Extravagant Impermanence

4 Sep 2019

This morning as I was sipping my coffee, a vision greeted me.

It was a new leaf bearing all the glory of Robert Frost’s “Nothing Gold Can Stay.”

Indeed “Nature’s first green is gold, her hardest hue to hold.”

As I studied the leaf up close I felt humbled.

Its luminous beauty & delicate veins reflect a creator of extravagance, and all the more so considering “it’s only a leaf” and will wither and die soon.

If Nature bothers to put in such exquisite details in a little leaf that might even go noticed, then giving my best to what I do however impermanent the outcome, will truly be an act of freedom & generosity to myself.

Changing narratives

25 August 2019

Last week we had lunch at a restuarant in a shopping mall by the Singapore River in an old part of the city where my mom grew up.

The wait staff got us a table where we could look into the river as we chatted & ate in airconditioned comfort.

As the brightly painted tourist bum boats passed us by, my mom commented on how dirty the river used to be during her childhood & my childhood.

But filthy as the river was then, it was a lifeline to thousands of illiterate people and one of my paternal uncles. I still recall this uncle in a white chinaman t-shirt and cotton shorts of indigo blue. He carried a hook with a wooden handle to pick up gunny sacks of grains to hoist onto his shoulder. Sack by sack, he would carry these food supplies from boat to warehouse from dawn to dusk.

My paternal uncle, Ong Cheong Lock (王章乐） as a teenager. He is now 80 years old.

Somedays when he came back to our extended family, I could see his face, neck and shoulder all badly burnt from the scorching sun. There was no sunscreen in those days. But he would always have a smile for me as he took out the little trinket or sweet he had just bought on his way home with his coolie pay.

Now the river is all clean and green. My uncle is now 80 years old and a grandfather. My own brothers are very fond of him. They see bits of my late dad in him I guess.

My uncle is always very happy to see me at ancestral prayer meets. I’ll always be his “first child” from his bachelor days in my grandma’s home.

My mom also recalled how her dad, my late maternal grandpa, would trudge throughout the river neighbourhood collecting kitchen scraps from households to feed his livestock pigs at home. He did so for many years before he became a temple care taker.

We both agreed that my late grandpa would have been happy to know that 70 plus years later, his daughter and grand daughter would be sitting & lunching in a fairly high end restaurant on the very street he used to walk barefooted to seek for leftovers to feed his pigs.

So birthdays to me are no longer personal. It is also not about counting the years or planning for botox treatment. It has now become an integral part of honouring the ones older than us and sacrifices made for us so that our current life is worth celebrating.

My mom and her sister on a Batam kelong in 2018.

And as we trade stories of past hardship or regrets, we can do so with a spirit of gratitude & respect. And this mindset may embolden us and give us reasons to laugh and to care, without reservation for the days ahead.

My mom, her siblings and their spouses having a laugh outside the temple which her late father cared for.

Turning 76

24 Aug 2019

My mama turned 76 yesterday.

She still works part time in the factory she’s been employed since she was 16.

My mama (R) and her teenage buddy Auntie Moi (L).

As a result she has friends, both the young & the aged, despite not having access to social media.

My mama (background) and my second aunt during a sibling outing to a kelong in Batam Island, Indonesia in 2018.

Her weekends are precious with temple visits, visits with friends & siblings, visits from her grandchildren and the occasional shopping for gifts to give to young colleagues leaving their company.

Mundane tasks such as cleaning, cooking and feeding people & animals anchor her & give her a sense of control & pride, even as she complains about having to do them.

Over the years I’ve learnt not to over analyse things with her. Most grudges with her are easily resolved by a bowl of prawn noodles or a shared concern over the welfare of another person or animal.

My mama makes water offering to Lord Ganesha whenever she visits the temples at Waterloo Street.

I may have a university education, but it’s my illiterate mother who has taught me not to be afraid, and to hold onto my visions, even at times when I cannot read all the signs on my path.

My mama in her 20s. I was about 3 or 4 years old. I looked worried in this picture cos she had caught me cutting my own fringe. Her smile says, “I’m gonna kill you when we get home.”

It’s August and Momo ( Peaches) Season in Japan & Taiwan. So the day before I bought what I believe to be the most expensive peaches my mother has even eaten in her life. 😆

The display reads “寿桃（shou tao)” meaning longevity peaches. Longevity noodles from Kinmen were added.

Peaches are the favourite fruits of the Monkey King. They confer longevity and alacrity. So I wish for my mama and all who are mothers, on her birthday and the days ahead, the same gifts of longevity & alacrity.

My mama at 76. (Tung Lok at Central Mall 20 Aug 2019)

Happy Birthday Mama! 😊

Love in Absentia

4-8-2019

My late dad with newly rescued Kitty Hawk in my brother’s workshop bedroom in Batam Island.

Around February this year I placed some chiku seeds in different pots by the window of my home. The chiku fruit was from a tree planted by my dad when he was hale and hearty.

Weeks past, some seeds turned moldy and had to be discarded.

Recently, in the midst of my fading enthusiasm, one of the seeds sprouted!

Seedling from my father’s chiku tree today. 4 Aug 2019

Today my dad would have been 81 years old.

This morning my brother & I dropped by the columbarium to place a marigold by his picture and by the picture of his father, who passed on when my dad was less than one year old. We placed one marigold for our dad’s single mother too.

My dad as a young man in Zion Rd area and as an old man in Arab Street.

Happy Birthday, Dad! Thank you for being the best father you knew how to be despite being fatherless yourself.♥️

One Lunch

6 July 2019

Bastet, Cat Goddess of Courage, and Ganesha, Giver of Wisdom.

One day an elderly client came to the car workshop to pick up his Mercedes Benz from my brother.

Benz owner then took a drive together with the mechanic to become better acquainted with the car’s personality.

As my brother was describing some of the finer details of the car during the ride, the old man suddenly asked if he was related to a person called “Ah Ong.”

Ah Ong (my dad) and Andrew (my brother) in the late 90s.

He had been watching my brother, and found his mannerisms reminding him of an old friend whom he hadn’t seen for years.

“Ah Ong” happens to be the name by which my late father was frequently addressed by relatives and friends.

It turned out that the old man knew our dad.

My brother then told him that “Ah Ong” had passed on a few years ago.

When the car ride ended, the elderly Benz driver said to my brother, “Your father bought me lunch when I had nothing. Everyone is scared of poor people, except your old man. If you’re ever in need of food, just call me. I’ll buy you all the meals you need.”

My brother thanked him for remembering our dad and agreed to keep in touch.

My dad wouldn’t have expected or known that the ONE lunch he had bought for someone facing hard times years ago, would end up contributing to the future livelihood of my brother and turn into promises of food relief should the need ever arise.

This “Roadrunner” card was drawn and given to me by my brother when he was in kindergarten. As an adult his work continues to deal with speed & precision.

Lion-hearted Honesty

20 June 2019

The elderly man who sold me these clay wind lion figurines on Mofan Street (模范街）Kinmen Island, was tall & bespectacled.

Now and then when he spoke or laughed, a single incisor would peep from the upper corner of his nearly toothless mouth.

After I had selected the pieces from the display set , he took out the boxes that held the new ones.

Then very methodically, he opened up each box and took out each lion to scrutinize for cracks and workmanship defects.

Pleased with the outcome of his inspection, he then wrapped and put back each piece into the designated boxes again.

Only after that, he noted down the prices and billed me.

This man must have loved his wind lions more than money, to make sure that I didn’t take home any broken souvenirs.

Passport to Freedom

4 June 2019 (Last day of Ramadan)

My day began with catching a ride from a friend to the ICA Building on Lavender Street to collect my mom’s new passport. He had a class on in town and wanted to spare me the cab fare. Grace!

At the ICA counter, the officer attending to me wore a dark blazer and spotted a pair of gold rimmed spectacles. Her surname was “Angullia” as shown on the name plate sitting solidly on her desk.

I told her this was my very first encounter with an actual person bearing her surname. I wondered if she was one of the descendants of the builders of the Angullia Mosque in Little India (opp Mustaffa Centre)

The Angullia Mosque in Little India, Singapore. Courtesy of Holidify

“Yes, that’s our family mosque,” she beamed as she answered. Her ancestors were Gujarati merchants who built the mosque. I could feel her pride and happiness about her Angullia ancestry.

After she cleared the administrative protocol she handed me my mom’s new passport.

“What happened to your leg?” Mdm Angullia asked quietly. There was a look of genuine concern and interest on her solemn face.

I explained to her how I had contracted childhood polio despite having access to vaccines. But I was quick to add that I bore no resentment for what happened. Polio had already crippled one of my legs, and the last thing I needed was for it to cripple my soul as well.

On my way home on the MRT I recalled how my childhood disease had divided my family and put my mother & late grandmother on a constant blame battle & guilt trip.

When misfortune strikes, feeling bad or sorry, attributing blame and to some extent, seeking compensation or apology can trap us in a state of eternal victimhood. It is as if an invisible cord ties us to the cause of our suffering, and in my case, the disease that has brought much grief.

So while the adults were still fretting over how to disguise my limp (as if it could be done), or to protect me from comments, I actually had to face the world all on my own, on one leg. Alone.

In retrospect, this isolation has given me lots of practice to be unafraid if I don’t fit in.

But precious time had been wasted on pitying me. Precious tears were shed for not looking normal. And precious efforts were squandered on overcompensating for my disability as I lived in fear of not being good enough.

Thus forgiveness, for whatever wrong or tragedy one has endured, even without the promise of an apology or hope of justice, is really the passport to freedom.

Cat siblings, Bella & Topaz lost their mother when they were still nursing, saw their brother, Amber, and a fellow community cat, Silver maul to death by dogs. Who could they have sought justice from, having no speech and being just animals?

Fixing My Mouth to Fix My Life

12 May 2019

I love my dentist.

He’s about my age or maybe younger or older. We don’t interact long enough to know personal details.

He’ll explain what’s going on with my fillings, my wisdom teeth and gum health for someone of my vintage. He has no fancy products to recommend me but just good old cleaning and scaling, to be followed by diligent brushing and flossing at home.

He likes to tell every thing as it is. And before any panic sets in, he’ll say, “This is age. There’s nothing much you can do about it.”

“It’s happening to me too,” he’ll add with a beam, as if he’s just shared the secret to longevity with me.

However, if a patient insists on further treatment he’ll comply, but not before reminding her that all corrective improvements done at this point of our lives should have a larger purpose beyond the aesthetic.

Besides, there’s also our genetic predispositions to contend with. What works for others may not necessarily work for us.

The constant public exhortations on active aging with accompanying graphics of elderly folks attempting dramatic feats while inspiring, may also convey the idea that we have complete control over how we age. On top of that, the reality of degenerative issues brought on by aging are quickly glossed over with yet more promises of cures with anti-aging supplements, foods and lifestyle choices.

Everyone has a different path. Advice needs to be dispensed and taken responsibly.

I used to be easily intimidated by pharmacy ladies charging at me with offers of cream to remove my pigmentation spots. Against their uniformed complexion I became self conscious of my rather uneven facial colouring. I felt like a peasant woman surrounded by noble ladies even though I knew at the end of the work day most of us would be returning home to our HDB flats.

But when I realised that those spots on my face are indicators of my advancing years, exposure to the elements and health history, I started to see myself more clearly and more kindly. I became more interested in how hard my liver must be working instead of how flawless my skin should look.

So these days I wear my aging face like a badge of courage and smile appreciatively at the pharmacy staff ambushing in the aisles with their pots of promises.

In tracking my dental health, my dentist has shown me that being pain free and enjoying food is as important as looking good. And aging with all its ensuing uncertainties is actually very natural. What becomes unnatural is when we believe that we can remain youthful if we eat or apply the right things, hang out with the right folks and keep up with technology and other trends.

While we’re quick to praise the elderly for knowing how to scan & pay, we don’t give old folks enough credit for the wisdom & resourcefulness they may have accumulated from years of having survived sweeping changes to support our present success.

So next time when I meet an older person, I would try to ask what he or she knows & thinks, instead of what he or she can do.

“The Word became flesh …” John 1:14

25 April 2019

Handwriting reveals a lot about a person. In the same way they can hide pain, words can also become real and bring relief.

Back in the 90s, there was a boy in my class who repeatedly handed in work that showed very messy handwriting. My initial reaction was to get angry. I was angry with him for being untidy. I was angry with him for being inconsiderate. But mostly I was angry with him for not respecting me enough to show me some nice handwriting.

One day I received another dreaded handwritten composition full of ugly words from the same boy. But before I could fly into a rage, his image popped into my head.

He had his fringe to hide his pimply forehead while his oversized spectacles resembling laboratory goggles perched precariously on his nose. Even though he wasn’t particularly witty, he was always attentive and looked like he enjoyed my lessons.

He was keen when I introduced the use of fountain pen to his class, and even showed me the one which his grandfather lent him to bring to school.

So I couldn’t understand where this insane handwriting and incoherent babbling came from.

By this time, instead of getting upset, and hating him, I decided to put away that red pen for the time being and just run my fingers over his mangled words.

This must be one of those “the Heart knows reasons that Reason does not know” moments. Till this day I couldn’t explain fully what made me do that.

And something interesting did happen when I touched his tortured letters. I felt the boy’s frustrations, as if he was carving or maybe even stabbing the words onto paper. At the back of the page, I felt the eerie graininess of the indentations as if some creatures were trapped underneath & struggling to break free.

My annoyance abated further when I saw him in my mind, hunching over his work, all alone in class, because he was always the one to finish last.

In our following lesson, I got him to stay back after class had ended.

I placed the train wreck of his composition between us. He registered all the comments in red with his eyes but held back his emotions.

Then I asked if there was something wrong with my instructions that had confused him and caused him to write like this. Was I unclear? Did I speak too fast? Was the deadline too tight?

He answered all my questions bravely and adjusted his specs that were sliding down his nose. Then he looked down, as if about to cry.

“You said you like English. Then why do you keep on writing like this?” I prompted, fighting the irritation that was threatening to crawl right back into my heart. (Bad handwriting kills me)

“Yes, I enjoy the lessons. It’s just that I’m under A LOT of pressure,” he explained and avoided my eyes.

He then disclosed that his parents had high expectations of him and his older brother. They were not pleased that their older son did not make it to junior college. My student thus lived in constant anxiety of disappointing his parents.

“My parents are always telling me that they’ll be happy with anything I do as long as I can do better than them,” he said sadly.

“But isn’t it natural for parents to wish for their children to do better than them?” I asked, trying to sound as objective as I could.

“But Miss Ong, my dad is a neurosurgeon and my mom runs her own pharmaceutical company. How can I possibly do better than them?” he asked, barely able to conceal his sense of defeat even as he tried to force a smile.

“And even if I were given 3 life times to try, I won’t be able to do better than them,” he emphasised.

His choice of illustration stunned and saddened me deeply.

When he was done explaining, we looked at each other and started to laugh. Perhaps we laughed out of relief and at the absurdity of the challenge before him.

There was something very sad but strangely uplifting in our shared humour that day, even though we were still clueless on how to deal with his work quality.

However after we spoke, his handwriting and expressions started to improve. He became less moody and less awkward. It was as if a secret spell that had kept him frozen had been broken.

At the parent-teacher meeting I mustered enough courage to let his parents know that their well meaning intentions were chipping away at their son’s confidence and hindering his attempts to learn.

I pushed my luck a bit by saying I understand that it wouldn’t be easy for high achievers like them to accept that their son might have a different path from theirs.

The father was a cultivated man with a gentle presence although he looked at me sternly when I spoke. The well groomed mother listened on quietly. (Perhaps they were going to complain to the school that I was encouraging their son to be a loser)

Back then I knew I was only a teacher drawing a fixed salary, single and without kids of my own. How was I qualified to advise married people who were way more financially capable and more academically successful than me on educating their son?

But back then I also knew that my student was too young, too inarticulate and loved his parents way too much to tell them that their dreams were killing him. And if I didn’t at least speak up for him then, how was I qualified to be his teacher?

A few years later while in town, I passed by the dad on his way to lunch.

He called out to me and seemed really delighted to see me. He shook my hand warmly and smiled as he gave me updates of my student, his son.

His older boy had graduated from polytechnic. My student was also enjoying his poly studies and moving on to new things.

As we parted ways, I could sense that the surgeon was genuinely happy because his boys were happy. No further conditions were needed.

And that was it. Words do become flesh.

New Moon Seeing

5 April 2019

A woman on a visit to her birthplace after many years took her daughter to the shop where she used to eat porridge in her youth.

Delighted, she found themselves a table while her daughter was still browsing in the shops nearby.

The porridge business owner took her order & said calmly that there would be a 20min wait for her childhood porridge. And no, her request to split a bowl of porridge into 2 portions for sharing would not be possible because it was not their business practice. (The man couldn’t have known that his customer had taken her breakfast earlier on in the hotel.)

Mid way, she was also told that if she was in a hurry, she could go elsewhere for her porridge because there were other shops serving similar fare.

As she waited, the woman came to realise that her porridge memory had no meaning to the porridge seller or even to her own daughter. It was hers and hers alone.

So when the porridge finally arrived, she asked for it to be packed for takeaway.

Our tribal disposition & survival needs tend to cultivate the illusion that the strength & validity of what we feel, think and experience depend on the amount of support we receive when we share them. But the reality is, even with the closest of friends or kins, every thing we experience is still private.

And perhaps if we learn to accept this, we’ll feel less afraid if no one understands what we’re going through, and less lonely if no one celebrates our happy moments with us.

In seeing that all memories, pains and joys are deeply personal, no matter how much or little they can resonate with others, we might then see things as they really are, before we move on to see things as we wish them to be.

This Mandala was dedicated to the safety of Karuna, a dog who took a very long flight from Kathmandu to Frankfurt for the chance of a better life. Lots of things could have gone wrong for her all alone in the animal cargo cabin of the plane. But she made it.