Happy Hour

Another coworker from our group was leaving. Young, competent and adorable, she has made her presence enjoyable for the past 2 and half years thus the news of her departure sad and regretful. Many activities were called to bid our farewell: lunch, potluck and even a drink after work on her last day. Potluck was no issue, therefore I gladly pitched in my share of contribution and patiently endured an hour of obligation of being crammed in a small conference room with plenty of pots and lucks for both eyes and stomachs. It was the lunching out and the after-work drinks that pushed the limit.

Truthfully, the lunching out or after-work drinks have always been there; they are just totally irrelevant for the social scrooge like me, who has learned her lesson well that less is more or none at all for the sake of the well-being of everyone. This unfortunate impediment comes in two forms: my inability to find the balance between give and take for conversation and the fated outcome of turning into the third wheel anywhere and every time. The tragedy, though, lies not in the curse itself but in its object, who is presumably old enough to be mature and graceful and yet anything but. Thus, I habitually turned my ear off with this invite, the reminders and the inquiry from the very beginning.

Friday, day of the event, came. There lingered in the air the excitement for both the special event and Friday itself. The day seemed to be relatively slow and lazy. A couple of persistent coworkers continued to solicit from me my participation for the “happy hour”. I’d either pretend not hearing it or joke it with something light to avoid the subject. All day long, the struggle was there between going or not going, agreeable or disagreeable, me or not me. “Not” would be the usual easy way out, but somehow I was feeling less and less “easy” by the hour as I struggled with something more than want I wanted. DS, who had left 2 months ago, would be taking time off, enduring the Friday afternoon traffic and going the distance to make the event. AND, it was her last day. Should I insist on my own comfort zone or my obstinate, selfish nature at the expense of basic human kindness??

3:30 pm. People were wrapping up and getting ready to head out to the party. I was keeping quieter than ever, hoping to dodge any last attempts. I heard the guest of honor’s footsteps and there she popped in. She was to bid farewell. “Just in case you don’t come…” We hugged and then she was gone. I was left there, struck by not only the implication of her last presence to me but also the assumption of my last to her! Suddenly I was not alone. There crept out that greatest sin of mine - the contrarian or rebellious button that could not afford to be pushed. And that was exactly what that farewell did: me in the company of the worst ally. My whole being had been in turmoil all day long till that moment when revelation hit me and set me free then and there: I would go because you guys expected me NOT to go.

I arrived with another coworker an hour later. He was feeling guilty for not going, while I was feeling something far from guilty: brave, liberated and determined. Our appearance though surprising did not cause much commotion as I had anticipated. We sat at the end of the table and started our share of spirits and fun. The water outside of the porch was a hue of dusky blue, the sun gleaming above a soft golden, the beer cold and laughter merry. Ere long, I forgot what the party was about and who it was for and why I was there. It was just me talking, listening and laughing without much care. I had made plan to stay for a half hour show. By the time I hit the road, it was 2 hours later.

Sober and alone in the car, I was hit by the unavoidable realization – the warrior who had come to conquer and claim was in fact the traitor. I would like to blame it on the beer, or the hypnotizing wave under the lazy sunset that turned me into that shameful defector, drinking and laughing like one of them. Still, I have to ask if the reversed outcome was in fact another trick of life in that the house, nature, always wins despite of our ploy and scheme? Or like movies, you should always go with the least expectation to have the maximum enjoyment? Either way, the truth remains that the happy hour, sadly, turned out to be happy after all – even for this rebel.

The Game of Love

AH im’ed this morning: “And the soap continues”. “Soap”, shortened for the soap opera that has been going on with his love life since 2 weeks ago. He had had a fight with his girlfriend for 2 years over a dinner, after that phone calls stopped, number deleted and personal belongings returned. A week later, he met another girl and thus the “soap” started when the old girlfriend called with a change of mind.

I am amazed how instant modern relationship has become after 25 years out of the game. Never proficient in this arena during my young single days, I have always regarded love, or dating game, exhausting and excruciating and thanked God for the good fortune on the day when I was exempted forever as I stood at the altar and gratefully swore in my “I do”. Unfortunately, I continued to be exposed to this frustrating mystery through friends whose marriages or relationships failed. While they go through their up and downs, tears and joys, I too weep and laugh as a good friend would do. Still the truth remains that I have no clue on this impossible task, as to its complexity and oddly its simplifications nowadays.

When young, love or romance was irresoluble for a girl like me with a big appetite but much less in budget. Sadly, I was also cursed with 2 sisters and plenty of friends whose assets allowed them to pick and choose as they desired. For the longest time I sat on the sideline watching them jumping in and out of the field perpetually and effortlessly. With my older sister, who is merely a year apart, I was more than an audience. The inevitable sibling rivalry made her turns an intense and personal experience thus I envied and resented her accomplishments with secret tears and curses. As for my girlfriends, it was thankfully more of an enjoyable entertainment less the involvement.

Maria, my best friend in high school, provided me with such benefit from high school to college. Popular and wild, she was the frequent player in the game. She was also funny, smart and for reasons unknown loved me and patiently endured my awkward dejection in those days. Her glorious triumphs in life (and boys) never presented a problem in our friendship. What do you do with nature wonder such as moon, stars or rainbow except admiring and applauding? Morning after morning, we’d pace up and down on the school’s court yard, pretending to be studying together while she disclosed yesterday’s “development” in details. After high school, our “rendezvous” continued on to college. I remember taking the bus from my college to hers, walking on that beautiful, wooded campus to the office where she worked part-time, all excited for her lunch break when we’d close the office door and lie down on two desks for her to resume the drama. I would always start with a semi-serious jest like “which one are we on now?” and she would reply “which one do you want to hear?” The iteration continued with me complaining how hard it was to keep track and her come-back like how much she should charge me with that much of thrill. Thinking back, I now realize how carefully she must have concealed with the details of the romances to protect the innocence of her sheltered friend. Even so, the ancient old lover inside of both of us, though different in life and personality, remained forever passionate toward this thing called “love”.

Years later, my beautiful wild romanticist friend and I parted as I travelled across the Pacific and settled down on this side of the water. We lost contact but I continued to hear from our mutual friends that she had got married soon after college, followed by a heart wrenching divorce. I heard too how she continued to pursue love even to as far as Canada, only to be left deceived and desolate. Our last encounter was nearly 20 years later at a small class reunion in a restaurant back home. The once dashing star proved to be successful and assertive in her career and yet still lost in love. She disclosed to us her relationship with a married man and incurred from me a reflexive blunder when I exclaimed “but you deserve so much better!” Her indignation was never eased off even after my repeated attempts of explanation and apology. We parted this time unamiably. The last I heard from her was that she had packed up her life and career to follow her lover abroad.

AH’s 2 week’s drama is far from that of my friend’s 30 years of combat in its magnitude and nature. He continues on as a resilient warrior 2 divorces and many romances later, except that he has sworn off marriage despite of his long-suffering endurance. I have to wonder: is it sex, culture or even time that contributes to the drastic contrast of my 2 friends’ love life? Both have been the repeated players, one rolling in and out without wait while the other diving in without concern for point of no return. My heart marvels at one’s resolute effectiveness at the same time aches for the other’s total abandonment. Comparing to my 2 courageous friends, one new and one old, I remain as sheltered as ever. Somehow my competitive nature does not seem to be bothered this time. In fact, I am thinking how fortunate I am – the late bloomer, the tortoise, the dark horse, who barely got her turn to play actually scored and made it there safe and sound. The trophy I have received, in my own estimation, surpasses any thrills and kills that those players could ever claim.

"Charlie made me cry!"

This weekend I played with Charlie.

We had gone out to dinner a few weeks ago – 2 couple’s night out at Carrabas. It was great fun: good food and warm conversation as always. In fact we had had so much fun that D and I requested an encore. This time I decided to do something different: dumpling party at home instead of dining out. Charlie can be stubborn, but I am bossy. With no room for persuasion on my end, he finally caved in.

Dumplings, or Chinese raviolis, to be more exact, are the delicacy and rare honor at our home since I started working full time. They are labor intensive from chopping vegetables to dough kneading. After that, there is yet another hour of pastry making and dumpling wrapping. Nevertheless, they are not only family’s favorites but also a most-requested dish from friends. I could not think of anything better then that. So the party went on – we were at the kitchen island making dumplings and conversation for a good hour and half. He was looking pale after all that chemo treatments and radiations but none the less jovial. The dinner turned out to be somewhat a let-down for my standard, but my company did not seem to mind. Their gracious forgiveness allowed me to overlook my less than satisfactory performance and soon instead of the disappointing dishes we feasted on a better substitute: hours of intriguing conversation, which was far more scrumptious and enjoyable than any gourmet delicacy I could think of.

During the conversation, he mentioned he had been asked to substitute for a substitute at our sister church the next day due to a last-minute cancellation of the guest speaker. It’s been 2 years since he turned in his interim pastorage after our new pastor came. He had not returned to our podium since. After months of the severe attack by the ailment and far-more-hostile treatments for the ailment, he stopped taking invites from other churches. This news came both miraculous and wonderful! How many times have I relived those moments when my troubled heart and wandering eyes were set straight with God at the rise and fall of his voice? Sunday came and the bad student skipped the school to play with Charlie. The church was a pitiful sight outside and sadder inside with but a handful of congregation left. How ironic it was when the guest speaker was almost as frail and forgotten as the building itself? And yet there he walked in, on his cane or “third leg”, which he humorously quoted, his eyes twinkling and face smiling. When the long anticipated preaching finally started, with his first word the unexpected, ridiculous tears came! It was déjà vu when this Philemon was brought home again to make peace with both God and men. The magic continued on when he preached on none other than Romans 8, starting with God’s unconditional pardon through “no condemnation” for the most wretched sinner then, me, and ending with God’s immeasurable provision in “no separation” for His most suffering servant there, him. There he stood, his body stubbornly leaning against the podium to support his pain stricken legs, baring his soul how he had cried for that 20-year-old boy whom he had shepherded and lost to sea just a few weeks ago. And there I sat, with no tissues for rescue, all silly and weepy for reasons beyond the young man’s death. He was testifying to the adequacy of God’s grace through the father’s faith and example when all that reminded me was that of his own, along with his trials and tribulations, which he so sneakily avoided. I was fighting for control with my face buried low for fear of being found out what a cry baby I was, but when that last hymn “Amazing Grace” started the battle was lost. I had to flee out of the chapel. I would not be seen with my makeup all messed up like that! Word for word, the song pursued and persecuted me through the closed door. When I finally returned, the last verse ended. I turned, only to find Pat just as teary as I was. We stared into the same pain through each other’s eyes and cried together.

It was a beautiful, sunny day on the way home. The sky was blue and air was cool. The Sunday’s traffic was moving steadily like any other Sundays, oblivious of the trauma that I had just gone through. I couldn’t shake off that image: an old and almost forgotten church, the musky and gloomy sanctuary, Charlie smiling up there and me crying underneath. I was thinking, he may be afflicted by that “chronicle condition” or on that “third leg”, as he so eloquently put, he was none the less a bully. I should have known that before going out to play with him. I wanted then to tattletale on him: “Look what Charlie did! He made me cry!”

My walk, my Bach and my blog

September has finally come. After 2 months of intense heat and humidity, we are more than ready for a change of season. Even though for southern Virginia the reality might not take effect for yet another few weeks, the official change of the month digit from 8 to 9 still brought much hope for some reluctant summer’s captives like me who cannot wait to be set free. September means cooler days, golden leaves and dancing air. September means light jackets and boots. It also means shorter days, change of routines, such as my walk.

With the summer’s blazing heat, I had to shift my mid-day walk to morning, and further on early morning (6:30). The route I have been taking has its reputation of “NOT safe”, thus I was cautioned enough not to temper with even further (or earlier) change. Impulsive and undisciplined I may be, I am also a creature of habits that breathes on routines such as my 3:30am wakeup time, the exact parking spot under the same tree, and, yes, the 16-block morning walk to and fro. The insatiable, restless nature in me finds no other better therapy than that 30-minute walk during which all care and fear evaporate soundlessly and effortlessly.

Why would such simple activity that costs so little, time-wise and equipment-wise, does so much good for my mental well-being? I wonder. Every day as the dusk turns to twilight, I would feel the same antsy excitement leaping inside my chest. I put on my walking shoes and grab my IPOD, all ready to revisit the same buildings, streets and trees. With heart thrilled and strides swift and long, I magically morph into that carefree creature, feasting on the birth of another day in its display from the air in the sky to the meager grass on the roadside. For reasons I don’t know still, I am exhilarated beyond words. The paved walk next to the Credit Union takes me to the street back home in my moody and awkward 14-year-old days. The crimson blossom of the crape myrtles above my head reminds me of those beautiful tropical summers when cicada echoed high the thrill and hope of the graduation season. Time has done its magic to heal the past wounds, thus I find myself no longer haunted but smiling at the remnant memory with nostalgia. The street is lined up with mixed architectures, some of which century old and some modern and grand. Those old stone buildings with peeled off paint would instigate my vivid imagination of their past glory while the gated new establishment triggers my curiosity of its new inhabitants, who they are and what their hope and dreams may be. A few more streets further down is the corner where I take my returning direction and meet the breeze from the waterfront that almost teases me to tears every time. It is only 6:45am and there I walk on – streets still half awake, the stone pavement under my feet worn but crispy clean. Across the street sits the park in tranquil beauty under the veiled twilight. And there on the bench was the same man with his computer, quiet and motionless. I wonder if he too is under the spell of the morn as I am.

And let’s not forget my Bach Sonatas and Partitas violin solos – how brilliantly and perfectly they play on, resonating with every emotion I relive. Morning after morning, their magic never fails or fades. Past the city courthouse and banks is where the traffic of the morning crowd starts to pick up. Thankfully my friend Bach provides ample disguise or excuses for me to remain a speculator rather than participant as I march on, surveying the world without any obligation for social etiquettes. For yet a little while longer, there I am still, ageless and fearless, looking at life in a brand new vision. From a pale blue sky surfacing above to a world resuming her day and activities below, everything seems the same and yet so different. It’s amazing how a little distance and distraction can yield such a change of perspective. Even as insignificant and ordinary as a tree with a hint of autumn on its leaves would take my eyes away from the consuming care of this world. I am instantly reminded of how little and brief this life is and how majestic and endless another one will be. All my pitiful strivings appear, once again, ridiculously fruitless in His omnipotent presence.

My walk ends. I have returned to where I started, all sweaty and messed up outside and somewhat improved inside: Calmer, quieter and, for a little while, wiser. The hope follows me as I quicken the step to walk up the stairs, knowing that when my limited effort and vision end I have too another faithful friend, my blog, to help me recapture the revelation. Who else is there like my blog, whose ear is always ready, silence like gold, and patience never ceasing? Indeed it is through the walk that this old gal meets her young soul, and through timeless Bach those two make their peace, but it is my Blog that receives all that irreconcilable differences after the walk. I could not be more blessed than in the company of the threesome like my walk, my Bach and my Blog.