4am – the blazing alarm went off faithfully, waking me up from the only 10 minutes of sleep I had had all night – well at least it seemed so then. I had gone through another wretched night of insomnia, making it well over 2-week stretch this time. Sleep and I have had this on-going incompatible relationship in that I love her but she hates me. I have longed to improve it and yet never come close. She remains far-fetched as ever while I the scorned rejected lover.
I remember having sleeping disorder even as young as 7 or 8. Confused and frustrated, I fought with great effort to enter that impossible rest. The darkness encompassing me was accompanied by the deep and rhythmetic breathing of my sister beside me, making it even more ghost-like with every ticking minute. Tears would swirl in eventually as I lay there aching and hopeless. I would try to climb to my sister’s bed and put my arm around her, hoping sleep would flow through and reach me. Desperated, I even groped through the darkness to mom and dad’s room and stood on mom’s bedside, scaring her half to death. Night after night, sleeplessness continued to haunt and torment me until my young body gave out and sleep claimed me at last.
Ironically, as alone as I seemed to be during those endless nights, I was on the contrary never alone. My enemies then included not only insomnia but also the bigger evil – guilt, accompanied by visions of firing hell that I believed to be my rightful final destination. I was living my life then as a petty thief in the daytime and tortured prisoner of the imaginary hell at night. The money I had stolen from my neighbors did no longer make my deprived heart merry but in fact paralyzed it at the grip of guilt. Strange how all things, blurry under the sun, become alive and acute at the nightfall, awake or asleep. Stranger, yet more true, is that the blissful slumber would not arrive till all guilt exposed and excused under the daylight. There had been a few confessions disclosed to secure that rest but none worked till the one with Christ that sealed the case and brought the ultimate pardon many years later.
Sadly, we are the byproduct of both psychological and physical instance. My conscience may have been cleared, but my insomnia continued on, having been triggered by various reasons such as out of town trips, drudgery of life or anxiety for children. A dear friend of mine whose faith and enthusiasm surpasses me once claimed Philippians 4:13 as the sole solution to all ailments or diseases, insomnia included. I couldn’t convince her as much as she couldn’t convince me. Still, I wonder: is my sleeplessness a sign of my weak faith? As believers, can we truly claim that promise and conquer all things? Another dear friend of mine in NH had little to say about the causes and solutions for this common oppressor, and yet his approach impresses me more. Instead of fighting it, he gets out of bed, reads his Bible and prays. He has a private date with God. I couldn’t help thinking: is this what they say “if you can’t fight them, join them”? And maybe that’s my ultimate comeback with this rival?
Many sleepless nights later…. It is almost weekend. My depleted body by now has become numb and my eye lids heavy as I drove in on another chilling morn. I do not know how many more insomniac nights still yet to come, but for now I rejoice in a 2-day luxury when sleep becomes irrelevant. While no match with this life-long enemy of mine, I take comfort in that the battle has already been won on the day when that tortured soul met her Advocate. As nightfall comes with the threat of another long, awake night, I feel no evil. I am never alone. This time around, in tossing and turning, let me be careful to remember, my company is no longer sin or guilt but rather a sweet comforter and friend.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Friday, January 8, 2010
Happy New Year
It is indeed here – last day of 2009. I had meant to sleep in and go to work an hour later, but insomnia hit me again last night and I was out on the road before 4:30. After a clear and chill night with full moon, I was surprised to meet 2009’s last day in a veil of dark rain. The road and office were quieter than my estimation - another one of my surprises. I am beginning to warm up to this dreadful day after all.
I have wondered how many people dislike New Year as we do. In our younger days (or years), it was never exciting to begin with. I remember we celebrated ONCE by going out to a New Year dinner with another couple shortly after we got married. After that, it quickly became some drudgery of counting game that we hate to play. 2000 was a monumental number, or daemon, that we once considered the evil of all time as in the sense of the conclusion of 20th century, or a transition from 2-digit to 4-digit era. From the beginning of the 90’s, we had been agonizing over this doom with increasing intensity. The numbering game was played over and over each year – “imagine how OLD we will be at 2000!” A decade later, we are still playing the same game with a mournful heart more than ever, pitying at the same time our past ignorance and fear. The once dreadful “How OLD” question has become irrelevant.
Regardless, the ball will drop when the clock chimes 12 times. This year we have managed to find our usual couple friends to help us go through another wretchedness of this holiday. There will be munchies, pizza, dessert and helpful portions of spirits to ease our pain. Our accomplices, more exact, victims, are many years our junior thus we will take part in their innocence and energy and hopefully go through the dark hour less scarred. Making friends does not come easy for us, but this friendship has actually lasted for almost a year and a half with hardly any deliberate effort from our part. We think a well-concealed secret of our age is the contributing factor of the success of this relationship. The goodness of these two kind souls helps too, as they have generously extended their family to ours in many other occasions such as Easter and Christmas. For people like us, more me than him, commitment has evolved into a major challenge as we grow older. New Year’s Eve, though, is an exception. We rely on the company of much braver and jovial souls to pass through the darkness.
What is it that makes New Year such a grave evil? It’s more than the drag of changing digits on the checkbook; it’s the passing of another year, good or bad, that you can’t recall or you wish to undo. When young, it meant more than past regret. The luxury of youth tags New Year with a hope, illusion or not, for self-improvement and a future that seems too far away. It needs no champagne, firework or parade – it is a celebration itself. I remember waking up on and off in a fire cracker popping night, my young heart thudding from not only an exciting day ahead but also a rebirth of a better year or a better me. Even then, it was never about the candy, new outfits or parties; it was always about a new me, forgetting the past regret and moving on to a fantasy world where faults and sins relinquished their hold of me.
Then I grew up. Older and sadder, I found New Year out; it was never magical but an imposter with a noble name. The ghost of the past would not go away. It quickly consumed the present and a hopeful future became once again a disillusion. No, New Year changes nothing, me or this life, but 1 or 2 digits. The one and only rebirth sealed with forever guaranteed newness remains in Christ. And yes, as long as this life continues, sins shall drag on and at times cloud our visions on the surety of a perfection that does not fade or taint. Regardless, when all toil and heartaches are done, the ball shall drop once more and a true New Year will be celebrated forever for its promised affluence: a new heaven and earth with a new life that never grows old or disappoint. Until then, we will just have to make it through yet another night of torment with good friends, plenty of indulgences, and yes, hope.
Let the ball drop….
I have wondered how many people dislike New Year as we do. In our younger days (or years), it was never exciting to begin with. I remember we celebrated ONCE by going out to a New Year dinner with another couple shortly after we got married. After that, it quickly became some drudgery of counting game that we hate to play. 2000 was a monumental number, or daemon, that we once considered the evil of all time as in the sense of the conclusion of 20th century, or a transition from 2-digit to 4-digit era. From the beginning of the 90’s, we had been agonizing over this doom with increasing intensity. The numbering game was played over and over each year – “imagine how OLD we will be at 2000!” A decade later, we are still playing the same game with a mournful heart more than ever, pitying at the same time our past ignorance and fear. The once dreadful “How OLD” question has become irrelevant.
Regardless, the ball will drop when the clock chimes 12 times. This year we have managed to find our usual couple friends to help us go through another wretchedness of this holiday. There will be munchies, pizza, dessert and helpful portions of spirits to ease our pain. Our accomplices, more exact, victims, are many years our junior thus we will take part in their innocence and energy and hopefully go through the dark hour less scarred. Making friends does not come easy for us, but this friendship has actually lasted for almost a year and a half with hardly any deliberate effort from our part. We think a well-concealed secret of our age is the contributing factor of the success of this relationship. The goodness of these two kind souls helps too, as they have generously extended their family to ours in many other occasions such as Easter and Christmas. For people like us, more me than him, commitment has evolved into a major challenge as we grow older. New Year’s Eve, though, is an exception. We rely on the company of much braver and jovial souls to pass through the darkness.
What is it that makes New Year such a grave evil? It’s more than the drag of changing digits on the checkbook; it’s the passing of another year, good or bad, that you can’t recall or you wish to undo. When young, it meant more than past regret. The luxury of youth tags New Year with a hope, illusion or not, for self-improvement and a future that seems too far away. It needs no champagne, firework or parade – it is a celebration itself. I remember waking up on and off in a fire cracker popping night, my young heart thudding from not only an exciting day ahead but also a rebirth of a better year or a better me. Even then, it was never about the candy, new outfits or parties; it was always about a new me, forgetting the past regret and moving on to a fantasy world where faults and sins relinquished their hold of me.
Then I grew up. Older and sadder, I found New Year out; it was never magical but an imposter with a noble name. The ghost of the past would not go away. It quickly consumed the present and a hopeful future became once again a disillusion. No, New Year changes nothing, me or this life, but 1 or 2 digits. The one and only rebirth sealed with forever guaranteed newness remains in Christ. And yes, as long as this life continues, sins shall drag on and at times cloud our visions on the surety of a perfection that does not fade or taint. Regardless, when all toil and heartaches are done, the ball shall drop once more and a true New Year will be celebrated forever for its promised affluence: a new heaven and earth with a new life that never grows old or disappoint. Until then, we will just have to make it through yet another night of torment with good friends, plenty of indulgences, and yes, hope.
Let the ball drop….
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Silent Night
Christmas Eve. The road was in a deeper slumber than usual at 4:30 in the morning. So was the parking lot, and the office. It will probably continue to remain deserted till well after 5am or even 6. I had a restless night, but the solitude of this hour energized me. I was savoring every minute of this “peace on earth” while the world slept away.
There is something addictive about aloneness, or being the only sobering one. As I grew older, I have found it safe and exciting at the same time: safe as in no harm since you are at a vacuum state with everything, danger included, coming to a halt; exciting as in feeling the only one alive and awake. I would not have traded solitude such as this for a world of wealth. And it comes once a year on Christmas Eve.
Yes, Christmas shall come in just a few more hours. All gifts have been acquired, most of which delivered. We seem to have developed a pattern of simplifying this commercial ritual as years go by, especially after the children were grown. We would like to claim the true meaning of Christmas as our excuse, but the truth is neither one of us finds crowd or fighting crowd a plausible choice. For him, shopping itself already is a violation of existence. Shopping in a chaotic mass of fellow shoppers may well be burning in hell with unquenchable fire. I can sympathize with this sentiment fully once when I was at a supermarket in Okinawa surrounded by a swarm of shoppers with no room to breathe or move. It was like drowning in a sea and dying a hopeless and violent death. I remember having an out-of-body experience watching myself frozen in shock, unable to feel any movement except for tears swirling in my eyes. To me, hell would be that.
In contrast, the picture of heaven is never crowded, and hopefully quiet, like 4:40 in the morning at my office, or a drive on a winter road with snow draping on the trees and miles and miles of nothing in view except silence. It could also be the last Christmas Eve in New Hampshire after the church service when we drove on the deserted Route 101A to hunt for a restaurant for our Christmas dinner. When we finally found one, the elated shouts of joy escaping from all of us might as well be the same ones as if the pearly gates had just opened up for us. There were but two or three dinners inside. The food was nothing special and yet to dates it was by far the best dinner EVER. Somehow, the memorable and happy moments in life always seem to associate with peace and quiet, me-against-the-whole-world aloneness.
And yet, except for the solitude on the roads at 4am on Christmas Eve, no special moments in life can be planned or repeated. They came almost always in a surprise package. While there is no more 101A and no snow in the southern Virginia, we had made up our mind to recapture the New England magic this year. We headed out after 6:30pm, awaiting a city to retire with the stores closed and shoppers gone. Were we mortified to see Virginia violating all our expectation with cars coming and going in every direction, shops still open such as Wal-Mart, WalGreen and ample restaurants for choosing. Then when we got inside, we were seated with a roomful of merry diners eating and drinking away. It was like a 5-year-old on the Christmas morning anticipating a toy train, opening up a gift that resembles a train and NOT getting a train. The void followed by disillusion comes in and leaves him heartbroken. Gone was the silent night, the joy to the world and all hope and dream.
Does our memory ever retain its authenticity or unavoidably become tainted by our mind? The answer is obvious. As much as I would like to vouch for New England’s excellencies, I know well that she was by no means devoid of faults. Like a photographer, our mind continues to touch up our past, 2007 Christmas Eve included, to make her forever matchless. Mirage or not, her memory is indeed wrapped in heaven-like solace, from the snow buried winter to a whispering heart yearning for soundlessness. For me, the best Christmas gift is portrayed fully in that ancient old song: the Holy Infant, the promise of the redeeming grace, the heavenly peace – glistening in a night oh so silent.
There is something addictive about aloneness, or being the only sobering one. As I grew older, I have found it safe and exciting at the same time: safe as in no harm since you are at a vacuum state with everything, danger included, coming to a halt; exciting as in feeling the only one alive and awake. I would not have traded solitude such as this for a world of wealth. And it comes once a year on Christmas Eve.
Yes, Christmas shall come in just a few more hours. All gifts have been acquired, most of which delivered. We seem to have developed a pattern of simplifying this commercial ritual as years go by, especially after the children were grown. We would like to claim the true meaning of Christmas as our excuse, but the truth is neither one of us finds crowd or fighting crowd a plausible choice. For him, shopping itself already is a violation of existence. Shopping in a chaotic mass of fellow shoppers may well be burning in hell with unquenchable fire. I can sympathize with this sentiment fully once when I was at a supermarket in Okinawa surrounded by a swarm of shoppers with no room to breathe or move. It was like drowning in a sea and dying a hopeless and violent death. I remember having an out-of-body experience watching myself frozen in shock, unable to feel any movement except for tears swirling in my eyes. To me, hell would be that.
In contrast, the picture of heaven is never crowded, and hopefully quiet, like 4:40 in the morning at my office, or a drive on a winter road with snow draping on the trees and miles and miles of nothing in view except silence. It could also be the last Christmas Eve in New Hampshire after the church service when we drove on the deserted Route 101A to hunt for a restaurant for our Christmas dinner. When we finally found one, the elated shouts of joy escaping from all of us might as well be the same ones as if the pearly gates had just opened up for us. There were but two or three dinners inside. The food was nothing special and yet to dates it was by far the best dinner EVER. Somehow, the memorable and happy moments in life always seem to associate with peace and quiet, me-against-the-whole-world aloneness.
And yet, except for the solitude on the roads at 4am on Christmas Eve, no special moments in life can be planned or repeated. They came almost always in a surprise package. While there is no more 101A and no snow in the southern Virginia, we had made up our mind to recapture the New England magic this year. We headed out after 6:30pm, awaiting a city to retire with the stores closed and shoppers gone. Were we mortified to see Virginia violating all our expectation with cars coming and going in every direction, shops still open such as Wal-Mart, WalGreen and ample restaurants for choosing. Then when we got inside, we were seated with a roomful of merry diners eating and drinking away. It was like a 5-year-old on the Christmas morning anticipating a toy train, opening up a gift that resembles a train and NOT getting a train. The void followed by disillusion comes in and leaves him heartbroken. Gone was the silent night, the joy to the world and all hope and dream.
Does our memory ever retain its authenticity or unavoidably become tainted by our mind? The answer is obvious. As much as I would like to vouch for New England’s excellencies, I know well that she was by no means devoid of faults. Like a photographer, our mind continues to touch up our past, 2007 Christmas Eve included, to make her forever matchless. Mirage or not, her memory is indeed wrapped in heaven-like solace, from the snow buried winter to a whispering heart yearning for soundlessness. For me, the best Christmas gift is portrayed fully in that ancient old song: the Holy Infant, the promise of the redeeming grace, the heavenly peace – glistening in a night oh so silent.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Happy Birthday
The burdensome December marches on as the Christmas carol continues to play. The drum rolls are picking up with shoppers flooding in and out of stores and streets collapse in hopeless halt at times. There is no month as frustrating as December for me. On top of all Christmas shopping and gift wrapping, we have yet a wedding anniversary and birthday to face. As the numbers crunch up for both events, we have slowly adapted an unspoken “no tell, no fuss” policy. Instead of causes for celebration, they became somewhat cruel reminders of youth gone and thus grounds for mourning. Birthday, especially, with or without the big O, is my worst fear.
Coming from a different culture when birthdays are seldom honored except for significant number such as 1, 50, 70 or 80, I have never regarded them with such deliberate attention as Americans would do even after decades of rooting here in this country. When the children were young, we did make some effort to do something special, but never anything elaborated. When celebrated, they were always kept within the family. For us, the adults, we do even less. The big 4 ‘O’ is the milestone when celebration officially transitioned to lamentation and then a hush-hush shame as years go by.
In contrast to us, my coworkers here have been faithfully and joyfully celebrating birthdays as most people do. Once in a while, emails of invite will be sent out for going out to lunch in honor of someone’s birthday. Sometimes they would take a step further to surprise the birthday boy/girl with balloons and streamers all decked up in his cube. I would then feel sorry for the poor victim being a public spectacle like that and rejoice it wasn’t me. After over one and half year, I remain a bystander in both social events and personal life. My gruff exterior is there to repel unwanted attention on my space, my birthday included, which is to remain anonymous, left alone or non-existent.
And that was why I stood there, mouth dropped open, dumbfounded and perplexed when I walked into that nightmare on that birthday morning: my cube filled with colorful balloons, streamers and ribbons everywhere. It was 4:40 in the morning. The office was dark and deserted and yet I felt totally exposed as if being caught half naked. The spot light was on; I was alone on the center stage and the audience below was screaming in their laughter.
How should a scrooge like me, after the shock, handle a crisis such as this? On top of all the mixed emotions, my brain was racing hard to sort out some proper solution to the predicament I was in. My first instinct was to tear down all the intrusion from above the ceiling to every inch of my 4’ x 6’ floor. I started by cutting one balloon, which resulted in an unexpected pop and scared me half to death. My only company at that very hour in the morning was another coworker of the same floor. I was sure he jumped at the loud pop too. I could not risk continuing to terrorize both of us, so I resolved to take down the streamers, banners and balloons from the walls, cabinets and ceiling. In my irrational frenzy I was thinking only to bury or destroy all the evidences of my public humiliation. There were, however, brief and yet distinct moments when I suspected that these people whom I have closely guarded and kept off for so long might actually like me – for whatever reasons I could not tell. I am the gruff and rigid old bone that is unbendable and unmixable. Except for work, I have nothing in common with them. I am used to be set apart from their chit chats, out lunching and IMing. It bothered me in the beginning that I was not adorable here as all vein people would do, but I was finally fine with it. Does this fuss mean otherwise? As a creature of habits, I found this confusing and unacceptable and at the same time frustrating as I was hit by the alarming revelation that I was almost happy!
My confusion continued on as the coworkers came in. Their displeasure in my “recovering acts” was evident. In fact, they were mad at me. While I considered their actions offensive, they considered mine even more so. I was the criminal and they were the victims. In my pathetic effort for making truce, I managed to come to this deduction: they had invaded my space of privacy but I was to enjoy and appreciate it – at least till they came in to witness (using their words). The result was ironic: I ended up spending the rest of the day trying to apologize as a dutiful citizen on earth with etiquettes would do when I struggled but failed in my quest for justice or answer to yet another mystification of life.
On 2009 birthday of mine, I reaffirmed two precious, ancient-old truth: (1) you cannot please everyone; it’s either me or the rest of the world. (2) Birthdays should not be casually celebrated except for 1, 50, 70 or 80.
As far as birthdays are concerned, the Chinese are indeed wise after all.
Coming from a different culture when birthdays are seldom honored except for significant number such as 1, 50, 70 or 80, I have never regarded them with such deliberate attention as Americans would do even after decades of rooting here in this country. When the children were young, we did make some effort to do something special, but never anything elaborated. When celebrated, they were always kept within the family. For us, the adults, we do even less. The big 4 ‘O’ is the milestone when celebration officially transitioned to lamentation and then a hush-hush shame as years go by.
In contrast to us, my coworkers here have been faithfully and joyfully celebrating birthdays as most people do. Once in a while, emails of invite will be sent out for going out to lunch in honor of someone’s birthday. Sometimes they would take a step further to surprise the birthday boy/girl with balloons and streamers all decked up in his cube. I would then feel sorry for the poor victim being a public spectacle like that and rejoice it wasn’t me. After over one and half year, I remain a bystander in both social events and personal life. My gruff exterior is there to repel unwanted attention on my space, my birthday included, which is to remain anonymous, left alone or non-existent.
And that was why I stood there, mouth dropped open, dumbfounded and perplexed when I walked into that nightmare on that birthday morning: my cube filled with colorful balloons, streamers and ribbons everywhere. It was 4:40 in the morning. The office was dark and deserted and yet I felt totally exposed as if being caught half naked. The spot light was on; I was alone on the center stage and the audience below was screaming in their laughter.
How should a scrooge like me, after the shock, handle a crisis such as this? On top of all the mixed emotions, my brain was racing hard to sort out some proper solution to the predicament I was in. My first instinct was to tear down all the intrusion from above the ceiling to every inch of my 4’ x 6’ floor. I started by cutting one balloon, which resulted in an unexpected pop and scared me half to death. My only company at that very hour in the morning was another coworker of the same floor. I was sure he jumped at the loud pop too. I could not risk continuing to terrorize both of us, so I resolved to take down the streamers, banners and balloons from the walls, cabinets and ceiling. In my irrational frenzy I was thinking only to bury or destroy all the evidences of my public humiliation. There were, however, brief and yet distinct moments when I suspected that these people whom I have closely guarded and kept off for so long might actually like me – for whatever reasons I could not tell. I am the gruff and rigid old bone that is unbendable and unmixable. Except for work, I have nothing in common with them. I am used to be set apart from their chit chats, out lunching and IMing. It bothered me in the beginning that I was not adorable here as all vein people would do, but I was finally fine with it. Does this fuss mean otherwise? As a creature of habits, I found this confusing and unacceptable and at the same time frustrating as I was hit by the alarming revelation that I was almost happy!
My confusion continued on as the coworkers came in. Their displeasure in my “recovering acts” was evident. In fact, they were mad at me. While I considered their actions offensive, they considered mine even more so. I was the criminal and they were the victims. In my pathetic effort for making truce, I managed to come to this deduction: they had invaded my space of privacy but I was to enjoy and appreciate it – at least till they came in to witness (using their words). The result was ironic: I ended up spending the rest of the day trying to apologize as a dutiful citizen on earth with etiquettes would do when I struggled but failed in my quest for justice or answer to yet another mystification of life.
On 2009 birthday of mine, I reaffirmed two precious, ancient-old truth: (1) you cannot please everyone; it’s either me or the rest of the world. (2) Birthdays should not be casually celebrated except for 1, 50, 70 or 80.
As far as birthdays are concerned, the Chinese are indeed wise after all.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy
30 more minutes to go and I will be heading out for a real, comparatively at least, vacation after 19 months of imprisonment here in my cell. I have kept everything very low key, thus this vacation request was sent out to management for approval and revealed to few here for fear of repeating last summer’s mistake when the 5-day vacation plan was downsized to three days. As I showed up to work two days earlier, I was greeted with people asking: what are you doing back so soon! I sensed then my absence was actually more missed than my presence. This time I have vowed to redeem myself from the previous defeat, not for my coworkers’ benefit but for self improvement.
I have wondered why I find playing harder than working and the only answer I can come up with is that I was not born with it. The breeding helps, I assume, but not mine, since my parents were NOT playing people either - at least not then. There had been very little memory of us going on vacation or taking family trips in growing up. Then I married someone with exactly the same depleted genes and upbringing in that department, thus the same vicious cycle continues on. We have never found playing enticing. In fact, we thrive in laboring, from as small as fall leaves raking to major events such as moving as in relocation. To me, playing is dreadfully aimless and empty and requires too much coordination and organization while working is energizing and exhilarating. Moreover, there is always hope involved for the later; instead of dreading its end, you actually look forward to it. Reward vs price tag; go figure.
But this time we have bravely embarked on our journey; we bought 3 tickets to fly all the way from the east-most end to the almost west-most San Diego with no way to cut it short. The flight was long and somewhat uncomfortable since we were seated at the very end row. The weather was dreary – it rained almost every day for our entire stay. The agenda, except for a Christmas party, was empty. Somehow it didn’t matter. We were in a spirit of reformation as recovering vacation failures, determining to have a great time. And a great time indeed we had: at the party, friend’s house and various restaurants. The trip to Julian was most memorable despite that it was cold and raining. We became one of those tourists we had once so envious of, enthusiastic and dutiful, visiting from store to store and admiring graciously the local treasures we found. On our drive back, there in our rental car was not only a famous local pie but also 3 souls with most accomplished spirit. With still half day left, we decided to stop for lunch at the winery where Christmas party had been held. The owner, Jerry, had confirmed that they were open, so we drove on with high anticipation, passing a grand view of boulders and mountains along the way. It was almost like we were in a dream or another world. Whether it had something to do with the heavenly sight or that we were already intoxicated with our elated self esteem, I couldn’t be sure. The quick lunch bite turned out to be a three-hour event with wine and football game first with Jerry, his wife Rosa and son Frank, followed by an elaborated sit-down banquet with our host family and a full menu of pizza, lasagna, salad, jambalaya, and tiramisu. There had never been another moment like that at that vineyard, almost Italian with Tuscany patio overlooking fields of grape vines and shades of clouds extended forever in the sky. Beyond the grape vines field, Rosa says, that’s where her daughter lives and her little 3-year-old granddaughter would sometimes run across for her. Standing there, we were lost in space and time. If we thought we had been high before there, then there should be another word for high after that magical lunch.
Should we declare victory in that we have indeed overcome our disability to play? Can this trip actually turned out to be a touched-by-angel transformation such that we are changed forever? Sadly, the answer is: not likely. Those fleeting moments come and go as with our self-liberation. On the plane back, I was already back to that old self, mourning for a good time pass. There returned inside of me was my life-time friend of gloom, ghost of grief. The playful person I had discovered has already been long gone, as is this fun vacation. Somehow, that moment of change still matters. It warms my heart and makes it hopeful despite of the after the light void. I am almost not afraid of playing any more. As the old saying goes: practices make perfect, our next attempt may well be just as successful. Yes, the old dull Jack is back, still the slight victory is that at least this time I stretched to the end; five whole days I stayed away and I did not have to sneak back in. And maybe, just maybe, this time my presence instead of my absence would be missed.
I have wondered why I find playing harder than working and the only answer I can come up with is that I was not born with it. The breeding helps, I assume, but not mine, since my parents were NOT playing people either - at least not then. There had been very little memory of us going on vacation or taking family trips in growing up. Then I married someone with exactly the same depleted genes and upbringing in that department, thus the same vicious cycle continues on. We have never found playing enticing. In fact, we thrive in laboring, from as small as fall leaves raking to major events such as moving as in relocation. To me, playing is dreadfully aimless and empty and requires too much coordination and organization while working is energizing and exhilarating. Moreover, there is always hope involved for the later; instead of dreading its end, you actually look forward to it. Reward vs price tag; go figure.
But this time we have bravely embarked on our journey; we bought 3 tickets to fly all the way from the east-most end to the almost west-most San Diego with no way to cut it short. The flight was long and somewhat uncomfortable since we were seated at the very end row. The weather was dreary – it rained almost every day for our entire stay. The agenda, except for a Christmas party, was empty. Somehow it didn’t matter. We were in a spirit of reformation as recovering vacation failures, determining to have a great time. And a great time indeed we had: at the party, friend’s house and various restaurants. The trip to Julian was most memorable despite that it was cold and raining. We became one of those tourists we had once so envious of, enthusiastic and dutiful, visiting from store to store and admiring graciously the local treasures we found. On our drive back, there in our rental car was not only a famous local pie but also 3 souls with most accomplished spirit. With still half day left, we decided to stop for lunch at the winery where Christmas party had been held. The owner, Jerry, had confirmed that they were open, so we drove on with high anticipation, passing a grand view of boulders and mountains along the way. It was almost like we were in a dream or another world. Whether it had something to do with the heavenly sight or that we were already intoxicated with our elated self esteem, I couldn’t be sure. The quick lunch bite turned out to be a three-hour event with wine and football game first with Jerry, his wife Rosa and son Frank, followed by an elaborated sit-down banquet with our host family and a full menu of pizza, lasagna, salad, jambalaya, and tiramisu. There had never been another moment like that at that vineyard, almost Italian with Tuscany patio overlooking fields of grape vines and shades of clouds extended forever in the sky. Beyond the grape vines field, Rosa says, that’s where her daughter lives and her little 3-year-old granddaughter would sometimes run across for her. Standing there, we were lost in space and time. If we thought we had been high before there, then there should be another word for high after that magical lunch.
Should we declare victory in that we have indeed overcome our disability to play? Can this trip actually turned out to be a touched-by-angel transformation such that we are changed forever? Sadly, the answer is: not likely. Those fleeting moments come and go as with our self-liberation. On the plane back, I was already back to that old self, mourning for a good time pass. There returned inside of me was my life-time friend of gloom, ghost of grief. The playful person I had discovered has already been long gone, as is this fun vacation. Somehow, that moment of change still matters. It warms my heart and makes it hopeful despite of the after the light void. I am almost not afraid of playing any more. As the old saying goes: practices make perfect, our next attempt may well be just as successful. Yes, the old dull Jack is back, still the slight victory is that at least this time I stretched to the end; five whole days I stayed away and I did not have to sneak back in. And maybe, just maybe, this time my presence instead of my absence would be missed.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Most popular kid in town
Friday was Luke’s graduation from 9 weeks of Life skills training. After weeks of driving back and forth to visit him, we were more than ready to make that final trip. We started that drive while the leaves were still green and now the foliage has come and gone. The traffic was heavy but steady. I64 pass Charlottesville was a hint of heaven. Painted on the roadside canvas were layers of mountains above and fields and valley beneath. It was a capture of untouched perfection. I gasp at its picturesque beauty every time we pass through.
The campus was still quiet with families walking around, cameras on their shoulders and luggage dragging behind ready for a day of joy and memory. We came unprepared as usual, except for our son. It’s been a tiring 9-week weekend commute and we were ready to wrap things up and close this chapter. There were a few bumps on the road, but he had indeed done it. As I recalled on those emergency phone calls from him and sometimes even the school, I had only one desire to pack up and go.
Luke had informed us that he would be playing piano as prelude to the graduation, which was the only reason why we were there Friday. We had to cancel a business meeting for him to fulfill this engagement. He has been doing music almost all his life, so this was no biggie. He did his thing, in a big and noisy auditorium with people chattering away and coming in and out. Piano playing in a rehab facility of a small town at some remote mountain side of Virginia was no performance in Carnegie Hall. From afar being almost buried by a gigantic grand piano, he looked small and unnoticeable, as was his playing, surfacing on and off above the noises. We didn’t mind. Our goal was to get it over with and head home.
Finally came the certificate awarding time. One by one students were called. From the cheering of the audience (most of them being the students still going through the programs), you could tell how some were the “in” kids more than the others. The honest and genuine rally brought a smile on my face. Our two “special bundles of joy” were never among the “in’s’ – they were “special” as in Special-ED. Still, the joy from both givers and receivers was infectious; it warms your heart in its simplest form of support and encouragement. The last name called was Luke. At the sound of his name, the auditorium was boomed with unexpected shouts of cheers from the audience. I was startled – not by its volume but by the lightening realization that our boy was in fact the “in-kid”. Emotions rushed in as I watched our autistic son walking up to take his certificate, his composure unaffected as always in the midst of all commotion. I have done it a million times, but there I was again, motionless and speechless, uncovering the most remarkable, untainted soul of all souls in that little frame of 5’ 5’’. We have found treasure in this child for all his 22 years of life and hoped for the rest of the world to reach the same estimation. And it was accomplished there, not exactly the remotest part or the ends of the earth, but far enough from a world of so-called “normalcy”.
As we drove back, passing the same mountains and valleys, there rang in my heart was this awe struck revelation that the closest place to heaven was not outside, but inside. He was right beside us, all happy and content. Radio was playing Christmas carols, his favorite thing. Next to him was his biggest fan and another favorite, his daddy, carrying on a million times with their same iterations only those two appreciate. He was staring outside with a smile on his angelic face at the highway signs, his most favorite. There reflected from those eyes was a world beyond our imagination. I needed not know what it was, but I would put a bet there and then that he is not only the most popular kid in town, but also in our world inside of this car and the one above.
The campus was still quiet with families walking around, cameras on their shoulders and luggage dragging behind ready for a day of joy and memory. We came unprepared as usual, except for our son. It’s been a tiring 9-week weekend commute and we were ready to wrap things up and close this chapter. There were a few bumps on the road, but he had indeed done it. As I recalled on those emergency phone calls from him and sometimes even the school, I had only one desire to pack up and go.
Luke had informed us that he would be playing piano as prelude to the graduation, which was the only reason why we were there Friday. We had to cancel a business meeting for him to fulfill this engagement. He has been doing music almost all his life, so this was no biggie. He did his thing, in a big and noisy auditorium with people chattering away and coming in and out. Piano playing in a rehab facility of a small town at some remote mountain side of Virginia was no performance in Carnegie Hall. From afar being almost buried by a gigantic grand piano, he looked small and unnoticeable, as was his playing, surfacing on and off above the noises. We didn’t mind. Our goal was to get it over with and head home.
Finally came the certificate awarding time. One by one students were called. From the cheering of the audience (most of them being the students still going through the programs), you could tell how some were the “in” kids more than the others. The honest and genuine rally brought a smile on my face. Our two “special bundles of joy” were never among the “in’s’ – they were “special” as in Special-ED. Still, the joy from both givers and receivers was infectious; it warms your heart in its simplest form of support and encouragement. The last name called was Luke. At the sound of his name, the auditorium was boomed with unexpected shouts of cheers from the audience. I was startled – not by its volume but by the lightening realization that our boy was in fact the “in-kid”. Emotions rushed in as I watched our autistic son walking up to take his certificate, his composure unaffected as always in the midst of all commotion. I have done it a million times, but there I was again, motionless and speechless, uncovering the most remarkable, untainted soul of all souls in that little frame of 5’ 5’’. We have found treasure in this child for all his 22 years of life and hoped for the rest of the world to reach the same estimation. And it was accomplished there, not exactly the remotest part or the ends of the earth, but far enough from a world of so-called “normalcy”.
As we drove back, passing the same mountains and valleys, there rang in my heart was this awe struck revelation that the closest place to heaven was not outside, but inside. He was right beside us, all happy and content. Radio was playing Christmas carols, his favorite thing. Next to him was his biggest fan and another favorite, his daddy, carrying on a million times with their same iterations only those two appreciate. He was staring outside with a smile on his angelic face at the highway signs, his most favorite. There reflected from those eyes was a world beyond our imagination. I needed not know what it was, but I would put a bet there and then that he is not only the most popular kid in town, but also in our world inside of this car and the one above.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Left behind
It is almost near the end of 2009. After all December started two days ago already. Radio, TV, everything or everywhere blazingly reminds you of the end of a year. The beginning was just there; I remember lamenting on the loss of 2008 as clearly as it were yesterday and now it’s déjà vu all over again. Time continues to be oscillating out of control despite of what people claim that it slows down when the children are grown. After all these years of hoping and waiting, I am beginning to think it is not going to happen anytime soon.
For working people like me, December is a mixture of joy and sorrow, hope and disillusion. The joy and hope is mostly related to the two holidays entitled to us and the sorrow-disillusion is multi-fold. There are obligations and demands to meet, parties to plan or attend, and above all after-the-light emptiness to face. A born pessimist, I look beyond the fun and grieve all the way such that most of the time I never meet the fun. On the 3rd day of December, I am well ahead of everyone, sitting there at the empty tree already with a hole in my heart and mournfully staring at the clock to see those two hands meet, shutting another year tight behind us. To me no enemy is more powerful than time itself. It outruns and overthrows forces of any form. It wounds and it also heals. I think I spend all my life struggling with this giant beast, wishing it away and when it does grieving for its passing. As I dread the end of a year, I abhor birthdays with the same intensity. What time fails to do to me is the changing inside. There has not yet reconciliation between the one inside and the one outside. It is usually not until those eyes meet each other at the mirror that I realize the inconsistency of those two beings. My look says I am altering every day, but my heart still belongs to a restless 15-year-old that seems to be totally out of place.
I have a sister that is older than me by merely 1 year and yet different from me as night to day. Every once in a while we would groan together about growing old. I think she does that just to be polite or supportive. Her most amazing remark or wisdom about this common enemy of ours is: next year I am growing even older, my body will be weaker, my hair will be grayer, so I am going to make the best of this younger me today! I cannot imagine any truth more simple and profound than this. Her enthusiasm affected me for a day or at best two. Then I return to be the very confused downer, struggling and fighting with my daemon all over again.
Does time really do anything to someone like me? One coworker of mine here is young enough to be my daughter. We have had conversations with roles totally reversed. I may possess the old school work ethics or more general life experience, the wiser one, however, is never me. I marvel at how people, young or old, think and act their age, taking life as it is. The ghost of the past or future does not haunt them. They move along with time while I am left behind. It’s a terrifying feeling to be the one awake and alone in a dark night searching for the door out.
28 more days to go and time as well as the world will be drifting even farther by a ceremonial one digit away. This old bag of mine is indeed riding along on the same boat, but my soul remains still. When that ball drops, I have yet only one hope – that one day these two will finally and surely meet at the end of sunset, where this restless soul finds her match and rests. Moreover, how blissful it will be when my Maker avenges for me and this life-long enemy, time, will no longer exist….
For working people like me, December is a mixture of joy and sorrow, hope and disillusion. The joy and hope is mostly related to the two holidays entitled to us and the sorrow-disillusion is multi-fold. There are obligations and demands to meet, parties to plan or attend, and above all after-the-light emptiness to face. A born pessimist, I look beyond the fun and grieve all the way such that most of the time I never meet the fun. On the 3rd day of December, I am well ahead of everyone, sitting there at the empty tree already with a hole in my heart and mournfully staring at the clock to see those two hands meet, shutting another year tight behind us. To me no enemy is more powerful than time itself. It outruns and overthrows forces of any form. It wounds and it also heals. I think I spend all my life struggling with this giant beast, wishing it away and when it does grieving for its passing. As I dread the end of a year, I abhor birthdays with the same intensity. What time fails to do to me is the changing inside. There has not yet reconciliation between the one inside and the one outside. It is usually not until those eyes meet each other at the mirror that I realize the inconsistency of those two beings. My look says I am altering every day, but my heart still belongs to a restless 15-year-old that seems to be totally out of place.
I have a sister that is older than me by merely 1 year and yet different from me as night to day. Every once in a while we would groan together about growing old. I think she does that just to be polite or supportive. Her most amazing remark or wisdom about this common enemy of ours is: next year I am growing even older, my body will be weaker, my hair will be grayer, so I am going to make the best of this younger me today! I cannot imagine any truth more simple and profound than this. Her enthusiasm affected me for a day or at best two. Then I return to be the very confused downer, struggling and fighting with my daemon all over again.
Does time really do anything to someone like me? One coworker of mine here is young enough to be my daughter. We have had conversations with roles totally reversed. I may possess the old school work ethics or more general life experience, the wiser one, however, is never me. I marvel at how people, young or old, think and act their age, taking life as it is. The ghost of the past or future does not haunt them. They move along with time while I am left behind. It’s a terrifying feeling to be the one awake and alone in a dark night searching for the door out.
28 more days to go and time as well as the world will be drifting even farther by a ceremonial one digit away. This old bag of mine is indeed riding along on the same boat, but my soul remains still. When that ball drops, I have yet only one hope – that one day these two will finally and surely meet at the end of sunset, where this restless soul finds her match and rests. Moreover, how blissful it will be when my Maker avenges for me and this life-long enemy, time, will no longer exist….
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