Day 2

Day 1: Wasn’t in so much pain

Day 2: In pain ….agony.

365 more days …….how can thee endure.

Word of the Day: Resilience

8th of March, where the world celebrates the designated International Womens Day was also my best friend Sze’s birthday. She would have been 32 this year, happily married, healthy and most likely has had a kid or two. But it would not have been so, just like many other dreams we cherished upon when we were younger only to gradually witness a large portions of them come crashing through as we forge on towards maturity. Jessica Watson, a teenager from Sunshine Coast, Australia is currently chasing her dream to sail around the world solo unassisted. At 16 years of age, when asked what was the motivation and why would someone risks their lives to conquer what seems to be impossible and especially at such at tender age, she lamented that she did not want to live her life out of regrets like many of the adults whom she has came to know who no longer believe in dreams. Many cited the reasons of living within the boundary of societal pressure i.e. getting a job, doing the right thing that makes sense, having kids, marriage and etc, and hence the dreams from young perceived now as foolish and weightless compared to the pressing needs from the many other “important” things which weight more in life became but like a whisper of a bygone.

I guess hypothetically, we can’t all be sailors – can we. We can’t all be supposedly doing extraordinary things just to prove the validity of living out the big dream. But, to explore the intent of even dare to having a dream, and the integrity to protect it from being tarnished by restrictive adult judgement is in itself applaudable, and no mean feat. It gives such zest to living, and youthfulness from the weary and sometimes harsh existence. Like the Madhatter who uttered the following words to Tim Burton’s character of Alice, ”You have lost muchness…”. That perceptive line echoed my sentiments of watching the vigour of youth lost, and it will be greatly mourned should it choose to depart one day.

And most of the dreams in life can only be achieved synonymous to the degree of resiliency which an individual posessess – most, but not all. Resiliency can only govern the depth of capacity to provide resistance towards negative influence, but in matters like the essential cycle of living – it is not within its nature to be determinate. So, the cumulative of its expressions does not correspond to the eventual outcome. But that’s also where the beauty of it lies for I do not remember how supposedly tragic was towards the end of it all, but your strength and fighting spirit is eternally ingrained in me. The way I live, choose to live and fight in every aspect of not giving up to my own fundamental negativities is the testament to the legacy of your graceful conduct while you were around.

So, I was at the company’s corporate event celebrating the achievement of women in all areas of social, political and economy throughout past, present and future when several speakers were asked on who in their lives, embody resilience to the best and inspired them to do the same? Most quoted their mothers, with exemplary stories of how their mothers have provided to them with limited resources, assumed responsibility as sole breadwinners and raised them in a single parent environment, provided unlimited faith and believe in their ability at times when no one else did and much more. Another lady quoted her husband as her role model of resiliency when his business tumbled from bad to worst to the point of bankruptcy that they were rendered penniless and jobless. It took both husband and wife to join forces and encourage each other from the deepest end of their sorrowful situation and work their ways to untangle the financial mess.

I was totally inspired, and if it was me – I would have said that among others, you would be one of my living example who has demonstrated what it means to defy adverse situations. And, that’s something that no one else can take away from you, because you fought a good fight to live.

Word of the Day: Overcome

Just like not continuing a particular activity for a long period of time, without the presence of continuous and assiduous practice, one loses the uncanny ability to ovcercome the abyss of fear of no longer being able to perform or do something well. Until a certain action accompanied with a strong absolute determination propelled us towards the trajectory of progress. Same goes with my writing – hasn’t written for a long while, and felt as if I’ve lost the mojo. But then again, I learn not to trust on the basis of feelings alone and here I am typing this because I am compelled to do so.

Because, I have something to say – and even if these will take some baby steps to ginourmous efforts, I will start from borrowing words and ideas from others and start to take flight. Something inspires me today, and it’s an article from Greg Johns on how do we consistently believe in our potential when we don’t see any proof in our lives. The many motivating factors in practicing certain way of living or believing in a certain philosophy as our guiding principles in life lies in the fact that we all need proof of practice. An evidence per se, which is able to convince ourselves, and also others around us that – “yup, she must be doing something right and therefore she is getting so-and-so and has such-and-such”. Even when we are not all out to prove to anyone, we sometimes owe ourselves the explanation of why are bad things happening like shit storms when we practice to the best of our abilility, adheres to the what-not-to do, or what-not-to-think, but still problems after problems persist like there is no tomorrow. We struggle with our doubts, our frustration hardballing into perpetual cycle of giving up and picking up again and most of the times – the very basic human tendency is, we forget - too easily. Just like sparks of momentous happiness and stabs of painful episodes, with the passage of times – they lose their grip on our lives and their imprint fades upon the fashionable style of c’est la vie. Life goes on, anyway.

I guess I’m not much of a protagonists for the right or wrong answer in life. There’s too many moral polices around that there is not much value in a person second guessing our next move, predicting the “normal” outcome and dishing out advices which are meant to kept people fearful of failure in their lives. And these characteristics often played upon by religious and secular gurus meant to intimidate their followers often become the binding rules of what we ought to and not to do, otherwise some unforeseen unfavourable circumstances will prevail the lives of those who go against. Against what, though? Against the fact that I shall relinquish my right to live – by reducing my spirituality to a childlike manner so that I can learn to live within the boundary of the agreed perception of righteousness, and be assured that I will be rewarded in the form of material benefit, and the sudden forces of the universe to envelope me under their vast protection?

The late Nichiren Daishonin, a Buddhist monk who propagated the teachings of Lotus Sutra in Japan lead a life where he almost certainly did not have sufficient proof within his lifetime to lasts his practice, if we were to apply the common yardsticks which modern living has supposedly superimposed on us. But, Nichiren went to great lengths, at a time where there is no such proof that such transformation will bring peace and prosperity – but continue to endure his persecutions, perservere in faith and strive for inconspicious benefit. And his dedication to humanity’s happiness despite his extraordinary persecution was proof that there are more important aspects to life than material gain, comfort or things just falling into place. And that most important thing is for us to  have the conviction, courage and forbearance to reveal our own potential (or enlightened characteristics), challenge the very walls or deadlocks which is in front of us and prove to others that there is a profound reality and way of living in this very moment, by being undefeated.

I know what inspire me on a daily basis, and it is definitely not someone who lives an amazing life and stories only revolved around his or her good fortune in life. I would be happy for them, but not inspired. A person’s life who is steeped in the reality of the difficulty of transformation in daily life inspires others to do the same. I am sure that there are many other living embodiment of such way of living, but I am only quoting from the Daishonin’s life who has complete conviction in the subsequent and eventual phenomenonal benefit of continuing in faith with hope and compassion while grappling with the reality of living. His purpose for enduring was not to foster people who are reliant on the environment or people who are seeking to enjoy a child-like state in which others and the environment are expected to look after them.

Our responsibility of practice is to face the reality of our own life with faith and courage, challenge and transform our negativity into beauty instead of color categorizing it into shades of white goodness or black evil. And our unspoken duty to ourselves and to people around us, is to inspire them by living our own lives in this manner – and allowing them to see that when we do not accept the winds of daily life and be victim of our circumstances, and when we strive towards who we want to be despite who we currently are with courageous actions – we are earning our rights to live a life of knowing that this would be the starting point of an immense grassroot movement for peace.

The concept of world peace no longer remains abstract when we decide to become an active contributor towards our lives, and others. Do I want to live a life of victimhood, or do I want to challenge myself alongside the footprints of Daishonin’s spirit and have a glimpse of what it means to experience an unlimited joy of existence?

To have this choice, is in itself, unimaginable good fortune.

Note: Some sentences and paragraphs have been quoted at liberty from Greg John’s article (page 32 of February 2010 Indigo magazine)

Of values

So,  my previous post derived from Fitzgerald’s genius had earned me a spot of featured blog post of the week in the company’s global portal blogosphere (Yes, we have our own internal blogging community, and encouraged to do so!). Less it conjures the idea of sharing bits and pieces of information on piece of leftover nando’s you ate last night for dinner, or who you ended up pashing at the company party - no, it’s nothing of that sort. Rather professionalized reading material, if i should say, but mostly inspiring to see people opening up and express themselves beyond the facade of what we see at work. Not that we have the typical structured working ambience, as normal working hours already revealed behaviour nothing short of ordinary. In short, I had my five minutes of fame and yes, I felt a huge sense of accomplishment as if I have achieved something big. Something great, of life changing value. despite it being minute and noticeable only if you look for it.  

Incentives we secretly covert while on our pursuit of life and happiness and little jewels of accomplishments that we use to adorn the resume of our existence are all so familiar as they have been used mostly to define us. The way we live become who we are.  The way we live or who we choose to become became choices which are no longer exlusively ours. It became a subtle collective endorsement, knowingly. The way we morph from a baby to a toddler and sexually intrigued young adult, eventually to a woman, married, parent and grandmother of a clan - there was a silent deriding power from which we learn from our forefathers that allow us to know who we are given the roles that we reprise.

Alas, there’s always a Germaine Greer among each of us. What struck me as ironic was I started all out rebelling against the imposition only to realize that the only rebel was all about trying to fit in, and the struggle of not being able to do so. It wasn’t against the establishment as the mind was convinced to believe so, rather it was the desire to be accepted in the establishment which provoked the upheaval.  I guess it’s all about growing up an underdog, you’re never in the limelight and had struggle to be counted, to be seen, and to be recognised.  It’s not hard to notice that the feeling of insecurities are what the motivating factor is, and as opposed to continuously yearning for self gratification elsewhere it’s what we can pull up from within which matters most.

If we always look for values to be endowed, then we will always be without. The most beautiful thing in life are not those who are readily given, but it lies in what you are able to create out of it. The problem is when we cease to believe, and when we have been so moulded to connotate values with specific pre-conditions which made half the population already judging before Susan Boyle even starts to sing. Were we surprised more with our judgmental self, or was it the singing? It just shows that the conceived notion of societal values need to be shaken and stirred. It just shows that we need to live our lives by no one but our own standards and continue to believe to reach the stars, even if nobody else believe in you. It just shows that the power of one’s unshakeable conviction is what matters most, and value is determinate in nature. We determine our own worth.

For that experience to finally uncover this, life becomes worthwhile.

Fitzgerald-ized

For what it’s worth: it’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.

~ Benjamin Button

In the midst of random hecticness and busy schedule of apparent nothingness, I came across these words and in that instance, my whole life felt to be transformed (no pun intended..). In that second, my life became meaningful (now, really….)  In that splinter of a second too, my life registered and recognized it’s purpose (it gets better….)

How ridiculous that one search for the purpose of their lives throughout millions of fluctuating fleeting moments only to be halted at their own tracks within a fraction of an eyeblink for something of  brilliance resembling ’the’ eternal truth be unfolded.  In that moment, my life becomes.

And i attributed it to being Fitzgerald-ized.

Ditzy, my new middle name

I used to have a penchant for complicating things in my life. An innate ability of turning what seems to be simple things to be complex in nature. Truth coverted into mixture of fabricated theory and hypothesis. Facts thwarted into the realms of deluded illusions and reality became a never ending quest for an elusive answer to the series of complications, accumulated along the way. 

Since I can’t remember when, or was it when my heart was readily about to burst out of heartache and consuming pain that I’ve taken a U-turn in life to de-mystify the vapour of mysteries in my life. I hardly have any comeback readily available whenever any assault of my character or ability is thrown my way. I hardly need to put up a front of a serious and articulate person for fear of being mistaken as a ready made idiot. In fact, I became ditzy. I am the girl that people laughed at because I had so many “blonde” moments. I am the girl that people laughed at because I seem to be the centre of attention by being gullible, fragile and somewhat dim-witted. Many stories of my faux pas became immortalised over dinners, drinks and social gatherings. People laughed over how was it possible that I could blundered like this, but in a cute and endearing manner which tickled everyone’s fancy. I laughed, and wondered how did I ever end up this way.

I laughed, and realised that I never laugh at myself. I never forgive myself or provide myself with any leeway to get out from erroneous situations. But I walked the long road to conclude that this newfound ability of being amused with myself is exemplifying my confidence in own being. That I am at peace with myself and who i am. That i no longer think that my self-worth is determined from an outward perspective, that i no longer fear that being labelled as a blondie will tarnish the reputation of my self and that i no longer really care and should care too much of how my character is perceived socially. The seemingly tiny revelation opens up an unlimited world filled with new sense of liberty. Had i not go through what i did, this sensation of freedom would still remain as a notion which was understood by the mind, but not experienced and lived with the life. For that, I am deeply in gratitude to my life for teaching me this important lesson of knowing my own self worth.

For that, I am happy to be someone that people love to poke fun at, but within my private moments I would engage in my own self reflection and rejoice in the fact that no one can take away from me the foundation which I have built in my life, of which creates the essence of who i am.

Hello you..

Getting acquainted with the self again is indeed a great experience. It’s such a good feeling having yourself back. And that’s what I have been feeling since I got back from my 3 weeks hiatus in Malaysia. Back with a feisty short haircut which apparently took off an additional 5 years from my face. Perfect.

I strolled into work feeling much more relax and at ease than usual, probably due to my new haircut or my new zen lifestyle. Peppermint tea in the morning and ylang ylang in replaced of heavy commercial perfumes. Took my lunch time seriously by going out and taking in the fresh spring breeze and sunshine. Trying to get into the mode of doing lunchtime run and on a totally unrelated note, paying more attention to coordinate my wardrobe with the color of my shoes give me great pleasure. I might sound like a bimbotic soulless chick, but coming from me this is such a welcomed change. Nothing like doing little things to give the self a break from the militaristic chain of thoughts centred around the what need not/should not/required to be done.

Before I left, I felt like a survivor of a train wreck. Like a walking tragedy. It was an aghasting period to know what you put yourself through, but to really be able to savor the good times that come out from a period of harshness is so precious now. The parable of “winter turning into spring” etched deeply in my heart became more than a favourite quotation. It sprung into life like a hibernated flower blooming its first petal from its growing bud on the first of september. Giving birth to life, and it’s a totally wondrous experience.

There’s a gnawing fear of losing these moments of sacred happiness, but i suppose being human and it all the cycles of lives are one which we are part of. To maintain our life conditions are one of the hardest thing to do, however it’s worth fighting for. It’s worth fighting on an everyday basis to be able to greet your true self every morning in the mirror and say “hello you”.

And see yourself back, and not the shadow of your self.

Hope personified?

I started the blog with an expression of determination, but having the time to sieve through the various postings over the past several months, the content of my writings seemed to contradict my aspiration to express hope triumphing over all struggles. There were loads of ambiguities. Unspoken air of melancholy. Solemn expressions mostly prevailed. It was a case of hope devoid.

I then thought that this needs to be revived. So much time was wasted indulging in the many mistakes, unfounded and missed opportunities. Strength is not developed from self-exile, but manifested from being free and open even to people who may judge us. Courage is a decision to be so, and so is happiness. I think there’s lots of emptiness and vacuum inside of me, but that has to change now.

I read somewhere on a certain blogspace that “the experience of grief is a great gift….for the heart that breaks is just opening again.” I want to recover from this, and while doing so tell a story. For now and the many steps to come, I want to live my life with my standards, and run my own race. I want to raise my head high even with my own weaknesses and the many deficiencies i may possess.

Each step of the way will be an expression of hope personified. Regardless. This is my determination.

a synopsis of being ambivalence

A friend recently confided that she is struggling with a potential love interest who wants to have her around, but doesn’t want her to stay too long. He would love to be with her, but he couldn’t put himself through the possible hurt which he had apparently been through. Scarred. He wants to express his care for her, but took cautious care to exercise control in restraining it. Which brings to a full circle of rhetorical questions for the true meaning behind the entire ambivalent situation.

It is said that it is hard to meet someone at a later stage of your life of where Milan Kundera’s desribed as the time that ”one’s motifs in lives have been completed”. When one has passes the colorful stages of youths painted with dramas of hurt, betrayal, anger, infidelity and the various corruption of the heart, the canvass of his life has pretty much been decorated with motifs, patterns and colors. When an admiring stranger passed by the piece of art which strikes its mood and its liking, the extent of the admiration can sadly only be accomodated by a silent nod of appreciation. He might be taken by your interest but in all honesty, there is no more space for one to be inclusive as a muse of the painting. Maybe there is. Maybe there isn’t.

The painting’s pretty much has been completed. The painter is no longer looking to paint the town red or looking to add additional form of configuration to his already existing life artefact. His reluctance stemmed from the lost of faith in life or in love seemed undeniably a sad thing to do, but unfortunately something that is very do-able. I thought I understood what he been through. I thought for a moment that I wanted to say that I emphatized with what he had been through, but it does not necessarily translate that it to be an act of understanding the impact of what the poor friend is being put through.

When the greyish shades of adulthood prevailed, there was hardly any answers on wether is it a fair thing to do. Niceties in love ain’t love at all, and all’s fair in the realm of loving ain’t real too. It’s disheartening to know that our hearts had to be exposed to the voracious world of wounded hearts out there. Being ambivalence as cruel as it is reflects the soul of the wounded ones who have withdrawn into their own peripheral existence, determined that it would take much more for anyone to reach them with their socially detached form.

As lame as it is, it’s an aspect of life which is happening a lot these days.

Do it like the chinese

My aunt was here on a visiting stint, and one of the my many ways of showing her my immense gratitude of having watched over my wellbeing and the countless homecooked meals which she has made up the way that the good old fashioned mama is, I brought her and the clan out for a nice dinner, just the way the chinese would do it. Lots of food. Loud. Clatter. Chatter. Boisterious.

As much as I marveled at the grace and the air of feigned sophisticated dining at the french fine dining establishment where the waiters frolicked around you delivering food flavoured with a personal touch, and where sommeliers graced your presence with the delectable wine selection, I do crave for good old fashioned chinese food. The way that I grew up with. The way that I always thought is rather civilised non personified, with the lack of table etiquette and non existing small hushed conversations uttered like the whispers of the wind. In contrast, an appreciation towards a good chinese dinner is one greeted with utmost boisterious nature, filled with remnants of food and beverages all over the table, the diabolical combinations of utensils used for food serving and the complete ignorance of sauces dripping leaving trails of food movement. Sanctity of food is celebrated in the typical chinese mannerism, ala the Olympics big bang style, the fireworks, the lion dance, the drums, and the mythical thunderous Dragon Gate. Everything is proclaimed, outwardly in evidence.

3rd aunt was raving on how sweet the “kai lan” is Down Under compared to the ones in malaysia. One part of the conversation was dedicated to the possibility of the soil difference across the continents, or the hypothesis that they may be after all imported all the way from Hong Kong, which another cousin strongly objected to the theory due to the land shortage which is an obvious shortfall of the otherwise illustrious entertainment island. Wine was consumed with little chinese wine cups which we had no idea what it was suited for, but it didn’t deter our appreciation for our BYO reds. Food was in abundance with arrays of chinese delicacies: steamed oysters in garlic and black bean sauce, deep fried quails, mud crab with spring onion and ginger noodles, spicy chily chicken ribs, peking pork ribs and the debatable kai lan.

More stories unfolded. Apparently 3rd aunt was approached by Maggie Loo to become a model when she was younger which sets some tounge wagging, and the young ones to probed on “who’s maggie loo?”. We spoke about my now deceased grandparents whom i love deeply. How my grandfather used to drink so much that it was a reknown fact that his best friend or his wife is the Guiness Stout. One of my only stark memories is of him sitting on the entrance patio of the house, looking rather oblivious to the entry and exit of the throngs of people. Just happy to be by himself, him and the beer. And the kids would watch him like a hawk, to check if the bottle would be empty soon so that they can volunteer to go and buy the beer, and in return be tipped generously. We reminisced in those trips to the candy stores and the sheer joy of getting an easy way of pocket money. Grandfather was an easy target, and he was almost all the time too drunk to remember anything. My mother would once tell me that her fondest memories growing up is when grandfather returned home with his bicycle, with 2 plastic bags hanging across the two handlebars. It means supper for the kids! Hokkien noodle and char kway teow, heavenly….

We laughed at my grandmother’s obscene profanities uttering series of explicit hokkien coarse words which we kids picked up in her many explosive arguments with my grandfather over his constant drunkenness. Suffice to say that, we all picked up A LOT during our younger years and to utter these even in a private moment to relish those memories bring me much embarrassment. To think that grandmother was gutsy to yell all these at the top of her lungs for all to hear only made us blushed. But, she was loved nevertheless. And missed. And remembered fondly.

We talked about the times that when the house was flooded, we kids started making paper boats floating on the hygienic questionable drainage water. We laughed at my aunt’s complete religious contradictions of mixing up the idea of God and Kwan Yin. Through the rather loud, uncoordinated and unsophisticated dinner, I learnt so much about myself and my family and I realised how powerful these memories were imbuing their presence in my mind.

That’s how family secrets were spilled, at least in this family. They were never discussed openly in conversations, rather they were spilled and divulged. Secrets or informations regarding the family were guarded like the national treasure and hushed. Knowing secretive looks were provided and exchanged all the time matching the geniuses of Morse code to the perplexed younger generations. But, in all instances most secrets were eventually spilled over food. It was also during one of the uncountable food sessions that I found out that these family that I call my own are not one of a biological as my mother was adopted. It was never discussed or talked about and not that it was any issue about it, but myriads of thoughts went through my mind about how mother would have felt when she was younger, but these questions were till date like the many other secrets that the typical chinese household contained within the reservoir of their legacy, still remained as skeletons in the closets.

I find that this is such a warm post to write, and I realised that many of my posts have not been talking about myself. In retrospect, there’s not much of myself that I like to give out as yet, and it dawned to me that i’m behaving like a chinese household lady who’s slowly gathering her skeletons in her expanding wardrobe in this rather large westernised stage, which characterises her world.