ladders and steering clear of black cats in a desperate attempt to salvage some form of order or sanity in our world today. But then again, spring break is soon to be upon us. Perhaps the anarchy can persist for just one week longer.

Sofiya Mahdi is a freshman in the College of Arts and Sciences and a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. She can be reached at sofiya218@gmail.com.