Benjamin Button in VA

The Grinch and Christmas

2011-12-25T12:13:00.000-08:00

3 more days before the grand Finale, Christmas, rolls in and then 2011 will grind to the halt. Soon after, even before, the ball drops, Christmas decorations would be back in the attic, trees packed away or on the curbs, and the stores start their ceremonial after-Christmas sale. This year, we managed to get into the spirit in time – the nearly 20-year-old, one-limb-short Christmas tree was standing next to Mr. and Mrs. Snowman a little after Thanksgiving. She was wearing a new set of after-Christmas sale bargain LED lights, looking oddly unusual or foreign. I couldn’t quite pin point why, but something was definitely amiss – and I am quite sure it wasn’t the 1 small box of ornaments that we decided not to bother.

Not just the tree, other things continued to contribute to the odd factors. My walk pal, iPod, went missing after 1.5 year of faithful service. I left it on my desk that day before heading home as I had done many times, but this time it was gone for good. My Christmas pin, a simple and cheap Christmas tree, was the next defector. It fell off my sweater 2 days ago on one of my shopping trips. I have to wonder, was my Christmas cursed, jinxed? Did it happen when my musical globe broke on the day when we put up the tree? I was then struggling painstakingly to drape that uncooperative garland on the mental when it fell off and its bottom smashed into pieces right in front of my eyes. It was an inexpensive, wind-up globe – all white and silver, with reindeer and a Christmas tree inside. When you turned it upside down, the glistening flakes would dance and flutter like a fairy land where dreams and hopes come true. I had loved that silly thing dearly and left it on the mental all year round. And now it was just a globe lying limb-less in the mass of destruction. The whole room went deadly quiet then and there except my hot tears and muffled sobs buried in the soulless Christmas carols from the radio.

I think my Christmas was taken away since then. Two Christmas parties and all that holiday goodie baking have not helped to pull me out of the gloom. All that is left is a world of craze with Wal-mart’s crowd, collapsed traffic and obligated burden of baking and cooking. Tuesday was one of those. It has been a long week. At 5pm, I was exhausted, but there was still more baking that I had sworn done with and the cooking for the next day’s lunch at work. The kitchen was a mess. I was scrambling to get everything done so I could take Luke to that pizza dinner I had promised him. I was feeling grumpy from not being able to exercise because there was simply no time. Then Luke’s piano teacher stopped by to give me a dinner box and dessert plate, but that short visit took away some precious time that I desperately needed. There was yet another stop I had planned to make after the pizza. Finally I realized I couldn’t accomplish all – not without sacrificing the pizza dinner. I called Luke and told him we’d go on Thursday. No complaints or sadness from him. He ate the salmon dinner from Helen gladly.

Kitchen nightmare done, we went back to Custom Car care to get the cell phone I had left it in the other car and headed straight to Miheila’s apartment. Luke played Silent Night for Maria – she was having trouble learning that piece. After that, those two (9 and 24) looked at Maria's summer vacation pictures from Romania while I had a drink wtih Miheila. From behind, they appeared to be of the same age. That was the only sane moment of the whole week – only because of Luke and his Silent Night.

Last night was the Christmas Service at church. I had fought all day with my downcast. We did make it – a short and simple 1-hour service with music and Christmas message. It was nicely done, and yet I struggled to keep my ears attuned to the words of the true Christmas essence so that my eyes would not stray to the empty spot where Luke usually stands with his violin. Several times I had to touch the body besides me to remind myself that he was not gone; he was right next to me. Off and on his baritone singing would sneak in my troubled thoughts and shame me to tears. We drove home quietly and right after we got out of the car, I saw the violin on the back seat. He had packed it, assuming he would be playing it in the service as he had done for the past 3 years. The pang hit me when he looked alarmed at my inquiring eyes, thinking he had done something wrong. I wondered in that untouchable world beyond those dark brown eyes if he was ever hurt for having been slighted. Even so, it ended as soon as he tuned to walk into the house with that violin case that had never been opened. Whatever injustice it might have been, it was forgiven and forgotten just like that. I wished mine could have too.

I know I don’t deserve Luke – I just need him. His innocence and simplicity is the only hope for me in this life so trifling and trying. And yet he is the shadow so easily overlooked – even by me who needs him most. How can I blame others for doing the same thing? I just wish time could go back when he was still young and I hopeful for a future still beautiful and possible. For this Christmas, the spell or curse of loss stubbornly drags on. I blame the Grinch -- the broken musical globe, the missing iPod, the lost Christmas pin and the empty spot on the podium. He may have spoiled it all, but never my Christmas gift: the 5’ 5” angel without wings.

Left Behind

2011-12-23T03:04:00.000-08:00

3 weeks have passed since the young and beautiful defected to the greener pasture. Across the grey partition sits an empty desk. Gone is the once lively, gay pod, where people would drop by; gone are the daily phone calls or the IMs popping from her to commiserate about life in general. To be exact, she has tried to stop by a couple of times to say hi only to be received by me lightly and politely. Our relationship, or almost-friendship, for the past 3 years seems to have dwindled to the halt – by my choice apparently. As shrewd as she is, by now she has most definitely picked up the signals and moved on already.

Undoubtedly, my “rejection” could easily be interpreted as jealousy – as in jealous of her successful defection. After all, why would I write her off like that when the so-called big escape is merely at the other side of the same floor? Shouldn’t a true friend weep and rejoice with the others? Most of all, are we, or were we, ever been friends?

I thought of another defector, DS, whose escape led him to the new pasture not only greener but also farther – nearly 40 minutes away across the water. It has been over a year since he left. Comparing to Y&B and me, we shared way less in our conversation or outside of work extra curriculum activities. And yet we have managed to keep our communication, light but steadily, as of today. “Less (then) is more (now)” seems to be the right description of this relationship.

But wait, there is more (or less)! Another coworker after 25 years of service here left too just this past week to pursue happiness elsewhere. He happened to be among the very few here I have had some interaction with –respectful though mild. We have indeed shared both light jokes and heavy discussions. His empty desk across the other wall actually left a void here in this pod. Incidentally, just today I came across another team member all dressed up, getting ready for his interview for another position. Another soon-to-be-gone, another vacant pod?

In merely 3 and half years, 4 have come and gone. Some of them I have missed and some not. More will follow suit to jump ship as it is only natural in any work place. In a world so inconsistent, the only constant seems to be this left-behind, the occupant of cube 20. Ironically, the most trapped is also the forever restless with an absurd fear for changes. This jail with barely 6-foot partitions and no door to shut might as well be the Alcatraz, impossible to escape. How does a confusing contradiction like me serve her life sentence here with no chance of parole? Would I ever survive being the last one left behind with the rest of them chosen and taken to the better place and future? The biggest question, though, is: wherever they are going, is it really better?

I recall my last failed attempt to escape, the mourning afterwards when all reality set in and I back to my cell. My most unwavering support and friend, D, continued to point out that the green pasture outside might not be as green as I thought after all. Could it be possible as he pointed out that the Omniscient above might have meant to shut the gate to protect me from the danger outside? If He had thought it was safe and well there, wouldn’t He thwart the barrier, HR included, as He once did to bring me here? All this time my envious eyes have focused on those runaways instead of the hands that keep me. Left behind I may be, but never without a good reason. There will be one day when that final escape comes and this reject here is anything but left behind. For now then, maybe I am not at all left behind but, rather, saved for better.

Stary, Stary Night

2011-12-22T13:58:00.000-08:00

D called on Thursday afternoon proposing an impromptu overnighter in Monterey with our long-time friends Dave and Beth Ann. Summer may still be lingering in the southern Virginia, but this trip would definitely make the last fun before school starts. Without a moment of hesitation, I seconded the motion – we are going to the mountains!

3:30pm Friday, all was packed and the 3 of us drove to the meeting spot to taxi together. The sky was overcastted with a hint of summer rain, threatening us to thwart our all anticipated dream of stars watching under the mountain sky. Sure enough, a few miles down the Interstate, the rain did come. Thankfully it tapered off as we drove on. The hope was high, so was our excitement and conversation. Over 22 years of friendship, this marked the first trip ever in the same car – our children are grown, except for the forever-child Luke, who was sitting at the back of the van with a quiet smile. Once we passed Richmond, I64 was lined with layers of blue mountains and green valleys. Like little kids, we could hardly suppress our excitement – the stars are calling, and we are coming!

We stopped by our favorite small pizza place in Fishersville for dinner. After the pit stop, we continued on for yet another one and half hour through the small towns and the winding mountains. By then nightfall had arrived and the visibility was reduced to the minimum. Our skilled driver, Dave, exhibited little anxiety over the seemingly treacherous roads. The 2 men in the front, one driving and another navigating, miraculously mastered the direction from the owner of the Bed and Breakfast – “Drive through 3 mountains, over the river and through the woods” and took us finally to the front of the inn at the top of the mountain.

Our lodging is owned by a gracious couple, Jim and Loraine. It sat alone at the top of the mountains and blinked with porch lights to welcome these 5 tired yet all excited tourists from afar. We walked in to a cozy cottage, furnished with antiques and simple, tasteful décor. From the wood burning fireplace, pine flooring to the country kitchen, all charmed us with her homey comfort. But, our affair was with the stars! Without a second of wait, we went outside to the deck – and there they were, our dates, twinkling bright and high at us on that August sky, welcoming us with equal excitement. At 9:30, the night was pouring in fully at this other end of Virginia. On the pitch dark canvas, all was lost but the vague outlines of the mountains from afar and a few lights down below the valley. Life inside was getting ready to rest, but not outside; it was just about to commence: The wind was picking up and whispering in our ears, critters chanting everywhere and yes, those stars - the guests of honor, the crown jewels and the leading roles of the night. 5 of us sat there, our heads leaning back and eyes devouring the beauty and supremacy of those stars chattering silently in their ancient old mystery. We were awe struck at how and what each one was named and placed by that invisible, majestic hand behind the endless night curtain. Our conversation was light, random yet warm and genuine; from the stars to life we communed as friends and brothers and sisters. Two times we spot the shooting star – like little children, we gasped with delight.

It was right under that stary, stary sky that these travelers, weary not from the trip but from the burden of life, rested, replenished and revived with new vision, clearer and brighter, just like the stars.

Instant Message, Instant Disaster

2011-08-16T14:09:00.000-07:00

It was Monday, the all sad beginning of yet another 5 work days. I brought in a homemade treat – a 3-layer chocolate cake with delectable butter cream icing to alleviate the wretched curse of the week. The day ground away lifelessly and finally lunch was here. The usual “in-crowd” was notified and relief served inconspicuously. Minutes later, my 29-year-old colleague dropped back in – the verdict was in: it was a success, she said and added that she had shared it with another coworker, Matt, because “He is good to her; sometimes he’d bring in treats for her”. She had done that before – extending my generosity to Matt, only to her own credit. I had thought it not very gallantry of her and sounded my protest; after all, the treat was meant for her, not to mention I didn’t even get recognized. She laughed it off again and left.

What does a self-absorbing, not-at-all gracious person do when he is baited like that? It didn’t take me long before I decided to “remind” Matt via IM of the credit due to me. Matt to me was just Matt, devoid of the detail of last name – our paths hardly crossed and we at best nodded to each other when passing at the office. The only Matt I knew of was a Matt D. and his name popped up from IM. I clicked on him and went straight to the point:

“Next time you have a bite of the chocolate cake, make sure I get my credit (or treat).”

Seconds later came back his reply: “Are you sure you get the right Matt?”

Oh no, said the quick-draw, unyielding warrior to herself, you do not hide from me. “You are just playing with me.” I pushed further with some more comments about my cute coworker’s devotion to him was nothing but a farce, unlike me, faithful and true. He did not seem to budge but continued on his pretence. His persistent innocence finally alarmed me. Quickly I clicked on my 29-year-old colleague. “Which Matt did you mean?” Just like that, her answer put me in a whirlwind of disaster as I stared at the poor victim of my foul play, who was staring right back at me on the screen in his sheer confusion. OMG was exactly what I was thinking, but my quick fingers now reversed to limb and weak while my mind exasperated and numb. “Please forgive and FORGET me” were my last words before I took my quick escape.

My “instant” disaster of course incurred nothing but laughter from the pair of instigators, the 29-year-old and Matt, who were all happy to point the fingers right back at me with a closing argument of “serve you right”. Sheepish but indignant, I refused to take all the blame. After all, I was rightfully entitled to the claim of the credit. Unfortunately, I remembered too that this mishap was not my first offense, or second. The running-up was when my quick finger by mistake clicked on the wrong person with the negative comment on the right person. Not only did I fail to “quick to hear and slow to speak”, but also I stumbled in taming the tongue. The worst crime of all, though, was the unpardonable sin of IM.

I have to wonder how I have strayed so far to become the prey of IM. As a proud and obstinate rebel, I have always given my best, honorable effort fighting against modern phenomenon such as cell phone, twitter, texting and face book – all except IM. Since her first appearance, I have fallen into her spell just like the rest of my colleagues. The instant gratification is so irresistible that I overlooked the minor detail – the fatal side effect of instant disaster. Even so, the cold hard truth is that the unguarded tongue reveals nothing but the reflection of man’s depraved heart. Does technology always mean improvement? Not if it aids to the flawed nature of the creature. I thought of the other forms of instant products – instant soup, fast food, even the Internet – everything engineered against quality and excellence. They were born to accommodate this culture’s demand of speed and convenience -- only at the expense of the far superior essence of goodness such as patience and thoughtfulness.

Lesson of the week: Stay away from instant soup.

8/1/11 – Love Me, Love My Friend

2011-08-08T14:08:00.000-07:00

9:50AM, IM popped up from J: “We are going to 7-11 at 10:00”. A man of few words, J was always short and to the point. It read to me “We” as in invite – in name only with no room or time for negotiation. It was the joyful Friday; hope was high and party was in the air. For some of us, me especially, it transcribes as a doughnut from 7-11. I quickly tidied up a few loose ends and grabbed my badge and cash for the outing. I walked out of my cubical, just in time to bump into my walk partner, and his friend.

From outside, nothing was amiss. There were “hi” and smile as the 3 of us walked out. Inside, that was another story: surprise, confusion and finally agitation. It was last Friday all over again when he had brought his coworker for our private 7-11 party. I remember the same frustration bumping into the expected sight of his +1. I had held my composure and kept up my cordial, amiable appearance when everything inside of me screamed the opposite. For most people, “one is the loneliest number”, but to this scrooge, two is worse. Imagine two plus one.

There have been many 7-11 trips over the course of 3 years and plus. Some of them with company, and some without. It is but a few blocks with the same old pavement and deserted shops along the way, and yet pleasant and liberating to the jailed cubical mates like us. Once in a while, Fridays especially, motions will be passed for a trip there to replenish supplies such as coffee or treats, which we know is more of an excuse than necessity. Whatever motives they may be, I prefer the trip done in solo – it eliminates the burdensome chit chats and most importantly, the change of pace, without which I am always reprimanded with “what are you hurrying for!”. After a couple months of our morning walk J has fallen into a “special” category with an allowance of concession for my 7-11 trip preference. It started as a gallant gesture from me to indulge my walk pal and clearly ended in disappointment as a result of misunderstanding for each other: we both mistook each other for more than who we are - J thought of me more socialable while I took him more loner.

I remember D, my ex-colleague who moved back to the other side of the water last year, invited me to go on his “Facebook” and the new Google+ project for fun things such as “circles” or “hangouts”. I realize too this invite was a gesture of fondness or favor. After all, he wanted me to be his “friend” and even meet his “friends”! With a whirlwind of changes bursting in our world nowadays, none bewilders me more than Facebook. I’d like to claim the excuse of “I have too many friends already”, but the truth is I really don’t do friends, let alone friends’ friends. As social creatures, we have the built-in desire of company, but since when such needs are realized with the worst of both ends – impersonal as in on-line and personal as in exposing your private life for the world’s eyes? J’s crime, though not in the same category as D’s, is still severe in that he inadvertently assumed that my acceptance of his existence implies the extension of his friends’. Granted he was by no means the first offender caught on act, it is unthinkable and most importantly uncomfortable to be the victim of it. Putting aside my inadequacy or disability in social skills, the math simply doesn't compute: if it had taken me 3 years to get used to J, why shouldn't I be given the same allowance for admitting another new comer?

Before then, I claim the asylum of the literal interpretation on “Love me, love my dog” – just dog, and dog only.

Christmas in July

2011-07-21T13:55:00.000-07:00

July makes the monumental cut in that 2011 is officially on its 2^nd half and finishing up quickly with a vengeance. The heat is burning high as summer continues. Unlike the majority of the American population, we treat summer with little care or respect. There has never been much effort for so called “summer vacation”. For one, this family are not ever known as “playing” people. Secondly, now that both sons are out of their teen years, there no longer remains obligation for summer fun such as water park or camping trips. Thus when D motioned for a trip to see his childhood pals, it was somewhat surprising. Lately, both of us have been working long and intensive hours. A long-weekend trip maybe just what a doctor would prescribe for a timely time-out. The motion was then passed quickly without a dispute.

The plan was to visit a few favorite spots back home in Pittsburgh: the Strip, Schenley Park, and of course a baseball game in the beautiful PNC Park. Pittsburgh is now hardly called home since most of his family have gone – the only 2 left D has had little contact with. Without the family obligations, the 3-day vacation ironically seemed hopeful and relaxing. We found ourselves a small motel with easy access to major necessities such as food, grocery and of course Interstate. We spent our first dinner on a newly opened Italian restaurant nearby and found it more than adequate – the food was scrumptious and service prompt. Not bad for an opening of a vacation for this family with deficiency in playing.

Pittsburgh to D after nearly 3 decades of distance is now more some enchanting place to visit than home. He spent his first 26 years there all the way through graduate school. There live forever his best years -- childhood fun in Fineview and of course the unforgettable CMU. They, too, became my favorite as his eyes and thoughts grow younger and younger while he tells of those old stories that both of us never get tired of. Somehow life in that ghetto neighborhood proved to be anything but poor, depriving. I picture with fancy those boys playing from morn till sundown on every field, block or lane, all the fun, thrill and sometimes mischief and imagine what a different world it must have been. And of course in the midst of those golden years there were his best friends Mike and Dennis, who were the chief reason of this visit. We were to meet up for the baseball game on July 4^th but ended up inviting ourselves to Dennis’ family reunion, and then breakfast at their favorite diner the next morning, and finally the grand finale, baseball game at the PNC park.

It was a hot summer day. The walk to and fro to the stadium, 3 hours of Pirates game under the mid day sun did not at all affect the thrill of the fans and especially the forever kinship of the three friends. It was a good game but none of us paid attention. I looked over at them – they were chatting on mindlessly, obvious of the frenzy of the fans surrounding them. Four decades of time may have mercilessly altered them outwardly but not inside. Somehow, the child within remains untouchable at the snare of time or space. Of all the baseball games we have gone to, that one on July 4^th, 2011, might as well mark the most irrelevant one. Pirates has been having a good season. It even treated us with an exciting win, but we would have cared less if they had lost.

After the game, we continued on the memory lane – a treat at Gus and Ya Ya’s snow ball followed by a planned cookout in the his old neighborhood, Fineview, where we had planned to stay for the firework. As the clouds thickened and darkened, the firework was replaced with nature’s own work: thunderstorm with hail, gusty wind and lightening. It mattered not to us while we sang “Happy Birthday” and Luke playing piano for the 89-year-old father. Despite of the storm, the celebration was not held off in that small old house – and it was not just about the birthday, or even July 4^th.

We bailed out on the firework and drove off Pittsburgh in the pouring rain. Had it taken place, it would have been most impressive and magnificent from atop of that neighborhood overlooking the picturesque Iron City – and yet, no match to that in our hearts. The power of a past so innocent and carefree will forever remain a class of its own: superior, peerless, unbeatable. D drove on quietly. I couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but I imagined he too was under the spell of the same magic. Nostalgic, even sad, we might have been, how blessed we were, I thought, to have been the Christmas ghosts in a city so beautiful and a past so glorious….

Time Will Tell

2011-06-10T04:12:00.000-07:00

6:17AM and here came J, ready for the morning walk. I raised my eyebrow: “But it’s not 6:30 yet!”, ceremoniously protesting about his offensive violation. For a month thus far, he has become my “tag-along” walk partner. Initially, that “tag-along” itself was a violation for this rigid scrooge, but after weeks of practice, I have finally come to accept the intrusion. Though not quite in the category of “prenuptial agreement”, two ground rules were laid open before my reluctant conceding: no talking and no slowing me down. Thus far, J has been a law abiding citizen in my sacred, private domain. Today was his first ever offense – changing the hour. He replied quickly enough: people were annoying him already. It takes one scrooge to know another, and his pain. No need for further explanation, I packed up my gear and was all ready to make an exception.

It was a walking heaven when we stepped out of the building. After 3 days of intense heat and humidity, we were more than grateful to walk in a picture of perfection with a pale blue sky and golden hue of morning sun. The temperature was just about 70. Our temperamental friend, the breeze, was already in the weekend mood, dancing and frolicking everywhere. Her infectious joy was so potent that it unlocked this guarded churl instantly. My iPod forgotten in my left hand, I walked on with my +1, incredulously merry and chatty. From the cause of our 6:30 violation, the annoying people, we started talking about work, what he does and who he works with. 3 years of working on the same floor under the same roof and weeks of walking together, we were actually finding out what each other does the first time ever. From work to life, our small talks carried on all the way from Huntington to Washington, 40 blocks altogether. Once or twice I felt the iPod in my hand. I hesitated but a little and eventually put it back into my pocket.

I blame it on the fair day, all that glorious sun and breeze that betrayed the better sense of me. I could feel the guard retreating as our steps moving forward. Was it the beguiling wind or the ease of my friend that made that forbidden mix, walk and talk, not so unpardonable? Our conversation was but some idle talks such as what gardenias looked like and how to grow them. Not exactly a home-run hit, but neither was it a total defeat. My lone wolf coworker seemed to be at ease with this awkward social reject. I had wondered when J popped in my cube once in a while how the others might have thought -- a strange pair like us, so seemingly unthinkable but somehow it worked. The two recluses, quiet yet explosive, find each other’s presence almost comfortable – with or without words.

In comparison, all other “flings” at work are grinding to a halt, regardless of how promising they might have started. A few chit-chats at the kitchen or IM were all it took when the fun disappeared as if nothing ever happened. When it comes to me and relationship, the saying “time will tell” should be replaced with “time will kill”. For the past 3 years at work, I have yet not proven to succeed in any relationship while the rest of my coworkers stay with their “clicks” effortlessly. My 30-minute walk with J seems to be working thus far apparently for 2 safeguards: short and silent. Could today’s deviation ruin it all again just like the rest of them?

Yes, time will tell if I did kill again. As much as I find my new budded “relationship” non-intruding, I’d confess shamefully that its death wouldn’t injure me that much. If there’d be any casualty, it would be more for the sake of pride. Then again, I have had plenty of experiences of wounded pride. I am, after all, proven to be more resilient than any of my failed relationship. I’d continue to practice my golden rule, for both life and plants, live and let die. No more and no less.

Judgment Day

2011-05-20T02:43:00.000-07:00

After 2 weeks of waiting and dreading, I was making my trip to the court. Despite of all assuring effort from friends and family, I was still antsy about appearing before the officials. The night before my anxiety had become so intense that I could not think of anything but the court appointment: what would I say, what should I do and most importantly what would the judge find me. For others, my excessive apprehension was not only incomprehensible but also incredulous. I could see it from their eyes after my third, ok maybe 4th, attempts to seek comfort and support. Their dismissal look told me they had moved on and so should I. If only I could! I agonized silently, wondering if they would take it this slightly had the table been turned.

I had taken off a day from work even though the court hearing was set as early as 8:30am. It felt like the whole world had deserted me, my sleep included, leaving me melancholy and most sadly alone. I fussed over the clothes selections, fought with my GPS and fretted all the way to the court. A fine spring day, the weather was fair and clear, in contrast to the stormy turmoil inside of me. I paid no tribute to the gleaming sunshine on the sky, the historical downtown architecture or the manicured trees and shrubs along the side walk. My heart heavy and my mind distracted, I wanted nothing but the verdict be given and done with. Finally, there it stood – my worst fear and tormentor for the past 2 weeks – the courthouse so solemn and ready to condemn. I walked in with the rest of the guilty, wondering if they were as unsettling as I was. Their silent and blank looks told me absolutely nothing, which unfortunately made my poor heart sink even further.

I had been to the court exactly 2 times: one to get married and another one when I swore in my allegiance as a new addition for this country. This 3rd time might be “the charm” but definitely nothing “charming” with me being summoned as the law offender. I sat dejectedly among a roomful of the guilty though presumed innocent under the law, waiting to plead our cases before the judge. One by one we were called – some with a quick verdict and some with a small scale of drama as in movies or TV shows. What fascinated me were those that were accompanied by their counselors. Were they there for the gravity of their offenses? I wondered. Surely it must be nice to have someone professional, not to mention “legal”, to aid and plead for you in time like this! Like now. I thought forlornly. Here we sat, except for those accompanied by their lawyers, with but a seat or two from one another, together yet completely alone. And if there is anything worse than life’s trials and tribulation, it’d be facing them alone.

An hour and 30 minutes later, I was finally called. My heart pumping hard, I approached the bench. What do you plead? Guilty. I heard myself humbly reply, followed by my prepared speech, which I had rehearsed a hundred times: Your honor, it was my fault, (etc, etc.) I had a clean record (another etc.). He reached for my evidence and as all friends and family had predicted, fined me with the court fee and a 6-month probation. I was dismissed in 2 minutes.

The worst was over. By the mercy of the judge, I walked out almost cleared but definitely free. My debt paid, I stepped back to the sunny, glorious outside, ready to join the society. Suddenly, I noticed the sky blue, the lawn green and blossom bright. I took in a deep breath of air and realized finally what free smelled like. The court behind me, I continued on to the parking lot and vowed resolutely to stay free – not for the 6-month probation alone, but hopefully for good – so I would never have to return here. Somehow, I knew, three was not a charm. I am destined to go to another hearing despite of all my good intent and effort. That final appearing, unfortunately, will render me no probation. The verdict would be in – no plea or remorse would acquit me of this life’s misconducts. If I had been so terrified with this court, what would I feel with that final judgment day? My heart that was just lifted seconds ago sank down as my pace hesitated. I thought of those fellow accused back there with their lawyers and wondered if I would be privileged enough to afford one then and there. My guilt may be great, but I had to cling to the greater hope in that just as the gift of faith came free, my Counselor’s service there would be too.

I started my car and drove on. The second chance was given. From now on let it be a brand new, good citizen back on the road: both in the driver’s seat and life.

Stop And Go

2011-05-09T03:15:00.000-07:00

25 years of driving later, I was getting my first traffic ticket -- 3:50AM exactly, on a non-eventful, most insignificant Wednesday morning. Who would have thought anything exciting on the hump of a week, like Wednesday? It is unimaginable, let alone lawful, but there I was, ironically for offending the law, sitting and waiting in the car numb and shocked at my fate: I had became one of those pitiful public humiliation displayed in the broad daylight -- well in my mind at least -- in truth: on a pitched dark, still asleep street.

How many times have you looked at the rear mirror praying for a narrow escape after slamming on your break at the sight of a speed trapper police car? Well this time when the blinding white and blue lights blazed up at the mirror, I was caught totally surprised. My body surged through a numbing sensation as I cruised to the side and dutifully parked. Was I speeding? What did I do? The question marks went wild like the blinking lights of the patrol car behind me. After handing in my license and registration I finally humbly asked him what I did. “You did not come to a complete stop at the stop sign” was the official verdict. There was no point of arguing at the finality of his accusation devoid of any trace of mercy. I sat deflated for seemingly eternality until he returned with my ticket 15 minutes later. “You have a safe trip now” was his farewell. Was that sarcastic or was it a genuine good wish? I wondered. If so, was he OUT OF HIS MIND??

I had always wondered how depressing a day would be for those wounded animals after being degraded and forced with a traffic ticket. I experienced it firsthanded that day. Never a confrontational type, unless sufficiently provoked, I went to work depressed. Desperate time called for desperate measure, and my first reach for help was the phone on the desk for the biggest supporter and partner for life, who was still in sleep. The phone rang 4 times unanswered as I drifted even lower to the drowning sea of dejection. I thought I was going to cry. Within seconds, he called back. 25 years of marriage later, he knows me and my phobia well enough to receive all my agony and outcry. After 5 minutes of sympathy and TLC, I was finally patched up to face the world again.

When it comes to sympathy, is there ever a limit for anyone at all? I wonder. My humiliation though great was no match for my pride. I then went around hoping to seek more support from a floor of cell mates. Surely there would be some fellow drivers who must have faced the same persecution to commiserate with! I was right and wrong – in fact, all have been there plenty of times and yet none of them for moral support. Instead of offering sympathy, they laughed up and down at my calamity and unanimously raised the same remark “I can’t believe you have never got a ticket till now”. They went side-tracked on with their “records”, incredibly with much pride and joy – what they were and some of which how they talked themselves out of. The mourning party I had intended to host turned into this celebration memorial where the main focus was anyone but me! The closest thing that resembled consolation was something like: Just pay the fine and forget it.

Nearly 2 weeks have passed since and I have not yet been able to solve the puzzle: was it cultural or was it just me? Face-on with any authority, let alone being found guilty, is a total violation of safety and dignity. It takes me back to the classroom where my worst fear, besides pop quizzes, was realized - being called out as the public display of the BAD student, the offender. The disapproval from the teacher as well as the alienation from your peers separates you from the rest of the world with miles long of abyss. Their look of contempt, sympathy and distrust is worse than death – because you are alive to see and feel it every second. But here I am, decades later on the other end of the earth, a law offender all over again, finding my peers’ jeers not from the crime itself but from the absence of crime all these years till now. They laughed it off and walked away, as if it had never ever happened. In their eyes, I am cleared, or should I say, the same person or colleague they have known for the past 3 years – no better or no worse. In fact, my offense, instead of separating, has done exactly the opposite – blending me in with them! I now face the choice to choose between staying trapped in this jail of shame and taking the pardon to join the society. After all, I have served the sentence from another life all these years; maybe it’s time to lift the past verdict.

My failure to stop, ironically, did me a much needed dose of stopping. I am ready to go now.

The Third Wheel

2011-04-25T02:03:00.000-07:00

4:45 Am, Monday - just another mournful, melancholy day when Friday seems eternally far away and unreachable. The tea made and blanket on my lap, I should be all geared up to grind away the bottomless list of work. Somehow my mind wandered elsewhere. For the past few days I had been preoccupied with the same questions that wouldn’t go away: “Is J going to show up? And if he does, when does this doom come?” J is another coworker who bluntly asked the “unthinkable” request on Thursday when he found out my sacred morning routine, “Do you mind if I walk with you?’. What was more unthinkable was that I conceded with a yes.

Why I ever committed the unpardonable sin is another mystery to be explored. Was it my “Sure why not” eager-to-please old nature’s treachery act or was it my optimistic hope that this time it could be different? Above all, what makes J an exception? He is from another group, one of those old-timers that have remained unchanged while the company does exactly the opposite, perpetually morphing in her names, administration, even operations over the decades. Our paths never did cross till we were assigned to the same training class for one whole week. Even then, we hardly talked. He was quiet, non-intruding, almost ghost like. I remember having bumped into him a few times prior to the training whenever he popped out of his cocoon and not ever exchanged a word or nod. I took no offense – in terms of work relationship (and life in general), I am a firm believer of “less is more”. However, the training week changed it when I brought in cookies on the last day. J loved them. I have been soliciting my homemade goodies whenever my impulsive nature comes to play. Many here have been the beneficiary recipients, but little ever returned with more than a “thanks”. Since there is no obligation involved – just me and my vanity, I keep it up voluntarily without expecting anything. Thus when J dropped a small box of chocolates for Christmas, I found myself surprised and delighted as if it had been the precious thanksgiving from the one leper out of the ten.

Since then, he remains on my random cookie distribution list. We still don’t talk much – a little of IM, an occasional drop-in, light yet appreciative exchanges serve us well. Maybe that did the trick to unlock my iron cast door to my forbidden walk? Granted he was warned to keep the pace and most importantly the sacred peace, I still have plenty of my after-fact remorse for my concession.

So 6:30 came – and so did he. I greeted the new comer with a curt nod and put on my IPOD – the ritual must carry on, unchanged and untouched, with or without company. I charged forward without so much a look at the shadow one step behind. We walked the entire route in promised silence except for the ceremonial “you OK?” during and “how was it” after. Not exactly awkward, but crowded enough. My Bach could have told me so, but I was knee deep in the predicament with no one’s fault but mine. J did not fail to keep the 2-P (peace and pace) golden rules, so why was the walk still not quite the same spare the talk? Was it the presence of the third wheel, as gentle and quiet as it is, that made it so intruding and disquieting? Maybe the better question should be: Am I a lost cause for good when it comes to company?

I thought of another occasion when talk was actually required – the Saturday’s dinner party at friends’. Unlike my walk, where silence is gold, parties by definition actually call for conversation and social etiquettes. And participate did I do, more than the share I desired. For over three hours, I became one of the merry party, enjoying plenty of good food, talks and laugher. As we drove home, before the clock even stuck 12 and carriage changed back to pumpkin, the Cinderella was already back to her rags and shame, wishing the ballroom memory lost like her glass slipper.

Talk or no talk, both occasions have but one common element – me. All the while I have the safe guard of staying away from trouble. It didn’t dawn on me till now that the troubling third wheel is none other than me. However painful this revelation is, the biggest and most impossible question remains: How do I get rid of this third wheel?

Lost and Found

2011-04-15T02:10:00.000-07:00

It was Tuesday night when I was lying in bed and out in the blue something hit me: Where is my ring! Not exactly a question, but an alarming exclamation mark that kicked me right out of that after-dinner lazy moment, and the bed too. I scrambled around turning the room upside down, digging and groping for that diamond ring my mother had given me a few months ago before I headed back to U.S. Never a jewelry person myself except for some fun, cheap things to satisfy my spur-of-the-moment girly fancy, but then and there I was almost panicking with fear. The ring was more than a piece of expensive jewelry. It was something my mother had purposely saved and tailored made for me. She eyes were glowing from the joy of surprising me when she opened that blue velvet box where the white gold diamond ring twinkled back in a matching glow. I remember making a big show of “oooh” and “wow” while I put it on my tawny, wrinkled finger. It looked totally wrong, and yet it was perfect because it made my mother happy.

That night ended with me going to bed with a heavy load of sadness and regret. I remembered finally that I had put it in my pocket during my morning walk a few days ago and then totally forgotten about it afterwards. Clearly my forgetfulness and carelessness proved me again unworthy of any good things, but most importantly my mother’s trust and faith. I have been the notorious klutz in a family of my opposite – organized, driven and competent. And a diamond ring put me back in that corner where everyone’s reprimanding look became my worst punishment. I went back to work with the smallest thread of hope that it might be either at my desk or turned in to the lost and found. No luck with both. By then I was finally forced to face the ultimate verdict: the ring was gone.

Why do we never love back till we lose it? I had worn the rings less than a dozen of times for the duration of 5 months. Even when it did show up on my finger, it was hardly accompanied with much pride – in fact, I’d pay much more attention with my coworkers’ accessories. How pretty their rings, bracelets and necklaces look! How I wish I had something like that! While I envied their acquisition, my ring sat forgotten in my cheap plastic “jewelry box”, accompanied by their same fated friends that I showed little regard of. Now that it is gone, my affection has miraculously resurfaced. How beautiful my ring was! How I wish it were still here! Like any unfaithful lover that faces the loss of his love, I was buried in such intense remorse that I would have reversed time and moved the heaven and earth to recover it at all cost.

I didn’t have to work that much. 3 days’ regret was all it took to bring back time and space when I found my ring under the bed, where I had searched, or I thought I had. Imagine the ecstasy and surprise I had as I held it in my palm, my eyes wide open and my heart pumping as if it were going to stop. Fate has taken a pity on my grief and pardoned me from my sin of negligence! What accompanied the joy was a renewed vow of devotion and protection. The prodigal son has come home to stay for good.

I thought of another lost and found and wondered if it has recovered my allegiance from the 2nd round around like my ring. It too disappeared, only much slowly and less noticeably over a good period of time. The void from its absence, though not as dramatic, brought far more casualty than my ring ever did. I was living, but not alive, seeing without eyes and walking yet going nowhere. Its reappearance was just as soundless as its evanescence with a dose of calming assurance instead of delirious thrill. There was no magic moment or drama as I felt when I found the ring under the bed. I remember that day during my morning coffee time with D, just like that, I said thoughtfully to him: “I think I am saved”, as in He was as real as day 1 when we first met in that room, the constant in my ever wandering heart for the past 30 years and the only hope for a fleeting life like this.

Never find myself lucky, but this time I have to declare exactly the opposite. A double dose of lost and found, two second chances – you couldn’t get luckier than this.

"I just want you to be happy"

2011-04-07T02:04:00.000-07:00

8:30pm – bed time prep for the early bird like me. I was brushing teeth when the father of the children walked in and smiled with an arched brow: “S has got a B+ with his Physics test.” I blurted out: “Wonderful! Did you praise him up and down?” Some men are not accustomed to big shows of emotions and mine is one of them. He handed me the phone: “Why don’t you?” I dialed and followed up with the “good for you… I am so proud” dutiful yet truthful praise. I could almost see his mouth curved up with a slight smile as he accepted my congratulations. After over 21 years, I learned to take his not-at-all exciting excitement as true excitement. He was happy despite of his scant exhibition of emotions.

A B+ from a relatively ordinary state college is nothing extraordinary comparing to our friends’ children’s A’s from those prestigious schools. To us, it is. May marks the end of his junior year, a miracle of itself that exceeds all our wildest dreams. It also has been the calmest time since the day he was born. Distance has mended much wound for us all. Now that he has leased a year-round apartment, his trip home has become even more scarce. Whenever we see him, he seems relaxed and almost confident, in contrast to the tormented (and tormenting) phantom that was so miserably inapposite. As much as I want to keep the safe guard of low (or no) expectation about this once explosive tragedy, I can’t help feeling hopeful – that the future might be good, that he would be fine and that he could be happy.

I recall having a conversation – one of those mixed-agenda talks before his junior year to prompt him to strive for a good school year. I started with a picture of the past of gloom and doom and then paired it with a contrast, a future filled with prosperity and joy - if he would work for it. “You deserve to be happy. It’s time for you to be happy.” I emphasized. It sounded like one of those pep talks a parent would say to encourage his unfocused child. And yet I meant every word of it – of all the goals, dreams and hopes I ever had for him, I wanted him to be happy.

I thought of one particular sermon when our pastor admonished the secular mentality of parenthood – “whatever you do, I just want you to be happy”. Have I just defected to the other end after 21 years of Christian education and fervent prayer we have invested on our children? I found myself choking on this frightening question. Is there any ground to pardon a convict when the cause of her crime is as unintentional, even innocent as the offense itself? Surely there have been and will be plenty of suffering lives much worse than him, but he is in fact the saddest human being whose unhappiness has been incurred not by his poor choices but by being himself. Can I, as his mother, find exception in God’s judgment for a superficial hope like “happiness” for a sad child like him?

Nerely 3 years he has gone off to college, giving this family a much needed time and space to heal from a volcanic nightmare that feels like yesterday and a life time ago. Such paradox is confusing but every bit true, just like him. I have to discipline myself to stay at the farther end where memory fades out and almost seems unreal. Still, there are moments when the past would flood in and become present, and there it is all over again: his tears and agony were mixed with mine, his hell became mine and his suffering mine too. I have not yet fully forgiven myself when I remember his loneliness – not one, his family included, ever offered friendship to him. For 18 years of his life, he was subjected to nothing but his peers’ cruel tease and cold alienation. The phone never rang, birthday invites hardly came and at the youth group the ball conveniently skipped him. He was the square peg in a round hole, unwelcomed if not unseen. The two words he carved on his wall in NH home “I SUCK” might as well be engraved on my heart forever. I could still see him there, the poor boy at the far end looking at this world with every longing but no capacity to fit in, all the while thinking it was all his fault that he was this lonely and unhappy.

No, I have not forgotten man’s chief end and that without faith all happiness in life is but vapor. With an exception like him, whose disability is who he is, I have but the comfort of not only God’s limited atonement but also His unconditional love. If he is His sheep, the Master and Maker would continue to care for him to the end, despite of what this poor mother’s guilty and selfish wish, even when it is plainly “I just want you to be happy”.

Bad Math

2011-03-30T01:52:00.000-07:00

After moving north a few months ago, ex-colleague M is back in town. I had actually heard from another colleague yesterday about her visit and a possible lunch date opening to all. Sure enough, the invite was announced during our staff meeting. Prior to the meeting, the boss unexpectedly visited my cubical, inquiring me of the lunch: “You are NOT coming?” Instantly a mixture of self-defense and guilt surfed through my body while I cautiously replied no, tagging with “is that OK”. He explained he had assumed I wouldn’t be coming thus was assigning me to be the emergency backup. Strangely, another mixture of emotion rushed through me, partly relief from his not taking offense and partly indignation from their being so openly presumptuous. Regardless, I was more pleased than annoyed.

Friday lunching-out is customarily though not obligatorily observed by some of us here after a long week of brown bag sandwiches. I faithfully remain untouchable by all invites, which have never been many, if not few. The truth is, it hasn’t taken more than 2 or 3 “NO”s to stop them from coming. I neither find it ill nor fault my “considerate” coworkers. To me, eating with a group of colleagues at a table is far more challenging than working on some troublesome tickets. There is the unknown factor of whom you might sit with, what you should talk about, but mostly how to look interested and engaged when you are totally NOT.

So gladly I took the DOA, focusing on the joy of being left alone to hold the fortress, even though it was but a couple of hours of sheer solitude. I left the meeting looking like a cat with a mouse on her mouth, grinning from ear to ear and full of herself – until I stepped back to my cubicle and realized that I would not be alone. B and R, 2 of my cube-mates, would NOT be going to the lunch either. They don’t ever, just like me.

My heart sank and my joy fled. I sat deflated, frowning and grumbling. As self-absorbing as I am, I am not without conscience. While I fumed with my unfortunate loss, I had to ask myself: if one scrooge equals to FUN, why does one scrooge plus 2 NOT?

Interestingly, R and B are of 2 totally different dispositions and in fact at odds with each other though not explicitly. B is the golden boy and Mr. Perfect, while R is the black sheep, the wild child out of control. At first meeting, I too was drawn to the perfect son. He prays long prayer before his lunch, reads his Bible religiously everyday and works/talks like a prim and proper IT professional. R, on the other hand, is loud, volcanic and borderline obnoxious. Both claimed to be professed Christians and yet they couldn’t be any farther from each other. It didn’t take me long, though, before I switched camp.

I have suspected if my defection had something to do with the fact that R sadly reminds me of myself, a child forever trapped within that is impossible to grow up. Flawed and even damaged, he is incapable to hide or pretend. However, his Christian charity does submerge on and off though not without grunting and cussing. All the good and bad are out open glaring at the world as it condemns him. In comparison, B’s even temperament, long southern drools and seemingly perfect disposition are strikingly superior and yet short-lived (to me) once I detect all Christian’s heart and acts stop at his straight A appearance.

Both, just like me, have been known as the lunch rejects for different reasons: one refuses to mingle while the other is just cheap. For someone who is the cheapest of all, it seems unjust to judge another for that. But I am not speaking of lunch alone. In almost 3 years of stay here, I have not seen him lending a giving hand in work or life. His appearance – helpful and gentle - is all without any actions to give. Charity without action is no charity at all. And even actions, without heart, are just acting like. There are plenty of scrooges here that are self-serving and cheap, but at least they don’t pretend to be something else. . Then again, we will never escape the guilty charge for being wayward and irresponsible as long as we wear the brand-mark of Jesus. As I look at his opponent, R, I have to ask the inevitable, convicting questions: for a child of God, which is worse – the one that is imperfect in deeds or the one that is perfect in name alone? When the day comes to face my Lord, will I be able to explain myself away in either charge?

My 2-hour alone-time turned out to be nothing alone as 3 of us shared the “empty” nest in absolute silence. It was just like any of the lunch hour – the same cubicle, same occupants and same silence and yet it felt more crowded and stifling than usual. I had no one to blame but myself when all went wrong that Friday: bad recess, bad mood and bad math. Let it be a precious lesson for all mankind that false expectation can be a grave peril - it could ruin your fun.

TGIF

2011-03-25T02:17:00.000-07:00

It was just another Friday – with a twist of an exciting prospect. Reason one, I took a day off from work. Secondly, I was planning for a dinner party. For this all-or-nothing rebel, I cycle through two social extremities periodically and this time it was diving in full force – a voluntary invite, including one couple whom we have not seen for over a year.

Among many of my downfalls, pride is the chief-most. And it shows even in my hosting. I would lose sleep over if not checked. My worst fear from house cleaning to menu planning is if I have enough food (and varieties) for my company. As this time there were but 2 couples, whom we have known for more than 2 decades, it wasn’t all that troublesome. Still, I managed to work myself up to comb through 3 stores and cook for 3 hours. By the time I finished racing the clock, 6:25 exactly, dinner was in the oven, table set and dishes cleaned.

To spice up my menu, I put a spin of Chinese flare: pot roast with Chinese spice, whole grain rice, roasted vegetable and 2 authentic appetizers or side dishes: spring rolls and pot stickers, the last two being everyone’s favorites but labor intensive. My vanity was the only drive I needed as I swept through the kitchen utensils and appliances to make homemade dough, shred the vegetable and grind the meat. Finally I sat down to wrap the spring rolls and dumplings. My fingers swiftly performed their magic as I had done it a million times. It felt home and peaceful. Then the door swung open, in walked the little gypsy from his daily bike patrol trip. Those saucer eyes lit up as he spotted his favorite food, dumplings. He exclaimed “ooooooh”, a simple but clear expression of joy. Instantly, my heart swelled up with matched emotion – I was happy to make my son happy. He went off to his computer while I remained in that afterglow of warmth that only a mother could fully appreciate. Suddenly I was caught unguarded by the questions: how long would I be able to make his favorite dumplings? And who would make them for him when I am gone? I felt that heart that just pumped with comfort seconds ago now constricting in such pain and panic that I could not breathe. Surely it was hardly my first time to face my own mortality, but it was the first time when I realized I could not make dumplings for him forever.

Where was the Friday cheer? My hands mechanically continued on with their task while the tears helplessly and foolishly rushed in. Gone was TGIF, my merry party and all anticipation. The house was all set for my company with food smelling mighty festive, clutters picked up and bathroom cleaned – all except that hole in my heart.

Later that night I unintentionally brought up the silly dumpling scare during our dinner conversation. Several suggestions were brought up, one of them being “Freeze a lot of them”. As the laughters filled up the room, I wondered still if our company’s claim of similar fright as all parents do was indeed valid. Even so, could their share of anxiety ever match the capacity and extent of my fear beyond dumplings? Was it my children’s “difference” that weighed down my outlook for Christians’ ultimate joyful end (or beginning) or was it just my weak faith? It was fear that brought me to the foot of the cross, and yet decades later it is still fear that brings me to the same place where I started. I couldn’t help wondering, again, on the million dollar question: am I saved?

On that particular Friday, I had meant to celebrate with all honesty and effort. It started out well but somewhat deflated despite of the good friends and conversation. Still, it wasn’t a complete lost cause. The weather was glorious with blue sky and gentle breeze. Daffodils were waking up from the deep winter dormant, checking out their new neighbors, the pansies I had bought from the nursery earlier that day. I played house all day long and most importantly my friends never ran out of food. Doubt and fear aside, I did enjoy a change of season with good friends. It was TGIF - almost.

Shall We Walk?

2011-03-10T02:53:00.000-08:00

It was another brutally cold day; both inexcusably and ridiculously for March in the southern Virginia. We (my 29-year-old coworker and I) were on the way to drive-through for some fried chicken. A greasy yet comforting lunch made sense after a confusing week with temperature fluctuating between 70’s and 30’s. We were letting out our frustration while we dreamed of our hot, scrumptious chicken. I was fuming especially about missing my morning walk when my young coworker cut in, eyes wide open with excitement. “I should walk too. When the weather warms up, we should walk together.” Without a second to spare, I blurted out, short and precise, “No.” “Why?” She asked with more protest than curiosity. “You can’t keep up with me.” I said. “That’s exactly what I need: someone to whip me and push me”, insisted she. Without a split second loss I replied with same obstinacy: “I don’t want to talk when I walk.” “Is it just physically too strenuous?” This time she was sincerely curious. “Yes,” said I with equal sincerity, “Talking and walking is too much work.”

I realize that my coworker’s request was not all that unreasonable. In fact I have seen enough coworkers doing so, in 2 or 3, everyday. What seems to be most natural in their body language, the smile, ease and talks, is exactly the most absurd to me. How do they do that? And how COULD they? It pains me even to see them doing it.

Later on that day when I had time to reflect on our interactions, I began to feel some regret, only on my lack of diplomacy or tactfulness rather than the answer itself. I would reply with the same answer each and every time. That night I asked my other half what he would have said. There was no reason to expect from this born loner a different sentiment about “walking with others”, but he did say he would have said something like “Maybe. Let’s see.”

I had my “Maybe, Let’s see” older days. In fact, I was a proud graduate from “Maybe, Let’s see” or even “Sure, why not”. There were plenty of days when pleasing others was almost an obsession to me that my mouth would always unwisely say yes before my brain had a chance to stop it. How desperate and needy I was, and how frustrating and foolish it must have been to try and fail time after time! Of all failing attempts, the worst trauma came about 15 years ago – it ironically too started with walking with someone else.

S was then 6, young, ignorant and over-zealous for his almost first social come-out. Prior to this, he had known almost no one except his autistic brother, thus one can appreciate his (or my) excitement when Chris came to the picture. The family had just moved in – appearing at first glance a perfect match for us with a father working too at the college and mother full-time home-maker. The two boys from the same neighborhood attended the same school and the same class. Imagine our joy! So we had our hurdle underneath: our autistic older son and socially inhibited 2nd son vs their two perfect children, and the frozen chosen Calvinists vs the liberal Presbyterian couple, but no one is perfect and we were more than willing to forgive and forget. Soon enough the two boys and mothers were thrown together at play time, phone calls and all that motherhood good stuff. For a little while, I almost felt normal – until that tragic downfall, when we started walking together.

Beth and I first bumped into each other in the 5:15 morning walk at the neighborhood. After a few times of “good morning, how are you?”, it was logical that bumping together turned into walking together. In truth, except for speed, there was nothing in common between us: she was soft-spoken, sweet in demeanor, and kept a house clean and white. While her life appeared to be perfectly in order, mine was anything but. It was, though, not our differences that caused the ruin, but the talk along the walk. Granted I was excited about being admitted to the “mom circle” finally, the 40 minutes of non-stop, friendly chit chats turned out to be just most exasperating and excruciating! Before long, I found myself stuck in a situation where I ran out of not only topics on my miserable life but also comments on her perfect one. The walk turned into this insufferable pop quiz that I had not and could not possibly have prepared for – EVERYDAY. To recover, I decided to cut down on our morning session. I started my round a half hour earlier and met her at the end to do the last 10 minutes. When questioned, I frankly admitted I needed time to wake up. My candid andswer wasn’t well received as I had expected. Pretty soon, my new friend started missing from our walk, and then the phone calls, eventually all interactions altogether.

Looking back on this unfortunate rift, I can finally deduce that it was caused by a combination of my own poor judgment, lack of self-understanding and haste to conform. As much as I sympathize with her sense of rejection, I have to defend my honor that I was then young and hopeful, not realizing my socializing deficit. After all, it wasn’t just my son’s first social attempt alone; it was mine too. This mistake, though sad, did teach me precious lessons: (1) talk and walk should never mix and (2) if necessary, I reserve the seats solely for Bach and my mate, bound by law and life, with whom I have neither need nor fear to please or displease. My young coworker may never appreciate my curt response but this overcomer, much older and wiser now, would rather be blunt in truth than blunder in foolishness. No matter what, let my walk remain forever more sacred as it should be: solo and safe. Amen.

Morning War

2011-03-03T03:49:00.000-08:00

Another work day commenced. Same ritual: clothes, shoes, lunch box, 18-minute drive (plus or minus a few grunts pending on the sequences of the stop lights), parking and 2-block walk to the office. All was well. I continued on with the rest of setup: tea, email, phone messages. Finally, the bottom right corner of my computer displayed 4:15 and there it came, the same anxiety, almost anguish, as my ear listened for the sounds of door opening and the intruding footsteps.

I realize that I do work in a 21st century IT world, open floor plan with cells or cubicles, where the comfort (or concept) of privacy simply does not exist. It is exactly that reason that I found my morning solitude so primal to my emotional well-being. On top of it, there are parking issue and insomnia which made my “early to rise (arrive)” a no-brainer solution. When I first started changing the hour, I bumped into another early riser a few times at the coffee lounge and engaged in a few cordial coffee-tea conversation sessions. It was then around 5am. Our social rendezvous, instead of promoting an amiable kinsmanship, ironically evolved to be a waging war as he (or I?) started shifting the arriving time for earlier. Before long, my competitive instinct was baited such that the alarm clock went through a confusing sequence of adjustment, until 3:23 finally settled the dispute. For a while, peace finally arrived on B521, where I had my 30 minutes of alone-time before my rival, now co-owner of the temporary peace domain, came in at 4:30. After that, we had another 20 minutes before the 3rd runner reached the winner’s circle. My ear soon learned to distinguish the footsteps at certain time. 5:10 was S, who religiously turned off the lights at his quarter. 5:30-ish belonged to neighbor T, and then neighbor B who could be rowdy at times due to the inconvenience of next-door location. After that, we have 5:55 for E, 6:05 for M, and so forth. All was well. The hopelessly impulsive, at the same time impossibly rigid rebel was thankfully tamed with the help of a dose of solitude and the clock-wise routines of the others’ arriving.

If only life proved to be predicable ever after! It started with neighbor B, with allotted arrival time 5:35, decided to disturb the perfect sequence. With a sneaking 5 minutes here and there, he reset his clock, against my wishes, to 5:15. Meanwhile the 3rd arrival joined the treachery by inching in to the war-zone, switching her time from 4:50 to 4:30. Such rebellious defiance was not only unthinkable but also excruciating. Eventually the shock did taper off, only to be replaced with persistent pain. Morning after morning, I go through the same anguish, awaiting the disturbed sequence with unresigned indignation.

How and why have I been stuck in this predicament? I have to wonder. Is it my own competitive and controlling nature to blame? Granted if I did own my fault, I have to add that I am not without company here. The all-wise Chinese proverb does say: “One hand claps not”. There would have been no war or competition if there had been one party all along. Recall, specifically, the first instigation started with the other early riser, AKA “light man”, who shifted his time from 5 all the way to 4:30 upon my first appearances. What would you do with rejection or provokes such as those except for joining in and fighting your honor as any good soldiers should? What of the other two defectors? Don’t they know once their time is set there is no excuse to change, especially when my mental, emotional well-being is at stake? What is it that people cannot embrace stability when everything is running perfectly (and most importantly, I am happy)?

I heaved a long breath as the door finally opened at 4:25 when light man came. There it started all over again: the new and undesired sequence. Changes are BAD. I muttered to myself, but “time heals all wounds”. Hopefully, and SOON, time will do her other magic: change the offensive ‘new’s back to old and then peace may finally arrive – both at B521 and most importantly, cubicle 20.

Let there be no more deviation henceforth, I pray.

Heaven Can't Wait

2011-02-18T03:07:00.000-08:00

4:38am. I barely caught up with my email after a long weekend’s accumulation when I suddenly realized I had passed my 4:30AM date with my prayer partner. “Bare me before the Lord as I bare you before the Lord” – that was what he said to me when we left him that Sunday. He had been home from the hospital on hospice care. He was lying down on the bed next to the living room’s window where the sun was hanging bright and high on yet another wintery day. His face all beamed up from that 30-minutes hymn impromptu that Luke had put together on request. My Bible sat forlornly at the desk, eyeing me with a question mark and rebuke. You are late! I glared back with a challenging look. Late, for what? 4:30 or forever? My partner is missing in action.

It has been almost 24 hours when that phone call came. 6:44AM exactly. I had been lying awake since 6:15 and trying to pull myself form the warm bed. The house was still and silent except for my idle thoughts and the debating if I should get up already. The booming ring of the phone did not alarm me much; it was late for us even for Sunday and we have had quite a few wrong numbers from the past. I heard my thoughtful other half running out to find the handset. I was still unconcerned even when he returned and opened the door. It was not until when he placed his hand on my arm that I sensed something was wrong. “Charlie died.” He said quietly. The room was dark. I was somewhat lost between a reality and a dream. I thought I should be crying or something, but I was just sitting there, swinging between too many extremes: somberness and sobriety, shocked and expected, frenzy and calm. On top of all, I was somewhat angry. I had had other plan for today - we were going to surprise him again with another violin rendezvous after church, but Charlie had bailed out at the last minute

The tears did not come on my own, I have to confess. They were induced by the others’ grieving eyes later that day and again at his funeral 3 days later. The funeral was surprisingly small, and short, but at the same time so appropriate and perfect for him. He would have wanted no other way. Tears, like yawn, are contagious at its opportune time. And there I was, sitting at the church he started decades ago, surrounded by a handful of old-timers who have been there with him through thin and thick, weeping like a fool. His casket sat forlornly before the podium where he had preached with the tiny, hand-written notes from his pocket and a smile that never failed to revive any weary soul. Right there in front and between the pews was his favorite trail when he’d pace up and down while he preached. To the left stood the new keyboard, replacing the old piano where Luke was, playing with a big grin the Christmas carols on a hot summer Sunday. It was the same church with fresh paint, a remodeled kitchen, much improved nursery and almost new congregation. Everything looked the same but everything was different. He was there and yet he was gone. The irony was: He had tried so hard to withdraw and retreat himself from this church and now he finally succeeded -- only by vanishing, for good.

Why do people say “Be happy for him; he is home now” when it is anything but happy that I am feeling? His gain has become my loss of a friend so noble and different from me. He was God’s best student, the meek and joyful, generous and faithful while I God’s worst student, proud and miserable, selfish and unfaithful. And yet there was some ridiculous resemblance between us. It takes one so awkward and misplaced to know another so insecure, one with no reason to and another with every reason; child-like, one innocent and pure while another incapable to grow up; passionate, he for all beauty and knowledge of God’s creation and I the vain and worldly things of this life. Even so, he couldn’t help his generous, shepherd heart to overlook my wretched flaws and befriend me. And now we parted; the good and faithful servant has completed his journey and the wayward, runaway slave continues on with his exile. Without his Paul’s intersession and advocacy, can Onesimus ever find his way home? Knowing him and his optimism, I can almost hear his answer. My head knows he is right, but my heart with all shame and grief wants to tell him this: heaven can wait, Charlie! I wish so much for yet another our 4:30am session, the Charlie-Benjamin meeting at blogger.com or our small talk at the church kitchen. I can see him still doing all that, but much, much more, only with our big Brother now. Mayhap he is winking at me and telling me why he couldn’t wait. Despite of all my selfish tears, there is yet this relief for his sake – he is home now, the fish back to the water, finally. If there is anyone that knows how liberating it is, that would be me.

It was a bitter sweet farewell, starting with tears and ending in calm. Yes, I was almost fine as I drove out of the parking lot, taking that same road home as I did on those Sundays after saying good-bye to him. Only this time it was the last good-bye. For once, I actually overcame my selfishness and felt happy for him. No more toil, heartaches and fear, just home, safe and free. And as sure as I was with his kind heart, I had my suspicion that he’d still be doing what he did here, along with sweet Jesus, praying and waiting forever more for his unworthy friend at 4:30am, every day.

I Heard The Owl Call His Name?

2011-02-10T01:46:00.001-08:00

After a long stretch of cold wintry days, I found myself surprised to face a sky blue and air gentle as I walked out of office. It dawned on me that January has in fact moved soundly to its last leg. The hint of a season’s end was intoxicating. I felt the freeze thawing everywhere: the pedestrians’ face, the 4pm traffic, and the weariness within me. Even this big winter lover was anxious to move on to the next phase. Spring is in the air, and I am happy, or I thought I was. My chest that just opened up moments ago suddenly sank with heaviness. And then and there I wondered why spring could come despite of all.

No, the sun should not shine and sky not blue. And why does this world carry on so casually as if nothing is wrong? The cars were moving, minutes ticking and life recycling just like any other day. I was almost angry. And there it was again, the same anguish that had haunted me all day long. Without any warning, the tears and the sobs overtook me. I started crying.

Why does our subconsciousness or memory continue to keep us captive when we will to flee? The images of Sunday in room 544, almost colorless, a window with a view of grey sky, and a motionless bed where C. slept, flashed on and off without any warning. He had been sleeping much that day, the nurse told us, but it would do him good to have some visitors. She woke him up. I could still see his face – pale, yet almost boyish. He said with a smile that morphine had stopped the pain. He looked content and happy. “Me and the Lord – He sits there and keeps me company”, said he, pointing at the end of his bed. It drew a smile from both of us, and the tears too – smile without much joy and tears of sorrow. He talked on while we listened, struggling to match his playful mood. For a brief second, I wondered if we were the ones lying on that hospital bed and he, the doting pastor-father, comforting the sick and needy.

What do you say to someone who senses the coming of the end? Is there anything that can really convince both inquirer and replier without sounding contrived? “No, there is nothing wrong watching TV at the last days.” Both question and answer were ridiculous. He asked us if we read the book “I heard The owl Call My Name” and with a child-like grin he added: “it’s scary!” The room was still except for our disjointed conversation – the medication he has been taking had impaired some of his hearing and senses. Part of me wanted to stay forever for our mismatched, awkward talk and part of me wanted to run away. The air in that room was stifling, I thought. I looked out of the window and there they were, the seagulls, gliding away silently. I remembered the owl and wondered why it scared him.

I have been there a few times already; it’s only logical at my age. And yet, the fear continues to puzzle and shame me. The promise in my head is no match to the doubt in my heart. Did they really arrive at that final destination that makes up all the toil and ploy of a lifetime? What if at the end of the drudgery we find ourselves opening a door that leads to a wall and all the pain and grief of living and dying is just pain and grief? I looked at C’s face and found neither pain nor grief; his eyes reflected joy and trust, pure and simple. He was at home in that small hospital room with the machines mechanically beeping, nurses and patients quietly passing to and fro. Heaven could be there, as in anywhere: his own home, the podium at the church, or dinner at our kitchen. The fear and doubt was all mine if and when the owl calls; He would be all too happy to go to Vinny’s for our pizza date or that final trip home.

My tears finally stopped. It was but a Wednesday afternoon, with an unexpected relief from a long and cold winter. The pain was still there, burning persistently for a brother-friend whose life has been a hidden treasure: complex yet simple, ordinary and most extraordinary, empowering though demine. Our paths have crossed but a brief 3 years, but I would never trade its depth with the length of any other substitute. I may not have my answers yet, but I know wherever he goes, there I would like to go - even when the owls call my name.

His Brother's Keeper

2011-01-13T01:47:00.000-08:00

5pm on a January day, cold even for southern Virginia. Outside the remnant of daylight was slipping away quietly and inside dusky and soundless. I was listening for the door and Luke walking in from his daily trip to the gym. Instead, the phone rang and broke the silence. I dashed to reach for the handset – a late afternoon phone call could only mean 2 things: his call to say he was coming home or he was stuck somewhere with a flat. It was neither. The voice was agitated and hesitant. “Nothing”, he repeated, when it meant anything except nothing. He clams shut when he is unsure or frightened. Finally, I traced down to the cause: he had gone to his father’s lab and could not find him. It was but a few miles from home, but he was in no shape of choosing the option to return home in his bike when he was stuck in that mood. My small cross-over has no capacity to accommodate his bike, thus I could not offer to come pick him and his bike up. Desperate times call for desperate measure. The only option left was to call his brother at the dorm. Can you pick Luke up with the van? I explained why and apologized for the bad timing. It was rush hour time and the traffic could be at the peak of its worse. There was not a second thought or reluctance. He quickly said yes and was on his way already.

45 minutes later, the door opened and in walked Luke, alone. His brother had dropped him home and left. I hurried outside, hoping to catch him – to praise and thank him and maybe even persuade him with a dinner. The driveway was empty with no trace of his van. There was a sliver of emptiness in my heart from the disappointment. An average son would have come in to say hi or something. Then again, an average son would not have gone out to bail his helpless brother without a whine or fight. He was nothing average.

He had finished his Christmas break and gone back to his dorm just this week. It was but a short 3-week stay, including the 5-day family vacation he bailed out at the last minute. My nothing-average son is looking quite average in his growing up and away. There no longer exists much family bonding time when he is home. He stayed in his room most of the time. When he came out, he would be upstairs watching TV or his DVD’s. Occasionally both of them might share the same facility or space, mostly during Luke’s passion, the game shows, for you could hear their zealous exchanges or uproars on and off, one serious participating and another one comical commenting. It was an odd combination of many things: normal and yet rare, fun and sad, sweet and sour. Regardless, for this not-so-ordinary family, it almost made us ordinary.

No, moments like that maybe everyday or everywhere for others, but for us it has been a long time coming. I remember the first few years of his life how hopeful we once felt, for us and for his autistic brother. His animation, difference and even brilliance were the only things that brought us afloat. He would be fine, we said to ourselves, no, more than fine. And when we are gone, he would be there for his lesser brother. He would be his protector, his keeper. Sadly, this high hope came tumbling down soon enough. For the longest time, the promised rescuer turned into a persecutor – oscillating between a ghost-like shadow and a volcanic, damaging nightmare that you can’t wait to wake up from. It consumed and depleted us all to the bone. When his own label finally came in, it did not bring us any relief. The truth, instead of setting us free, left us a harsh reality that these two children shall be one day left behind, equally alone and helpless.

Does time really heal all wounds? Or is it the distance that makes the heart grow fonder? I wonder. The 3-mile-away college somehow seems to have brought back that 3-year-old who was once Luke’s shadow and sunshine. The compassion has returned and replaced impatience or sometimes shame. The same exclamation, “LUKE!”, no longer sounds annoyed or unkind but rather fond and almost indulging. Nearly 15 years of broken dream later, I have been trained to take life as it is, one day at a time, with little expectation. I have no other alternative but to cling to the hope that claims not to disappoint. And I was certainly not at all disappointed then. On the contrary, I was almost hopeful! I looked out of the empty driveway and imagined how they unloaded Luke’s bike together and him saying “you ok, Luke?” before driving off. That emptiness in my heart from the earlier disappointment was suddenly filled. I realized then the promise might just have been delivered - except more than I ever dreamed of: both his brother’s keeper and his keeper.

Mommy's Little Girl

2011-01-10T02:52:00.000-08:00

2 more hours and I can officially conclude the year 2010, professionally at least, and go home in joy. There will be at least 4 days of scheduled vacation time, which means 4 nights free of fear even if insomnia strikes, and at least 3 mornings to choose from as "mommy time" when I would pick up the phone and talk to my mother, separated by a vast ocean and land and ½ day of time. For 2 and half years, my “professional career” has greatly reduced the frequency of my bonding time with mother, and this break surely offers a rare luxury when I can just kick back with a cup of tea or coffee and talk with her for a couple of hours over absolutely nothing.

Nearly 3 decades have passed since I left my mother. I remember that day as if it were yesterday. Young and ignorant, I had no idea that would be the beginning of an end - me being her little girl and her shadow. She has 4 children and somehow this 2nd born claimed and lived the title from day one. It may have something to do with me being the runt that didn’t walk till well after 18 months old, the sick child that came close to die, or the ugly duckling that could never live to fill her sisters’ shoe. Her face was the first thing I saw in my waking up from sleepwalking, the same nightmare night after night, and those deserted insomnia nights. As a teenager, while my other 2 beautiful and outgoing sisters enjoyed their prime of friendship and courtship, I was home alone dating my books and my mother. I become so attached to her that for the longest time I thought I would never be able to marry and leave her.

Apart from the perfect match between the protector and the helpless, we actually share little in common, interest-wise or personality-wise. She is head-strong and independent while I am hesitant and insecure. And yet, there is this forever tug in my heart when it comes to my mother, with which none of her 3 other children care to share or fathom. While they may argue that it is because of the safety of distance, I insist on a supernatural bond despite of any human imperfections. And flawed and faulty she indeed is, as a mother or person, in fact like any parents losing her authority or credibility with time gone by. Over the years, she has become more and more critical and unhappy and thus consequently alone and lonely. I don’t ever remember her being soft or gentle. She has never even uttered “I love you” in our entire life. Still, for me, loving her is like loving the air I breathe in – it takes literally no consciousness or effort of my own. And how could I not? I still feel her cool hand on my burning forehead in those sick nights, the back I learned on when she took me to the doctors on the bike and the face that beamed from the audience at my school functions. She gave me everything a child ever needed: protection of a mother and father, nurture in sickness and guidance for future. And because of her I now have everything she never has: education, independence and even love. The truth is: as we grow older, our roles have reversed – I am now her protector, fending her honor against the world – even when that world is reduced to her own family. With distance and time, I continue to remain her only faithful listener and biggest fan as she once was for me.

Does love really cover multitude of sins? I wonder. If so, why does it not apply to her other children, friends or even family? Is distance really the only safeguard for long lasting relationship? Even true, the price tag is far too costly. I remember the last time when I left her, all too many times after my first leave, the same emotions, heartache, pang and grief, rushing through my core overtook me as if it had been the first time, except it was compounded with the realization that it could be the last time. Her once erect now slouched frame stubbornly sat by that kitchen table looked far and frail. We are now both growing old. Why does it hurt so much more to see your mother age than yourself? Was it just yesterday when the body I hugged felt much stronger and taller? She was pulling away from me – the tears and embrace were not customary for our culture, but she had endured them for my sake. If there were anything harder than saying good-bye to your mother, it would be seeing her in your blurry eyes, all alone and deserted, and you walking away like the rest of the shameless, heartless defectors. In too many ways, we have all moved along and there she is at the same spot, left behind and fading away.

My tea is made and my heart leaping with mixed emotion - a little bit of sadness and a little bit of excitement. I could almost hear her voice now – light and casual as if we were never been away from each other. An instant rush of comfort ran through me and made me almost happy. The magic of a mother’s touch! One that is gentle enough to calm the wildest beast and strong enough to cheer the timid coward. Either way, it always takes me home. Yes, here I come, ready and gladly to be her little girl again, to talk fashion, recipes or simply nothing at all.

Merry Christmas, finally

2010-12-29T03:10:00.000-08:00

The day before Christmas: cold, gusty and wintery. The sun was hanging high on a deceivingly calm and clear blue sky. For a change I had actually caught up with all my email and work list. There in the office scattering about were but a few of us, hanging on for the last stretch before holiday break commenced. The air was lazy and aimless, as was inside of me. One more day and a few hours of changes, Christmas would be here and I was none at all merry or jolly. There should be a law against any vacation trip prior to Christmas, which we had foolishly committed the week before, even for the mere reason of a 25th wedding anniversary. Returning from a less-than-successful trip 4 days before Christmas yielded many undesirable side effects, i.e. an empty refrigerator, a Christmas tree with no gifts underneath and a hollow heart devoid of joy or hope.

Merry or not, the dreadful day did arrive and, ironically, actually started with a miracle: I slept straight through the night. By 9am, all Christmas magic or ritual was performed and completed. There ahead of us was yet a long day with no planned activity or company. Outside the sky was covered with a mass of grey, while the ground the remnant of autumn brown. We had done various attempts to celebrate the joy of season: going home to family in Pittsburgh, crashing friends’ Christmas party in New England or even hosting our own. This year raking leaves was added to the collection; not at all orthodox, but at least original. From 9:30am to 2pm past, we attacked the yard with a vengeance: raking, blowing and bagging. Though painstaking, there is something precious about laborious acts in its purifying or therapeutic effect. The benefits are two-folds. First off, you experience a rare luxury when body and mind coexist in harmony, where one’s productivity (or not) impacts little that of the other’s (except for a few unpleasant times when the power cord of the leaf blower became entangled or caught). In fact, it is one of those moments when physical activity actually promotes mental imagination to run free and wild. Secondly, there is always some goal associated with the toil that helps forming an allegiance between those two. Such goal, sometimes trivial or ridiculous (like raking leaves before next week’s pick-up) produces hope and dream, without which life is reduced to perpetual drudgery.

5 hours of harmony, or peace on earth, (except our cou-de-sac, from the intruding, screaming leaf blower) and 40+ bags of leaves on the curb later, we returned to the house exhausted though exhilarated. I had not realized it would have taken that long and that the Christmas dinner was still in the refrigerator. I wasted no time in plunging into the 2nd act of the Christmas Carol, washing, cutting and cooking like a storm. I was about to regret our prior conquest (or impulse) in raking leaves, when I looked outside of the window and there they were: the fluffy flakes ever so gingerly, but definitely, dancing around. I gasped and remembered my neighbor telling me the day before: it might snow on Christmas and if it did, it would be a White Christmas since 1940’s…. Be it the merit of making the statistics or record, I was instantly excited. The magic of snow, small scale then as there was but a dust draping lightly on the ground, trees and roof tops, was magnified in this cheerless heart of mine when it was combined with our good timing in finishing raking the yard. As I witnessed the dancing miracle before my eyes, my ear was ringing what C had said the day before when we went to visit him. He was all concerned about my lack of Christmas joy and was letting me in the remedy of this ailment: “lie down on the floor and listen to the Christmas hymns!” Although his hearing was impaired from the side effects of another treatment he had received a couple of weeks ago, my loving pastor’s Christmas cheer was none the less true and full in his sparking eyes and wide grin. He who had little reason to rejoice was showing this scrooge who had every reason to how to be merry for Christmas. Suddenly I almost lost my breath as my eyes became blurry – It must have been the phantom like snow and its playing a mischievous trick on me. I think. I realized then and there the secret of Christmas: it lies not on my mood or feeling, the gifts or feast, friends and family. It was hidden behind his twinkling eyes and what ignited my Pastor’s joy in December or July, despite of all.

For me, 2010 Christmas came finally at exactly hour 1600, December 25. And it had nothing to do with the snow.

Brown thumb

2010-12-23T04:46:00.000-08:00

Over one month had passed since my return. All work has been caught up, home-front and work force, all except that of the spirit of Christmas – I have not yet been able to live it or feel it despite of the help from TV commercials, radio carols and even all the Christmas parties. Losing 3 weeks had deprived me of the necessary course of migration to the climax of the year. The incurred damage is not only internal but also external, in that even our Christmas tree was not set up well after the Thanksgiving week.

The symptom seemed to be contagious within the family too. Even Luke, our Christmas child, exhibited little excitement for the holiday. A Christmas without his hope and dreams is no Christmas. It simply would not do. I decided to take remediation action: time to get the tree up! We had spent the whole Saturday raking leaves, leaving us Sunday afternoon the only time for mission of Christmas rescue. The designated tree man, though, was pressed with tasks of higher priority then, thus I became the inevitable substitute. I have not been known ever for want of energy and drive at calls of necessity. In fact, I am a firm believer of being the superior species in the claim of that there is nothing we, the child-bearers, cannot do. Putting up a Christmas tree is no exception. Like any other created, flawed creature, I am well aware of my own shortages, but my determination makes up for any possible deficiency – any but 2 things: sewing and gardening. Christmas tree may have the name of “tree”, but in our home it is 100% artificial, consequently 100% safe from my lack of green thumb.

I have wondered why and how I could have been born and raised by 2 parents with innate passion and skills for gardening and still became a walking nightmare in the company of nature. To say that I cannot garden is an understatement. If trees, shrubs and flowers have any say or votes, I would be in fact their worst enemy or predator without even trying. But the tree is made of plastic, so what harm could I possibly incur? That day was packed with actions: driving Luke to his final musical engagement, picking up a few items from stores and even bagging the last few piles of leaves in the chilly, windy weather. Finally I saved the best for the last. Standing in the middle of the great room with a box all duck-taped up, I stared at my “mission” still with little concern. The original tree assignee happened to be a methodical and patient worker. He had labeled and grouped all branches with precise order instruction on the box. I started pulling the piles of branches out and assembling them, feeling brave and invincible. The boom box was singing Christmas carols merrily, matching that of my jolly and carefree spirit. Life was good, and EASY. As I moved along, I noticed some branches hanging slightly too loose for my liking. I gave it a firmer push onto the supporting pole and just like that the pocket snapped and the branch came completely detached. My eyes and mouth dropped open. I could not believe this mishap – certainly this is NOT happening! But the evidence, the broken limb lying lifeless at my hands, was staring vacantly back at me. Nearly 20 years of age, safe and sound under the care of another hand, our Christmas tree broke at my first touch.

So everything went southbound from there. Gone was my gaiety, the Christmas cheer and of course the tree. My drive and zeal deflated, I wrapped up the rest of the mission hastily, abandoning the remaining task of lights and ornaments hanging. I could not even bare the sight of the post mortem. It was a pitiful scene of aftermath with plastic needles panickly scattered around. At 6pm past, the house was quiet and devoid of daylight and life, except that of the destroyer. I realized with a sinking heart that without a doubt the curse of brown thumb extended beyond the boundary of nature. I may be anything - resolute, industrious and spirited, but never the nurturing with a green thumb. It took a 20-year-old, plastic tree to teach me the lesson: the law of nature (literally this time) cannot be violated – not without a price.

2010 marks the year of me becoming the Christmas Grinch when I killed our Christmas Tree.

My Father's Daughter

2010-12-08T02:12:00.000-08:00

1.5 months later, 3 weeks’ trip home included, I am back to this side of the ocean. A long journey like that, in distance and time, feels anything but long. There had been much anxiety beforehand, but it did work out with tons of fun, enough rest and even an unexpected happy ending. But why should I ever be surprised? Life has determined to continue playing the same trick on me with its satire and unpredictability. To date, the adventure still overwhelmed me much that I have not yet been able to digest and reflect weeks later.

For the world’s eyes only, I bounced back with barely a day of rest, returning to my job and routines as I battled the persistent jet leg and demanding catch-up with both work and preparation of Thanksgiving. The reality within, though, is the struggle to make peace or sense out of the trip. I had expected its worst when it did quite the opposite. Among all my apprehensions, none other surpassed the relationship I have had with my father.

Oddly, I resemble him the most out of his 4 children. Many have marveled and joked about my being the exact replica of him: dark and small framed with the same facial feature, where the contrariness is that I am exactly the opposite of him. He is reserved and disciplined, while I am explosive and impulsive; he is assertive and graceful yet I timid and awkward; he is forever detached from all fear and care and I perpetually restless and fretful. The biggest absurdity is in as much as our outward resemblance our internal difference has made our relationship an absolute impossibility. Not only have I not had any father-daughter talks or walks, but also his presence intimated me such that I wouldn’t know what to say or act when he was around. It would be an understatement to quote me as NO-“daddy’s little girl”.

Many decades later, across an ocean and a vast foreign land, the separation of time and space may have put this strain between us in remission but it silently continued on and faithfully resurfaced with each trip home. Like any survivors, I developed schemes to cope with life’s obstinate obstacles – in this case, avoiding being with him alone. That was why it surprised even me when I volunteered to go hiking with him the 2nd day after I returned home.

It was one of those mysterious moments when your impulsivity gets the better of you. I could see on his face the same confusion, milder but apparent, at my request. Mayhap he too had a similar out-of-body experience when his sensitivity betrays his better sense, but he did not protest. At 2:30pm, we set out. Our ride to the park was but a 15-minute route through a busy city. I chatted on lightly as I surveyed mindlessly the life and activity on the streets that looked completely alien to me decades later. I was wondering if they looked back at us but a pair of normal father and daughter going outing. Finally we parked and started our hike. It began at the foot of the mountain with endless steps winding around and all the way up. The path was rocky but well maintained. He led the way. At 75, my father is still active and fit. His dancer frame from behind looked nimble and at ease as he took the steps effortlessly. At 3pm, the mountain was almost deserted with air moving soundlessly on the tree top. It was already in the midst of November, and yet the leaves in that tropical island were still in their vibrant green. There in front of me was my estranged father, so close yet forever so far, taking me for a hike. The strenuous activity left us little energy for conversation as we climbed up and down, taking caution for every step. Even then, the contrast between us was evident: he was the royal prince, swift and gracious and I the gypsy, careless and clumsy. Somehow, it felt comfortable: the quiet path, the cool, whispering air and the lazy afternoon sun. And in the mist of that tranquility were the 2 strangers communing wordlessly first time of their life.

One and half hours later, we returned to the foot of the mountain. My knees had taken a toll from those endless steps and I was grateful to see them behind me. My father, surprisingly, looked as unaffected as he ever was. I wondered if that was true inside too. We hopped back to the car and headed back. Traffic started to pick up for rush hour now. As we passed through the same streets, I remembered in growing up when my friends talked of their father-daughter moments how fascinated I was with those mysterious, almost alien experiences of theirs. I couldn’t exactly claim our 2-hour hike as one of those, but I would definitely with much pride chime in now: well, I went hiking with my father!

Going Home

2010-10-15T11:24:00.000-07:00

In a little more than 2 weeks I will be going home.

Surely after nearly 30 years of sojourning at the other side of Pacific, home officially and logically should no longer be there but here. Somehow, habit has made it impossible to reverse the quote, even though in reality that home for the longest time never lived up to its name. Except for the language, nothing feels natural there: the culture, the life, the traffic, even the people that constitutes “family”.

Truth be told, time and space aren’t the guilty parties that contribute to this unfortunate sentiment. In growing up, there had always been much strain between me and the world I ever knew of such that I constantly felt the awkwardness like a fish out of water. I was the runt of the litter to start with: sickly, weak and needy. Later on, I failed to live up to the standards held by that of the culture and my own family. Despite all my good intentions and effort, I have not yet figured out how to live in harmony with them, let alone acquire their approval or even impress them. To them, I am forever a sad or sore thumb, undisciplined or too wild for my own good. I walk too fast, talk too loud and love and hate too much. Their open admonition or disapproval did not help either. Eventually I rightfully owned the ultimate crown, the black sheep of the family, in that I was nothing like them and thus inevitably followed the natural course to exile out of the country.

Such incompatibility between us continued on even with the safe distance of many oceans and lands. Whenever I am around them, the fear would overtake me despite of decades of life and experience I have gained from this part of the world. I would hopelessly reverse or regress to the same walking disaster as if I never left. The last few trips home in the past 10 years finally cured me of my homesickness. I came to the conclusion that less is more, farther is closer when it comes to visiting them.

Why is home not home? I have questioned time after time. Surely I couldn’t ask for more love and generosity than any family would give me. In fact I believe there isn’t anything that they would not spare for my sake. Unfortunately, my existence to them is better with distance or even in notion only. My last trip home was 4 years ago –and yet it feels like yesterday that I was back there on that top floor room, alone and abandoned like a caged animal – only totally gleeful and grateful. My family was all downstairs, carrying on with their life: my father watching his stock market’s up and down from the TV, my sister working on the computer, and my mother cleaning and cooking away at the kitchen. It was a safe haven for me: peaceful, quiet and away from all harm. When finally it was time to come down for meals, I’d trod down the 4 flies of stairs with my footsteps light and thoughts heavy with what I might say or do. In their presence, I would change into this guarded stranger that says little and listens much to avoid the wrong words to ever slip and incur their impatient yet well intended reprimands. To them, I have been this forever child, clumsy, unruly and helpless.

In contrast, this alien country has granted me much blessed asylum on the day when I landed. It didn’t take me long to realize that this “less civilized” culture with its tong twilling language, tasteless fast food and excessive modernization in fact did not at all try to condemn or conform me. I found it both liberating and fascinating that I was no longer under surveillance or better yet obligation to be who I should be. The family I have here started with someone with the most open mind and generous spirit who has accepted me since day one. Over the past 25 years, not a word of reproach has ever been raised against who I am, despite of our disagreements over many things. There is no need for tiptoeing or remorse with either words or works. My kitchen requires no scrubbing and my bed free to be unmade. I am my own mistress there! If I allow it, I can even feel confident and beautiful. I am home and free – almost. The only one that could ever disapprove me is none other than me.

My monologue seems to do its magic again, bringing my much troubled thought to yet another comforting revelation: No, I am not going home after all. I am already home. Nearly 3 decades later, it’s time for a change. I have done it in actions already, why not the name? As dreadful as the upcoming trip may be, I have this hope to keep me afloat in that while I am there I get to repeat the same words, “I am going home” - only this time with much joy and bliss.

Coming Home

2010-10-04T02:53:00.000-07:00

I flipped open my cell phone to check the time: 4:20pm. Vinny’s was quiet and deserted for a change with me as the only customer and a few workers behind the counter chatting lightly. It was merely 5 minutes past the appointment time, but I couldn’t help fighting the anxiety within; I was worrying if K would not show and if she did show. It had been 2 years since we saw each other last, but that was not in the least why I had this dilemma. The truth was: my dear friend had just suffered one of the biggest losses in life and I was to face her first time after that.

10 minutes passed. I saw another car pulling up and sure enough K arrived. She stepped out, cell phone in action as she closed the car door and walked in. Her hair groomed and make-up light, she looked like any average woman who was meeting up with friends for a dinner. She spotted me and let out a beautiful smile. From outside, we were merely 2 friends reuniting after a long break with our happy greeting. “How are you?” “You look great!” There was no reason to believe anything otherwise, anything as remote as 2 mothers grieving for the death of a child.

There we were finally, nearly 1 month after the tragic accident when her 20-year-old son drowned at the Outer Bank. Our eyes looked at each other’s face and saw what hid beneath unsuspected by others. Suddenly, the fear of what to say or expect departed from me as our hearts spoke silently to each other the language only mothers would understand. When the real words did come, they filled in not only the blanks of the questions but also that hole of my heart. My ear listened to a simple story of a boy and his last camping trip with his brother and friends, and yet my eyes saw something exquisite beyond all expectation. The tragedy turned into this fairy tale with the most envious, happiest ending as I pictured this young man helplessly lost after 20 years of Sunday schools and Christian camps found his way home. I pictured his anguish as he burst open his parents’ room at 1am with his Bible in hands to start the inquiry of the faith that was taught to him. It did not make sense! How frustrated he must have been to discover his life turning from a period to a question mark and how escalated he must have been when God reversed that question only days later back to the assuring period, and then an exclamation mark!

Vinny’s was slowly filling up at 5pm. Soon enough, we were surrounded by a roomful of diners. And yet we were not there in that crowed, noisy restaurant. My tearful eyes now saw nothing but that young man and his joy at the Subway Station with his family when he disclosed his peace with God first time of his life. I imagined his excitement as he exchanged texting with his friends on the discovery of God’s word first time of his life. I wondered too if he, before the wave carried him away, saw the beauty of this world from the boundless sky to the endless sea first time of his life.

Oh, why wouldn’t these silly tears stop! And the pain too! I was fighting hopelessly with not only my tears but also the frustration. How could you feel anything but happy for that most blessed boy? In as short as a couple of weeks after being saved and safe, he lived to the fullest of anyone’s life time. I knew then that I might have cried for my brave friend there, but I cried more for the shameful realization of my envy. Would I trade my decades of drudgery and failure with his weeks of liberation and elation! What hit me to the core was the question that turned him back to God, which had been my own all these months: Am I saved? If I am, what of these unfruitful life, discontentment and misery? He was convicted finally of the contradicting sins and shames after 20 years of carrying the name of “Christian”, while I, nearly double of the time in God’s long suffering love, came face to face with the same confrontation less the excuse.

Two and half hours later with our dinner barely touched and many tears shed, the two friends finally wrapped up and bid our farewell. My eyes were all swollen from all that crying – I knew I must have made such a scene there at the restaurant, but that was the last in my mind on my way home. I felt this kinship with this young man there in that car as I shared not only his crimes but also the ultimate pardon from the same Judge. How I wished I had been there with him – that night before, when he and his friends laid down on the sandy beach looking at the starry sky and heaved with the deepest sigh the joyful exclamation: “This is the best trip of my life!” I was wondering as perfect as he felt then, he never would have known how true that statement was – only that it was in fact better than “best”, beyond all standards or envy. My young friend is home now, and thanks to him, so am I.

Happy Hour

2010-09-27T02:53:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-22T01:36:00.000-07:00

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!"

2010-09-10T01:46:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-07T17:50:00.000-07:00

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.

Back to School

2010-08-31T02:40:00.000-07:00

Over two decades later, I was back to school.

I recall clearly that day when I handed in my last final thinking to myself: that’s it, my last exam. I wanted to pat my shoulder to congratulate myself for a job well done in persevering to the end for the past 19 years of schooling days. Like my fellow comrades, I fought a good fight, kept the course and now waited for that well deserving trophy – the last diploma. I remember too promising to myself as worthwhile or meaningful as it had been, I had had enough of schools and that would be true end of an era.

Windows 7 broke that promise. With the computer world evolving continually, we the IT support face the reality of keeping up with the changes. The company then decided to send us all to school for a whole week. Incidentally my sign-up week fell on the time just when most schools started. So here I came, backpack and lunch bag packed, marching along with the student crowd for the same mission, much more in age and apprehension and unfortunately less in joy and hope.
What do students expect of the first day of school besides new outfit and gear? From a world of different time and space, it hardly ever revolved around new shoes or clothes – uniforms took care of that and school supply was merely new pencils and erasers since the rest was provided by school. On that same road back to school after a 2-month summer vacation was a child with a book bag nearly empty yet a heart filled with much anxiety: Would I make new friends? Would they like me? Could I finally make it to the “good students” list so my teacher would love me as they loved my sister? Many, many years later, there I was again, standing in front of that classroom – still the same child within and yet so different in many ways: instead of walking, I had driven my cross-over utility to school; instead of growing my hair is now thinning and brain shrinking; instead of many ambitions and resolutions for a better me, my head stirring with only one question: how do I survive this week without looking like a fool?

My classmates of the week may be from different groups but were of the same floor, so there were no strangers to deal with. Our “teacher” was but a well-paid outsider who cared no grades or disciplines thus no one to seek approval from. Yet, I still intuitively sat myself at the far end aisle seat next to door for easy, necessary escape. My survival instinct was miscalculated when another coworker took his seat right next to me seconds later. He was not at all in the category of “strangers” since we had had our occasional “dealings” back at the office in our IM sessions and chocolates tossing across the partition between our cubicles. This unfortunate mishap actually cost not only my safety but also my sanity for the whole week as my “no-stranger” neighbor dutifully performed his daily instigator and tormentor role. Instead of hiding behind the enemy line, I was tossed out mercilessly in the war zone with him pushing the button and I yelped and cussed despite all effort. All eyes or heads would turn at me with frown and disapproval while I sat mouth wide opened and defenseless. Gone was all well designed safeguard, gone was productivity and gone was, most sadly, propriety. In short, I successfully committed the exact crime I had feared most: becoming a fool.

A week has passed since the school day revisit. As much as I would like to pin it on my enemy, I am well aware that I couldn’t help being baited like a silly 8-year-old. I had anticipated everything in that classroom – everything except teasing, as harmless as it was, something that the younger me had known a thing or two about and the older and wiser me taught my own children of. All that experience and wisdom rendered useless in a setting of reality. Do we ever change over time and space? Across the Pacific Ocean and another continent with many, MANY years of wisdom and experience acquired, I went back in that classroom as helpless as I had been on the very first day of school. I think of my other “classmates” there, many of whom I knew little of except crossing path at the office, still I am sure they too had reversed to be their younger selves in that classroom: some reserved, some dutiful and focused and some teasers or bullies as they had been since day one. The truth is: they never left the classroom.

So how was training? Some asked. I smiled with my usual wise answer: “Best thing was the last day: we had 3 dozens of donuts and 1 batch of chocolate cookies”, when the real revelation in fact was: Forget Windows 7, forget pens and pencils, but don’t forget the bullies.

"Are we there yet?"

2010-08-13T01:45:00.000-07:00

August continued on to week two. For college son and husband, they have yet 1 more week to go before a new academic year begins in full session. Since the ending of the high school era, we have been slacking in taking summer vacation as a family and finally became convicted enough to take remediation on this setback. We had come up with a couple of choices: Pittsburgh or Baltimore. Both seemed doable as far as time frame and budget are concerned, but Baltimore won eventually in its merit of location (closer) and time (shorter).

23 years of parenting and 25 years of marriage later, I have concluded that playing is definitely NOT in our gene pool. Some believe in “practices make perfect”, but I would argue that it may improve but never overcome, let alone perfect. In this family, vacation is work (and vice versa) for parents. For children, it is somewhat a split. The older son would consider a ride on Interstate Highway with his camera in action vacation already, while the younger one merely tags along for the motion only. He seems forevermore detached and neutral with whatever decisions we make: what to do, where to go, McD or Wendy. Vacation to us is a picture of 4 faithful and long suffering pilgrims trapped in the car performing their playing duty.

In the past, the man of the house extended his authority to the domain of the car and thus had always been the designated driver. I might have stepped in a couple of times as the reluctant substitute out of necessity. Unexpectedly, this trip deviated when the younger son popped the question: do you want me to drive? At 20 years old, he has been driving since 17, mostly for errands or agendas of his own but strictly limited to the local routes. Still, I was taken by surprise. The request may sound logical from a young man of his age, but not from one who is anything but logical. Intense and atypical, he has had no social activities such as phone calls, partying, or outing with people of his age throughout his growing years. Nowadays, he has been withdrawing from family trips whenever an option is in place. Even with his presence, it would be at best in the company of a shadow, who with his ear piece on is anywhere but there in the back seat of the car. Outside of the car, the shadow moves away even farther, skirting and dancing 50 feet ahead of us with almost a painful look. An outing with him, as rare as it may be, is no dream vacation that we would get thrilled about. His volunteer to drive to some degree was more disturbing than unexpected for the worrisome mother. The father, however, being a born teacher with the most persevering faith and patience, hesitated no time to turn in the driver’s seat. Baltimore is but a 3+ hour drive. With the route we planned, the proposal seemed harmless and feasible to him. Just like that, another driver was born, I mean, on.

Why do we continue to expect life anything but unexpected when it never fails to surprise us with its unpredictability? Once he was behind that wheel, the shadow took shape and came alive for the first time since forever. In that metal box only big enough to be called “Cross-over” utility, he was not only animated but also engaging, violating all evidences of his 20 years of existence. That Hallmark moment even includes those silly, nonsensical interactions with his Autistic brother. For a little while, we were almost a normal family, taking a trip while we joked and conversed from movies, music, to nothingness. The rest of the first day - the motel that GPS could not locate, a baseball stadium too crammed for comfort, the anticipated attraction, Inner Harbor, jam packed with Saturday crowd on a hot and humid August day – failed in every category to qualify for a fun and relaxing vacation, but somehow it became irrelevant. Like good sports with perseverance, we came, we saw, we conquered.

After we concluded our first day in a brand new, hopeful American family spirit, the next day delivered another surprise when we headed on to Annapolis. The contrast between two worlds – that inside of the car and that outside – became strikingly evident. Once outside, he reversed to that amorphous ghost whose presence was too gloomy to ignore yet too far to reach. The charm by the water with shops, restaurants and blue sky might well have been as invisible as he was. Gone was our normalcy of a typical American family, gone was the bliss and gone was that amiable son. In as little as an hour of chasing after our illusion, we returned to our car and there he was again, alive and well, behind that steering wheel.

On the way back, I couldn’t help wondering if we did or did not have a good trip. Thus far, I was, and still am, uncertain with my conclusion. Somehow, the object of my assessment is no longer the trip but once again the million dollar mystery: the phantom, our son. Trip or son, I would probably wrestle on forevermore. But this I do know: while most parents take drastic measure for the road trip to avoid the dreadful question from the back seat “are we there yet?”, we are definitely spared from this predicament. For us, it is more like: “Thank God, we are NOT there yet”.

Skirt Experiment

2010-08-06T02:11:00.000-07:00

After months of drought, the rain finally came. It started in the form of fury with Friday’s thunderstorm, flooding cities in various areas and continued on the next day to relieve the long suppressed agony. To our pleasant surprise, it wept more steadily yesterday till nightfall. I went to bed with windows open and the sweetest, most primitive music on earth, the sound of the raindrops.

As we marvel the long overdue miracle from heaven, another lesser form of miracle took place on earth this morning: I put on my girly outfit, a sweater and a skirt, to come to work. Two years and three months of my professional life, I have been anything but professional in the wardrobe department. To be fair, I did start out proper: blouse and slacks. Overtime in observing other “less formal” colleagues I started “slacking” off and sneaking in more and more “casual Friday” spirit on non-Fridays until finally the Friday spirit took over EVERY DAY.

In my defense, the nature of my job position does not require formal wear or dress code. In addition, the office has not been accommodating in its temperature control. It is always so cold that I end up with a sweatshirt and a blanket regardless of what I wear. My coworkers of the same sex, however, never seem to be afflicted by the same hostile condition and exhibit much more exciting spirit in both colors and varieties: dresses, skirts, heels, sandals and all that fixings. Unfortunately it failed to shame my instinct of survival and yes my contrarian nature in that “different” is good, especially when “different” means comfort and less effort. As any fallen creature, still, I have the full capacity of being vain in every way, and that includes my jeans and T-shirt, which are carefully selected every day. Such effort behind my plain yet deliberate choice achieves barely to satisfy my own vanity. The truth is: most people don’t really pay attention to a middle aged, married coworker like me.

So why skirt on an overcast, sad Monday after all this time? Impulse, curiosity or vanity? I don’t really know. What matters is that I did it: put on the outfit laid on the chair the night before, walked out of the house without returning to change and drove off to my expedition. At 4:10 I sat alone in my cubicle, my white sweater and red skirt loud and clear in plain view. I was thinking brave and feeling exactly the opposite with every ticking minute. 5:10 I had my first audition when I walked over to talk to the 2nd arrival of the day. It was met with no reaction at all. 5:30 was my 2nd face-on – still nothing. And the pattern continued on till finally my 28-year-old female coworker favored me with her giggles, which turned out to be the one and only attention for my major fashion undertake in 2+ years.

On top of my bewilderment, I was once again staring at another episode of life’s irony, which seems to have repeated too often to be surprised. My daring attempt to deviate from my usual fashion course turned out to be nothing worth noting or commended as I had anticipated. I thought of another irony that had just happened on Sunday at church when I made exactly the opposite choice, NOT to stray from my comfort zone, as we were all called up to parade to the front to pray together. Being the frozen chosen with a phobia of any public exhibition, I obstinately stood the ground for fear of violating my principle and nature as a good Presbyterian would do even at a Baptist church. Unfortunately, this safe choice rendered me anything but safe since I was miserably exposed standing there all by myself in trying to be myself. This unexpected miscalculation made me wonder if I should have done it otherwise and thus no eye brows would have raised and I be spared from the excruciating public display. Being singled out from everyone else turned out to be more strenuous than blending in. Maybe conformity is the comfort zone in that it can be a mean of camouflage, leading to an opportune and much needed safety?

The skirt experiment may have been a somewhat disillusion for my vanity’s sake but none the less a profitable revelation at the end. Sometimes, it is easier not to be you outside than to be you inside.

Good Morning, C!

2010-07-31T05:40:00.000-07:00

My computer has been warming up, email scanned through and time sheet entered. Next to it sits a mug of hot water - my first and habitual drink of the day for decades. The time display at the very bottom right of the computer screen flashes the 3 familiar digits, 4:30, beckoning me for the very first appointment of the day: it’s time to meet C, my pastor, brother and friend.

I follow the shortcut to go to my favorite site for daily devotion, wondering why the convenience of technology has not hit home run with me still. After all I am the IT professional and it is 2010 already. I miss my 25-year-old Bible with burgundy faux leather cover, all duck-taped up with pages chewed up by our first dog. But C is waiting. “I will see you at 4:30!” He was saying exactly that at the end of the dinner last night. His face, now thinning and pale, was still glowing with that usual ardor and earnestness. It’s been almost a month when we first agreed to meet each other at 4:30am with a prayer session. He wakes up at 4, goes out to feed the birds and then comes back inside for his time with God. P whispered very quietly that he has not been sleeping well these days. Chemo and all the medications have brought along the inevitable side effect of insomnia, which coincidently has also been my life-long rival and companion. The irony is: as unwelcomed and tormenting it may be, this mutual nuisance has turned out to be the instigator of a sweet communion of 2 sleepless souls.

My chest constricts with joy and pang as I start to pray. Would I trade this stammering tongue here with his most endearing prayer almost poetry! But it is never about the words but the heart and soul behind and where they lead others. I find home and rest in Christ when he prays and even on the podium when he preached with those small, sometimes all wrinkled hand-written notes that he pulled out of his pocket. I am now exasperated as my mind drifts away to touch a territory I have avoided for fear of the predicament I am facing now. How do you describe something or someone so intricate, magnificent and multifarious? The danger is not that my words might fail the emotion within but that they would harm the integrity of my subject. Any deliberate effort from this poorly equipped tongue and mind would be at best as good as wrapping something majestic with gift wrap less in yardage and quality. I couldn’t help asking if half truth equals to lies and that half said is worse than not saying at all? Worst of all, it pains me to ever risk hurting him by exposing him who is so helplessly shy and insecure.

But how can I stop all these emotions from erupting without venturing to temper them with words even if they are bleakly inadequate! He brings smile and tears to my face even now as I struggle to capture him and all that paradox within: an old soul with a child’s heart, well-read, inquisitive and intelligent, who goes to bed with children’s classic such as Treasure Island; the beloved pastor who does not want to be one but served as one out of necessity for 3 years refusing to take compensation; the ex preacher who came to church to turn on the heat on the wintery Sunday morning before anyone was even awake and took leave before anyone came in; a man with a presence impossible to be missed at any gathering yet hides himself in the corner, desperately to be invisible; a friend whose company and conversation makes hours fly on like minutes (and what fun we had at the dinner!); a faithful brother whose confession of a rightful moan turned a runaway sinner tearful and speechless; the suffering one who battles the snare of cancer and looks at me with glistening eyes and says: “I pray for you at 4:30 every morning”.

My heart is too full and my vision blurred. It is fruitless to continue on. No, this ranting would do him or me no benefit. I would now abandon my useless exertion and trade it for a sweet hour of prayer with him. Unworthy and wretched I may be, I am ready to cease all striving and take all my sins and wounds to the foot of my Savior - in the company of a dear frined.

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!

That calls me from a world of care,

And bids me at my Father’s throne

Make all my wants and wishes known.

In seasons of distress and grief,

My soul has often found relief,

And oft escaped the tempter’s snare,

By thy return, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!

The joys I feel, the bliss I share,

Of those whose anxious spirits burn

With strong desires for thy return!

With such I hasten to the place

Where God my Savior shows His face,

And gladly take my station there,

And wait for thee, sweet hour of prayer!

Shall we meet?

2010-07-25T17:43:00.000-07:00

10 months of “communications” later, AH and I finally met.

As IT team, we provide services for customers at locations that sometimes require transportation means to get to if needed. However, technology has made distances irrelevant since most support can be achieved via remote control through PC and phone. Thus it is more than likely that we never come face to face with customers such as those. AH started as one of them. It was not until by chance we discovered our common association with Pittsburgh that our relationship slowly moved from work to less professional territory. For months, though, this casual communication on sports or weather was limited to email solely as if we were bond by some mutual, unspoken rule. With IM and phone at our finger tips, we rigidly persisted on this arrangement until a month ago when I worked with his group on some problematic ticket that required instant and frequent responses, thus IM finally cut in. Even so, we continued to take deliberate caution to avoid the last barriers, phone or face-on confrontation.

Among many of my self-contradicting personality traits, social ineptness is one of them. I have not been known for being verbally quick or articulate. On top of such deficiency there is also a balance issue that I could never master: I either do too much or too little. Thus I avoid direct interaction if ever choices are available. Emails allow room for organizing thoughts at the same time satisfy the writer’s need or addiction inside of me. IM will be the next preference even though it provides some instant gratification in that you don’t have to wait long for feedback. Either way, there is nothing that exposes the true quality of thoughts better than writing, which serves the purpose of my secret quest for distinguished mind. My obsession, though, is hardly reciprocated in this modern culture of fast food products. AH’s willingness or perseverance in keeping our email/IM makes up his average quality of expression. Over time, this mediocre was overcome by other qualities such as his honesty and straightforwardness.

It started on Monday’s routine when he IM’ed and said he had brought some home grown tomatoes for share, followed by a logical question: how did he get them delivered? After a few iterations, it was then concluded for me to stop by on the way home to their parking lot outside of the building. It seemed logical; most importantly, he sounded as-a-matter-of-fact. At 3:50pm, I headed out to keep our appointment. It was then when I realized I was about to come face to face with not AH but my own social handicap. Like a drowning victim, I was overcome with paralyzing fear as the memory of past failure came flooding to swallow me. I remembered with acute pain that all relationships that started out on paper never ended well if not collapsed completely.

The reality is: this complex, confusing and contradicting package comes in the form of an average wrapper. My physical endowment is not nearly as interesting as my thoughts. Meanwhile, the size of my vanity is none the less smaller than that of those with superior beauty. History has proved that it would be better off if it started with the lesser end, as in my outside, then moving on to the better end, my inside, with the hope that time allows grace to grow such that both ends might compromise and even compensate. Clearly, this was not the case. As my car approached his building, I began to panic but there was no time for retreat. I saw him already, standing in the parking lot, spotting me and started walking toward my car. I parked and walked out to face my daemon, looking all too smiling and brave. How are you? We finally meet… the usual pleasantry any two people who met the first time. I am pretty sure to have said something stupid too. I remember averting my eyes, feeling and looking awkward to receive that friendly hug and finally scrambling back into my car and speeding off. The whole ordeal lasted less than 3 minutes but it may well be hell of a life time.

Why do we care what others may or may not approve of us in the skin-deep and deceiving part of human, our physical appearance? Experience has proved to me time after time that looks last as brief as minutes when our physical eyes see without seeing and the other faculty, brain, takes over to evaluate and scrutinize. How many times has this invisible yet far more superior organ of ours confirmed the irony that beauty of one’s outside rarely matches that of inside and vice versa? If so, why can’t I trust my fellow human beings to do the fair thing when I know such revelation cannot possibly be my own unique gift? Mayhap my true insecurity lies not in that’s outside but that is inside???

While I started on the verge of self-destructive doubt and fright, I recalled the one surety who has known me and remained his singular devotion and adoration for 25 years. With him, there would never be room for fear may it be glorious performance or regretful disappointment. I will, hopefully, always be the apple of his eye on a Sunday morning when I have my Converse on with my girly skirt or at any party when words fly before my better judgment. Even with all failing to be impressed, including my own self, I would but to look into his eyes and find myself as beautiful as I was on the day when they first met mine.

Dear C

2010-07-21T02:44:00.000-07:00

Dear C,

Has it been 3 weeks or even 4 since I saw you last? Nowadays, memory has not been serving me well. Every time I struggle with recalling details, I would remember (ha!) with a smile one of Pastor J.’s favorite lines: “the older I am, the more I miss my memory”. How I thoroughly concur with him on this sentiment even though I can’t quite claim the same excuse as he was already in his 80’s then! I miss him dearly as a child missing her father and his guidance. How desperately I need him to set me straight with his wisdom and kindness! It’s been too long an exile and I wish to be back.

The church was crowded this past Sunday. A few visitors came for Gary’s 70’s birthday. You would have been amazed with this 3 tiers sheet cake by its size and taste. It was superb! Even after all people had been served, it was barely 1/3 of a dent. I generously volunteered myself with 2 helpings at the risk of ruining my appetite. Needless to say, my lunch was sacrificed after my chivalrous act. Anything for our brothers or sisters in need – it’s what we are called, to serve one another, isn’t it? I have been doing well on my “services” since I too went to another birthday at R’s for his 30’s celebration on Saturday. 30’s! Imagine that! Not even ½ of Gary’s, but 3 times more in food and twice in the attendees. With the help of the delightful treats and a couple of kind victims who came into my path, I graciously survived my social inadequacy. There were a few times when I found myself at the corner with my back pressing to the wall alone and almost abandoned, but it lasted but a few seconds and I quickly recovered by approaching to the food and filled up the plate as well as my mouth. I have to admit, though, that one hour was the limit of my perseverance. After that, I grabbed D and took our leave before the big exhibit of fun and game started.

My body has been richly nourished for these past two days and I am hoping that it would extend to my spirit soon. D thought the sermon served him well this past Sunday and I was almost jealous. How long has it been since I last heard God? A godly friend of mine in NH once spoke this truth that it was never about the sermon or the service but about the condition of your heart. How convicting is that! It felt forever since I was afflicted with this hollow that would not fill and an ailment that would not heal. And there comes another favorite of mine from Pastor J: you would never backslide if you continue to praise God. What I would ask him if he were still with us is that: how do you bring a feeble head and a stubborn heart together and turn them around? The curse of man’s wretchedness is not in his reasoning but his emotions getting the better hand, as Paul says in Romans 7:18-19: “…for the willing is present in me, but the doing of the good is not. For the good that I want, I do not do, but I practice the very evil that I do not want.” Weeks after weeks I continue with this flawless performance for man’s eyes only with my Bible, manicured smile and appropriate pleasantry. Aiming to be lost in the crowd, I rise and sit as everyone else does, going through motions of prayer, music worship and sermon. I was there, but I was not at all there.

In contrast, I remember feeling exactly the opposite, not being home and yet completely home. It was nearly 3 years ago when we first moved back from NH, crammed in that temporary apartment while we searched for a new house. The frustration of living off the suitcase with the bare minimum of the apartment’s accommodation and not knowing if or when the house hunting would end miraculously evaporated on the way to church every Sunday. That 30-minute face-on with God through you was all it took to ease all my anxiety for another week of unknown to come. Knowing you, who are just as awkward as I am with people, I can imagine how uncomfortable these words would make you even now, but the truth remains that no one that God has used thus far ever shamed and encouraged me as you did. And how I needed that... I do now, more than ever. Is it nostalgia or my inability to adapt to changes that haunts me so much with a past as clear as yesterday, where Christmas carols would play in July (or any day) and you pacing up and down up on the podium with a forever-child heart and smile? I ache with such intensity for that old chapel, barely equipped, nearly empty and yet fully home. I ache more for that excitement and life inside of me every week on that short drive that wasn’t short enough for a sermon not long enough. But above all, I ache for you, the forgotten, or wishing to be forgotten, and yet utterly unforgettable.

Well, I meant to say hi. I miss both you and Mrs.. Hope to see you this Sunday….

Just As I am

2010-07-16T10:07:00.000-07:00

Another Monday started in July’s relentless heat and humidity. Barely 3:50AM, the air was already stifling. Even with the windows down, I could feel its weight thick and heavy inside the car. I had another bad night of face-on with the inveterate assailant of mine, insomnia. My head and body did not seem to suffer much from her attack thanks to the previous night’s good sleep, for which I was more than grateful. There awaited for me was a full day of work with little allowance for physical or mental deficiency.

Nearly ½ of the group would be gone this week – some for vacation, some in training class and some gone for good. I sat down at the desk, inadvertently doing the inventory check. It should be a good thing – less people meant less distraction thus amounting to more efficiency and hopefully productivity. Somehow this deduction though true brought less cheer or comfort to my spirit than I anticipated. The absentees, I realized, consists of one coffee pal, one work support and one mental instigator. I felt somewhat at a loss.

And the paradox continued on. It was the first day on my own for a long time and yet it felt as if 2 years never did come and pass. I was back in my 5 X 8 cubical, close enough to hear every sound or every move yet far enough to reach anything or anyone. I had enough work cut out for me, so I there I stood my ground for a straight 12 hours, grinding away quietly. The nostalgia was not at all unbearable but rather a timely regroup that seemed so long overdue. Except for a few business phone calls or dealings, I don’t think I ever talked with anyone else. Era long, a day was gone. I took my leave as soundless as I did my entrance this morning. It was just like the old time.

The road was packed with the 4pm crowd, jamming to leave a day of labor behind. I strolled on mindlessly, my thought preoccupied with nagging questions whose answers too bleary to reach. I was thinking how familiar it was to be so comfortably alone. I was wondering when and how long I had strayed away. I was finally thrown back on the intense debate on who I was or what I wanted to be as if it was the first time and every time. The remorse of a defector that longs to return was painstakingly palpable though slow and dull, and yet I couldn’t decide if my retreat would bring the ultimate peace to a soul so confused. My ears still rang all the admonitions, even criticism, from my own family in my excessive emotions and attachment with people and things. And they surely had seen enough evidences of damages incurred by my waywardness. If the price of indulgence on the innate nature brings you harm and consequently condemnation, does it justify to suppress or violate who you are? Even so, can one truly overcome oneself, disposition, passion and all? I clearly cannot.

It seemed like a never-ending, frustrating struggle between being free and being safe. With this world, both people and things included, I would have to concede with an admission of a total defeat. There are but two exceptions where I found the union of being free and safe, my life partner and Christ, whose immeasurable allowance for generosity and forgiveness had made it possible. It is, though, so easily overlooked as I habitually align my priority and attachment with that of the world, whose approval I eagerly sought and never received.

My short walk ended at the tree where the car parked. It was another day of drought in intense heat. The sky was once again overcast endeavoring to weep to no avail. I wondered if nature too echoed my frustration right there and then. Would our yearning ever be satisfied even if that timely rain poured? I knew mine wouldn’t. This wretched soul, forever adrift and insatiable, was cursed to wander on with quests that never ceased – until home at last. I took a deep breath, opening the car door while trying to close my thoughts all too wild and excited. I longed for another home, free of fear or expectations. When all fails, I would return to this temporary but none the less heavenly place that always receives me just as I am. As my car cruised off, those beautiful words flooded in my mind:

Just as I am, though tossed about
With many a conflict, many a doubt,
Fightings and fears within, without,
O Lamb of God, I come, I come.

I am coming home.

Congratulations, Mr. S!

2010-07-06T15:03:00.000-07:00

9:45AM - The reminder of the staff meeting faithfully buzzed off. Not exactly my favorite thing to update on tasks with pending deadlines or to receive more tasks of new deadlines, it is truly a time of most burdensome obligation of the week. I usually endure it with great hope that it would bring no significant news and eagerly wait for the cue when the boss throws in his last remark such as:“any more questions? If not….”. This time, unfortunately, new task was given. My ear attentively perked up for the sign of release when he unexpectedly announced that one of us was leaving the group. M, a young girl, had told us of her leaving a couple of months ago when she and husband planned to move north. They were in the process of selling the house and hunting for a new job. Maybe they have finally successfully removed both hurdles and were ready to bid that last farewell. My eyes drew to her expectedly while my ear awaited the further clarification on the subject. “DS is leaving”. I snapped my head up, ear burned and eyes wide open. WHAT?! I blurted in shock, followed by a string of nonsense outbursts such as “why”, “Is this a joke”, “where is the chair so I can throw on him”, …. Gone were all rationale, calmness and reservation in my agitation. The meeting was over. I had no choice but to clam shut after a brief moment of frenzy. I darted out of the door, flew back to my cube and took my shelter.

DS came here after me, so it would make exactly 2 whole years. He was hired 3 levels above me, thus there had been very few talk and much distance in the beginning. In fact I don’t think I had had any interactions with him for almost a year till we started working together on some projects. Our relationship was mild and slow. He was the opposite of me in technicality, personality and popularity, but somehow we got along well through our mutual common ground – the appreciation of humor. In addition, I found him non-intruding and almost aloof, which makes him free of threat. We’d joke through conversation or IM, meet up at the kitchen for morning coffee or stroll to 7-11 to restock our supply. Sometimes he’d drop by to dig for treats from my cubical, occasionally for a few minutes of casual, non-work related talk, which makes him just about my only guest. It had always been nothing deep or elaborate, but enough to make me feel home. Above all, what impressed me most is his willingness to share his knowledge with the others. An atheist he claims to be, he has demonstrated more spirit of charity and generosity than some Christian coworkers.

Though light and casual, our relationship has been comfortable, none the less delightful. I have enjoyed his wittiness and substances in both conversation and character. We may not talk to each other on the daily basis, but I surely miss him on the days of his absence. At a work place, such appreciation of any soul is beyond all my expectation and furthermore against my intuition. I had not meant to devote anything extra besides being professional and superficial. The worst fear or sin to swear off is: in the smallest dose of indulgence, I may unwillingly and unknowingly reverse to that open, undisciplined self, whose unrestrained passion had incurred to herself not only pain but also much rebuke from my own family. The incessant dilemma I have been cursed with all my life is the conflict between the nature I was born with and the culture I was brought up in. I don’t think I ever succeeded in securing approval from either one. The compromise I ultimately reached is that: Freedom from passion may violate my nature but it guarantees also freedom from detriment and worst of all self condemnation. Sadly, with DS, my fear was realized - right there and then at that conference room when my heart was cut open and my wounds in public display.

So here I am, all shook up and lacerated, facing my casualty in the form of double jeopardy. I am at the brink of losing something vital and it is not DS; it is the sensible, older and wiser me, against my better judgment. The graver threat in this awakening, though, is no other than the real daemon, my vanity, so feeble and scarred by the fact the only person here that may have liked me, even for just a little, will soon be gone. I am mortified by the realization that it is after all not about DS and his leaving. It is again about me and the downfall of all creation – pride, the exact opponent of humility, with which our Redeemer came to live, die and charge us. I failed repeatedly in practicing the fundamental principle of all relationship, that it is selfless instead of self-serving. I couldn’t help reflecting my other “relationship”, one of which being that with AH, nonchalant and limited on our daily exchanges of weather or sports, and questioning its potential to ever wound me. Should one, being the frequent victim of one’s own passion and pride against her will, ever choose to relate with another if such perils always line beneath? In fact, having been commanded to love our neighbors as ourselves, how do we go forth to commune with others in spite of potential rejection and fears of loss? But if the outcome is proven unrelentingly disagreeable, would it justify not to embark upon the task at all?

My shame is now as formidable as my pain. I am, though, convicted enough to own my fault and sin. I have not still figured out the mystery of the ancient old paradox above, but my pride demands to make amend with DS. I shall offer him my congratulations and best wishes like any sensible, mature coworker. There will be farewell lunch to plan, engineered display of joy in his new promotion, and most importantly dignity to restore. Pride may be the cause of my downfall, but let it also be the beginning of the way to recovery.

Blessed Assurance

2010-06-24T14:18:00.000-07:00

4:30pm. I heard the door swung open followed by the familiar footsteps. A head popped in, still wet from the swimming, then the lean and tanned frame. He was checking in, knowing that I would be home waiting for him for the big event of the day: his job interview. How was the swim? Good. Did you have a good day? Another good. His face all bronze up after months of patrolling up and down the streets around town revealed the same calmness and assured me that he had little anxiety about the interview at 6pm. We went through another iteration of reminder on music and manners, then it was time to change and pack up to go.

The interview was for a church accompanist – this would be his 2nd try. I have to admit this too, like the first one and his many other competitions or auditions, does little to me as far as any expectation was concerned. Rejection has been a theme of our life and we have grown accustomed to it for different reasons. His teacher, on the other hand, had been all antsy, hopeful, excited. She even rescheduled the class to work with him on his prepared piece.

5:45 only and we were at the parking lot of the church already. My son in his polo shirt and khaki pants looked as untouched as his clean shaven face. There locked inside of those dark brown eyes was the envy of all envies: a pool of serenity so far-fetched and longed by the rest of us. That brief moment inside of our car with our short prayer and the light oldies rocking on the radio was a taste of the ultimate solace. How I wished then that we could stay here forever! My son, my Jesus and His love – there is nothing sweeter and fairer.

We walked out of car and into the church. 10 minutes later, the panel of search committee all arrived. Luke sat with his back straight and purposeful attention – he was practicing every single rule I had drilled earlier. No matter, the verbal interview was not going far, which I had already pre-warned them on the phone. His interviewers then took it to the next stage. It was time to play his piece.

The sanctuary looked moderate in size and adornment, except for the pine paneled cathedral ceilings with 2 rows of clean lined chandeliers hanging down. It was a day of high 90’s and the air conditioning was not fully functioning. Our hosts apologized for the discomfort. I was mildly worried for Luke’s sake, wondering if he was going to be able to play well under the heat. He did fine. It was no Beethoven sonata or Bach concerto after all. The real challenge came when he was given pieces of brand new music for sight reading. My initial worry, though slight, proved to be extraneous as he played on carefully with deliberated articulation. Every once in a while, I would see from the corner of my eyes the others exchanging looks with smile and nods. They too appeared to like what they witnessed. A couple of times when they gave him directions he didn’t understand, after they demonstrated it on the piano briefly, he would pick it up and finish the task almost flawlessly. It surprised not only his panel of judged but also me. Music is his language; I already knew that, I just didn’t expect the extent of his proficiency. It was close to 7 o’clock on a late June summer day. The sun was still glaring bright and high outside of the beautiful windows along with its unyielding heat. Oblivious of both nature’s imposition and men’s inquisition, my son on the podium played on unwaveringly. And there I sat on a pew just a few feet away, my heart full and yet my words lost. It was a duet of 2 souls - the mother and son - singing the hymn "Blessed Assurance" with total abandonment then and there. I was musing how appropriate though cliché to feel touched by heaven at a place like a church when I was awe struck not by what Luke was capable but what God was capable. All along music had always been there, but music was not the theme.

An hour later, after being thoroughly examined from piano, keyboard and then organ, the interview finally concluded. We headed out, leaving the decision or consequence behind us, along with any anxiety I might have. I longed to be back into the car, even for as little as 10 minutes with the cool air conditioning and yes the safe haven free from all doubts and care. We were driving home, but to me, it might as well be a prequel of the ride to heaven.

Morning has broken

2010-06-22T07:25:00.000-07:00

Summer is here. May rain has tapered off finally, although we still encounter her occasional outburst here and there. It is after all the unpredictable southern Virginia at the last stretch of nature’s temperamental mood swing. With the rising temperature, mid-day walk is becoming less feasible as June unfolded. I am, nevertheless, most unwilling to give up that precious 30-minute speed walk with a mixed, unconventional concerto of Bach violin Partita, Queen’s Bohemian rhapsody and Baez’s Diamond and Rust. My last 2 attempts to conquer the blazing sun of 90’s temperature were a victory in name only – I went, I attacked and I returned – all soaked up and not in the least reenergized. The only alternative left is to shift the schedule to day break when the sun saunters in, barely awake, in her still yet gentle and milder form. 3 mornings I have faithfully and gladly carried on with this new routine. Thus far, nature and I are still in amiable term, meeting up every morning at 7:00 both cordial and happy.

A creature of routines I am truly, I keep the same hour and same route. My iPod in my left hand, I march on with unwavering, slightly downcast vision to avoid eye contact with any approaching objects. I am here to exercise discipline, not socialization. The time slot (7:00-7:30), however, is incoming traffic at its peak with people and cars flooding in. I found it more tolerable to observe my fellow planet co-inhabitants from afar than up close and personal. Distance makes them less threatening or more entertaining. With sunshine and breeze tiptoeing on my hair, I am almost exhilarated. It is after all another day – hope is high and dream may still come true.

There was, I recall, once far as a life time ago and yet close as yesterday a hopeful soul who started her day in the renewal of dawn and dreams as I do. Granted she was then still ignorant and mayhap much troubled by many things as any young girl would be, the prospect of another day under the exuberant sunshine was none the less comforting. In the distance there comes a young woman with heels, makeup and luscious hair. I couldn’t help wondering if she too finds the world after the night less sorrowful. My eyes survey with indulgence from her youthful looks to the fashionable outfit and then there surfaces the mirage of another girl clad in her purposeful selection of the day. In fact, she still lives on, just not visible in this much, much older body with plain jeans and T-Shirt.

As I tread on the memory lane, I am surprised to find myself devoid of any present envy or past regret that have always been there - way, way more than I want – whereas being single, married or parenting. Somehow under that morning light, their ghosts no longer haunt me as much. I am most amazed by the discovery that despite of the youth asset and fortune, I don’t remember or miss much those fairer and younger days. Maybe I have reached that peace in being who I am, ungraceful and unconventional and yet all of me again after 20 years of being anything but. Sometimes without looking into the mirror, I would almost feel like that 15-year old, passionate and extreme, less the fear of being rejected and unloved. Without the anxiety for the prospect of love or marriage as any young woman would have, self acceptance is a much doable task. Life can in fact be interesting when you observe it from afar, not having to eagerly or hopelessly labor to fit in. I couldn’t help asking: Have I, then, indeed grown older and wiser in reversing back to the younger self except now in much assurance and little fear? That being true, then has another life’s wisdom just been uncovered that detachment and abandonment may well work together to bring the ultimate freedom?

My 30-minute walk is almost done. The sun has now risen higher in both altitude and heat. I have worked up to a sweat by now. My body awake and soul recharged, I am back on where I started my walk. There awaits me inside of the building in front of me not only a list of tasks of the day but also 8 hours of separation from sunshine and breeze. I have though enough dose of hope to last through the day. Unlike what William Feather claimed: “early morning cheerfulness can be extremely obnoxious”, this rejuvenated soul here finds it most liberating and furthermore absolutely necessary.

It's showtime!

2010-06-10T02:37:00.000-07:00

Yet another weekend came and passed. The nights were not satisfactory as my old acquaintance, insomnia, had came back to revisit for 3 nights. The days, however, were another story. Saturday was packed with actions: grocery shopping, overnight packing for a father-son bonding trip and finally a 3-hour event of a piano recital. By the time the guys hit the road, it was well past 4:30pm, and there awaited for them was a 7-hour drive to Pocono, PA. For me, luckily, it was another better end of bargain with a different adventure: 1.5 days of me-time, luxury, freedom.

It was, however, not at all my first home-alone as the good father has had done many times of guys trips in the past. They were to return late Monday afternoon, thus I would have for me 2 whole days of empty nest with zero agenda or responsibility for anyone but myself. I did, though, catch up with the laundry, venture to clean up the messy son’s room and even visit with my dear sister on the phone for 2 hours. The biggest ambition with my no-plan private vacation was a movie in the theatre all by myself. The thought was both intimidating and exciting. Living with 3 men for decades has allowed and trained me to do plenty of things alone such as shopping, cleaning and even watching a chic flick movie in bed. Going to the theatre, however, was not one of them. Though a rebel and contrarian, I am not at all adventurous. Somehow, the idea once popped in was set for action. It was 10:30AM by the time I looked up the movie listing on line. Nope, just missed the first showing, but the next one would be 11:00. I grabbed a jacket and car key and headed out – it’s SHOWTIME!

The movie theatre was but a 5 minute drive. I stepped out of the car all geared up and brave like a new born tiger, surveying his new turf with keen interest. It was another day of 90’s, but the air was dancing joyously under the crispy clean sky. I got the ticket and found the showing room. At the end of the pitched dark walkway, I found myself standing in the midst of my sweetest fantasy: an empty room with no one but me. Not bad for a good start with my new adventure. I grinned to myself, knowing fairly well that this private luxury wouldn’t last long. Surely enough, by the time the movie started, I had myself 5 more partners. Not perfect, but totally acceptable. For one, they were far enough away from me where I was spared by the flashing of the cell phone and their exchanges of comments. Most importantly, I didn’t have to participate. 2 of them were most likely husband and wife, staying quiet with little interactions throughout. I admired the chivalry of the husband to be the only opposite sex in the entire room for a chic flick movie like this. Far behind me were 3 women chattering and laughing lightly at times. Clearly a girl outing event. Rather than feeling like the lonely odd piece, I was gratefully reminded of my good fortune of being exempted by all that engaging and labor. Nearly 3 hours of seclusion in darkness and laziness with zero effort expected both mentally and emotionally, it was almost like a spa! Somewhere in the middle of my blissful exile I was alarmed by the realization that I had actually missed out such indulgence all my life!

Stepping out, I walked back to the leftover of my vacation. The sun was burning bright and high in the early afternoon. I was awake from a little needed rest. My new found joy back there in a room disconnected from both reality and humans was still warming me as the hot air on my face. I called the 3 men to check on their fun at the race track. My life and movie buddy upon hearing my “going to the movie ALONE” let out a sympathetic exclamation: How sad! You poor thing. The empathy was endearing and genuine – he was feeling sorry for me truly. It was ironic and comical as I felt exactly the opposite, tagging with a little guilt in the midst of the joy and pride. As much as I have loved him and his company, I would undoubtedly, gladly and without hesitation go to another movie alone.

How was your weekend?

2010-06-08T01:33:00.000-07:00

The 3:30 wake-up call went off faithfully as if the 3-day long weekend never happened. After 2 hot days of 90’s, I rose to find a house of rest, devoid of any actions from both humans and machinery such as TV, microwave and mostly the air-conditioner that had labored non-stop 2 days straight. The tranquility of the night was still lingering thick despite of my intrusion. I felt almost guilty as I tip-toed to get dressed, packed up and finally returned the house to her deep slumber.

Outside, the world was already rousing up with light traffic under the veil of the deep nightfall. I found my thoughts no less ready for yet another day, another week. In fact, I was mildly distracted with the list of work awaiting for me at the desk already. The retreat was over; it’s time to face the enemy. I was surprisingly calm or at ease. Work has been stressful with plenty on the plate, many of which are time-sensitive. What stood out in my wandering thoughts, strangely enough, was the casual or “formatted” question that anyone would easily encounter with friends or co-workers after a break: “How was your weekend?”

The interesting thing I discovered, after nearly 30 years of sojourning on this foreign culture, is that this question was no more a question than “How are you”. It is meant for a greeting like “Hi” or a smile. There is an equivalent social interaction in the culture I came from in this greeting “Have you eaten?”. The reality in questions such as these is that you are expected with another formatted answer such as “good” or “fine, thank you”. It would be eye-brow raising if you do more than that, as in going literal to explain what you actually did over the weekend. With people more than acquaintance or co-workers, you may have more latitude or room to stretch this social etiquette. Not exactly a Miss congeniality, I do have some whom I share with non-business emails and coffee at the kitchen. They were the instigators of my preoccupied or somewhat troubled mind then as far as this inquiry was concerned.

Sure enough, email from AH has arrived – predictable and plain in exactly those 4 words: “How was your weekend?” They are here every Monday and always returned with simple yet various fashion of similar response such as “fine, yours?”. I have known AH through the nearly 5 months of email exchange with an intuition that he may be more than a customer an answer like that is what suits us best. Were I to venture on with actual details, it would be uncomfortable for him and what’s worse regretful on me.

And yet, AH is not the only one that I ever play the safe card with. As I get older, I found myself shamelessly and seamlessly play this self-preserving façade with people, friends included. It is not just “How was your weekend” at work, but “how are you” elsewhere, even at church, where truth and love are preached and practiced. I may well had one of those traumatic face-on explosion at home-front, but you would be sure to see nothing but a manicured expression and well-made answer as perfect as I want the world to believe. Once the unbendable, transparent soul I was, I have evolved to the character I want the world see: reserved, happy, but most of all , master of her own domain. Being anything else, which I have definitely done too many times in my much younger and innocent days, is unthinkable, unbearable and yes most remorseful. Such pretense, though shameful to some, is hardly an overnight achievement. Age and experience are my best teachers, and yes, people too.

Why do we feel good if we look good, despite of what we really are and feel? The better question is: Why do we choose to do more when it comes to meetings or discussions but less with personal life and space? Experience has proved that it’s not that we are incapable of opening up; it’s the subject matter that determines the magnitude of our capability in this department. I used to play this game totally reversed in that I was too candid with my private life and too timid with public discussion. . For the longest time I lived as a victim of the curse of human nature, grasping outlet or sympathy in the midst of sufferings. I struggle still with self absorbing -- there is nothing more intoxicating than all eyes and ears on your exhibition even if it is your pain and suffering in display. Likewise, there is nothing more degrading than saying the less-than interesting or intelligent in a discussion of events or opinion. After many, many years of reinforcement on post performance remorse, I have actually learned to balanced out these two occasions, though not necessarily a major improvement: I clamp shut in both. The learned lesson is that: let the other people take the bait and make the plunge. If there were to be any public show of weaknesses, better them than me.

So here I am, armed and ready for another head-on with my fellow colleagues and their after weekend/vacation inquiry: How was your weekend? I know I would smile with a prepared answer: “Very good! Yours? What did you do?” Though simple yet fault-proof, that surely would guarantee my safe landing from yet another social war combat.

Lost In Translation

2010-05-25T02:18:00.000-07:00

Friday is here – exactly 2 weeks have passed since that day of gloom and doom. Clearly, it was not one of those Fridays when both body and soul become antsy and the air inside the office matches that of outside. Not for us, at least. I remember feeling exactly the opposite: my whole being was locked down in the deepest dungeon from a world of happy people, my chest heaving for air that seemed to be thinning by the seconds and eyes crying for tears that would not come. I don’t know how I did it, but I not only managed to sit through 1 hour of staff meeting with people whose presence reminded me of my imprisonment but also stayed extra hours that day. The truth is: I did not want to go home to face the music.

I have been there too many times. This time, I was even well ahead of the game, subconsciously preparing myself for the worst. History has that effect on you; it’s a survival instinct. After repeated blows, your body and heart will harden such that pain would not hurt that much. The impact is still present; you just don’t care. That is exactly where I was the whole day, carrying on with my work load as if nothing had happened. At well past 4, I called the father, comrade, partner-in-suffering to meet at a quiet restaurant where we could commiserate with the aid from food and spirits.

Two hours later, we stretched our party to its max with all food consumed and misery poured. The world finally seemed less cruel from the help of the half pitcher of red. We were actually laughing silly on the way home. Too soon, I knew even in that brief state of escape, when we would sober up to find the same life with no light at the end of the tunnel: a little less than 2 hours, to be exact, as we sat, too many times already, to face our “problem”. What is a problem when there is no possible solution? I wonder. The tricky question is: what do you do when such problem exists with no faults of its own? The “problem” was sitting across just a little more than a few feet away, his head down, body frozen and voice broken up with rasp breathing. It felt more than déjà vu after 20 years of reenacts. And yet somehow I was more consumed by his pain than my own. It is one thing to agonize over an unsolvable problem and another thing to be the problem, alienated in a world so confusing and hostile.

I thought about when it started, just about 2 years after he was born. Ironically, he was the perfect child before then: obedient, independent and smart. The light of our life, he brought the needed comfort and assurance in the midst of the turmoil when we first found out about his brother’s diagnosis of autism. For just as intruding and overwhelming his older brother’s impact was, so much hope and healing arose from his existence. I remember standing afar at the parking line watching him playing with other children, how I fought back the tears that had shed too often for different reasons. I remember too how he folded his little hands praying for his brother when I was lost in my frustration with Luke, both mother and son screaming and crying in anguish. I remember the pride and hope of seeing a little 5-year old cellist elevated on a platform because of his size playing with the orchestra in that church of Williamsburg, how he glistened under the dim chandeliers of that beautiful old sanctuary… A shooting star he was, the Cinderella glory ended not exactly at midnight when the clock chimed, but soon enough. Even with all evidences at home and reports from school, we failed to see him as he was. For the longest time he was lost in translation at a world so up close and personal and convicted guilty when innocent. Imagine a life of tragedy having to walk in darkness, speak in a language you don’t know and survive without means. Now imagine the guilt of being part of that jury on your own flesh and blood, resenting what he was and losing yourself in self-pity, simply because joy was replaced with gloom, hope by despair and that the blessing turned into a curse.

So there he was, facing his 2nd failed class and his panel of judges to account for the cause and resolution for this failure. He had given up to tears completely, even worse, hope. For almost 20 years, he has taken us to a roller coaster ride less the thrill and excitement, many times bringing us to the lowest of the pit and causing us to lose faith. But there and then, that Friday evening after sobering, I saw the real victim once again loud and clear in his broken admission (or question) “there is something wrong about me”.

As my ears ring with those words, I found my eyes moistened with tears that did not come that night. I was then the objective accuser and savior, aiming to save the soldier in defect, but now I am back to a mother with a broken heart. The reality has finally hit me that the mission of rectification was proven impossible -- How do you rescue someone from his peril when the peril is himself?

Happy Mother's Day

2010-05-13T06:05:00.000-07:00

May 9, 2010 marked the 22nd Mother’s Day for me. It was uneventful as the rest of the past Mother’s Days: no breakfast in bed, gifts or dining out. Both sons were home, but neither one offered any tokens of appreciation, which has become an unspoken expectation since they passed their young days. The father of the sons, however, surprised me with a bouquet of roses. The card reads: best mom (& wife – though it isn’t “wife day”) EVER. Mouthful yet precise, his usual to-the-point way. The kind compliment brought some smile on my face, although I couldn’t help wondering about its validity then and there. Never a gracious receiver, I did, however, return this thoughtful gesture with a polite but warm “thank you”.

The rest of the day was spent no more than any usual Sunday except that I actually remembered to call home and talk to my mother for well over an hour and half. Since my working career launched exactly 2 years ago, I have not been faithful with my phones calls as a good daughter should do. For dinner, I made a semi-elaborate meal with a roast, vegetable and potato -- another rare thing these days for a busy mom with a full time job. After dinner, the dutiful mother watched 2 episodes of “Breaking Bad” with son and husband, earning her “best mom/wife ever” title before the day ended.

4 whole days have passed and my trophy is still standing proud and tall in the vase with her dazzling crimson red, spelling out loud to me the title of “best mom”. In the 22 years of service, I have indeed received several similar compliments such as this and yet I continue to feel unconvinced and even uncomfortable with them. If anything, I am at times as perplexed with “motherhood” as the first day when I held my first born in my arms. On paper, I am the stereo type of straight A student: responsible, motivated, puts in her 24/7, sits through recitals and swim meets and monitors and tutors school, but the true test comes in the question what I would do given the 2nd chance of redoing this assignment. The answer is: I wouldn’t do what I did or be who I was.

What then would I not do if I were to do it all over again? I would first of all not do all the extra curriculum activities just because everyone else is doing it. I would be less consumed with their development and instead more focused with mine and that with my husband. Last but least of all, I would not spend all those years wishing time away when I should savor every single moment as if it were the last minute of being a mother.

Bottom line: I got everything backwards. Motherhood is not about raising children. It is about her discovery of humility and her own growth. The longer it is, the more I realize the object, my children, is actually the subject of the whole process. They are the teachers and role models. It is they that taught me to trust without fear, to forgive and forget, and to love unconditionally. Most of all, they show me the oxymoron of life in that less is more, curse is blessing, and brokenness is whole -- if I were careful to see it. For the longest time, my eyes were so blurred from my own ambition and agenda that I missed all the heaven hidden behind my children’s labels and wasted all the time in grief instead of joy.

Yes, if ever I were to be called “the best mom”, it would be in that I would finally come to my senses. Laying aside past regret, I am indeed older and wiser to stop my vain endeavor to be the perfect mom. I am learning to experience perfection through the hug I receive everyday when I walk in from a day of frustration and evil. Even in the midst of his desolation and tears, I see the other son’s innocence and, yes, perfection too. They have come into my life never meant to be changed but to change me.

How to lose a gal in 3 days

2010-05-07T02:10:00.000-07:00

The long anticipated trip to New York after months of planning (and changing) finally arrived. Among 3 participants across the states of VA and NH, there had been numerous emails and phone correspondence to coordinate this major event. After all, there were hurdles to overcome, such as time-off from work, family coverage in time of absence and traveling means. I have never thought that it would be painstaking to leave all decisions to a group of 3 of the same sex, the female, when all evidences and experiences pointed to the frustration of working with the other inflexible sex. The reality is: too much freedom proved to be too much for comfort. Decision unmade means stagnation and thus regression and even depression. But the final hour did come for us to pack up and head out: two from VA and the other one from NH, meeting up in Jersey as our lodging point.

It started well: the weather was fair, the route choice was wise and the company, my partner-in-crime, more than pleasant. Except for the dent of some work emergency from a phone call from the boss, it was almost a perfect start. The trip was but a 6.5 hours of smooth drive with no delay and plenty of blue sky, spring air and splendid scenes to satisfy both body and soul. My initial anxiety about spending hours in a confined space with anyone other than my family proved to be wasted. S1, gentle and kind, provided not only comforting conversation but also precise navigation that the drive flew by in no time. We arrived in Metuchen, Jersey mid afternoon. While we waited for our host (cousin L and wife) who were still at work and the other accomplice driving down from NH, we took a walk around the blocks saturated in spring’s full bloom with colors and fragrance. Life was good; we felt almost as perfect as the sight itself.

The plan was to explore New York for 2 whole days. We took the train to the city, which was about 45 minutes away from Metuchen. With little agenda set, we proceeded with our exploration after a good night’s rest. S2, the other musketeer from NH, assumed the lead with her iPhone and natural sense of adventure. She was my first new friend in our life in VA 2nd time round, but ironically moved to NH, where we had moved from. With emails and phone calls, we miraculously have kept this long-distance relationship for over a year and half. She was in fact the instigator of this NY expedition. Independent and outspoken, she is the ideal friend with her sensibility minus sensitivity. I have always thought of her as a man trapped in a woman’s body, which constitutes all the qualifications for a perfect girlfriend. S1, on the other hand, is none the less inferior as a friend in her femininity and gentleness. While S2 may be the perfect girlfriend, S1 is the girl I want to be when I grow up. The three of us, different and unique inside out, played well and finished our first day of attempt in conquering the Big Apple from Central Park to China town.

As a born worrier who is also socially inept, I had my reservation about spending time with people for extended amount of time. 3 days would definitely fall into that category, not to mention playing, eating and rooming together. My anxiety had not been completely selfish; I worried not only for my own sake but also for my two friends who had never met prior to the trip. The later fear turned out to be superfluous as I witnessed their friendship budding and flourishing in as short as one day. Being the common denominator of the two, I noticed I became the outsider on the 2nd day. They talked on with each other effortlessly, while I struggled and failed to stay engaged or fit in. When we were together as 3, I found myself experiencing an out-of-body experience, looking on from above as if I was there but not there.

Was I bothered? I wouldn’t be thinking about it if I had not been. The more serious question is this: is 3 a crowd? I have to confess that I have been there, the 3rd wheel, more than once, or twice, though not necessarily every time. I have marveled at others’ dealing in any social situation and wondered if they are as engaging and at ease as they appear to be. I may look just like them, but the fear though well concealed is always there that they might find me out – the social imposter, fraudulence and fake. What of the topics and even qualities of the conversation? I find myself disappearing as they become uninteresting, which others never seem to notice. Then when they are interesting, I have to fight not to take over for the regret later! And there is rule of the eye contact, the listening, the response…. The whole process is exhausting!! Mayhap that’s why I become the 3rd wheel when I finally reach my limit and retreat. Above all, the more unbearable reality is the awkwardness afterwards. Try as I could to pretend nothing had changed, it strained and stretched to the end of the trip. Even after a couple of cover-up exchanges of emails and voice mails, I am afraid that S2 and I will never be the same. I had told her from the beginning that the trip was not a good idea, that we would ruin our friendship at the end. Never the wiser one, but my prediction then as a joke already had its valid basis for a fated doom.

Coming back, I was asked: how was the trip? I answered: it was great! Behind that smiling façade, I know well that it was not completely untrue: how can one not have fun and excitement in the Big Apple? Sad maybe in some way, it was still “great”-- considering a rediscovery of a valuable lesson learned: never do 3 again – 3 girls or 3 days.

To Be Or Not To Be

2010-04-26T02:49:00.000-07:00

Blissful Friday – forecast is raining on our parade with a chance of shower later on. Still, at 5AM with the world rousing up slowly in the veil of the leftover night, Friday is a comforting and hopeful prospect. I have recovered slowly from the depression on Monday as the week progressed. The work, however, continues to trouble me somewhat, but has on longer oppressed me to desperation. I actually managed to force myself to get out of my cubicle –went out to lunch with coworkers one day and took my lunch walk 3 other days. Both activities brought the needed diversion for my haunted soul, even though I had been reluctant at first.

Lunch had been harder, as I rarely took invites during my 2-year employment. Mayhap I resent the early rejects when my coworkers never included me in their group lunches till months later after I came. The main reason, though, is that taking a 1-hour-plus lunch break depresses me: the illogical guilt afterwards and the emptiness (in contrast to a stuffed up stomach) in retuning – it’s like after-the-movie, when-curtain-drops’ void and disillusion. It is as real as it is absurd. Somehow, those steps do not just take me back to the office but to the 7-years-old jammed in a flood of people moving out of the theatre. Gone was the 2-hour luxury, the thrill of an imaginary world in that big screen and the daylight that was there before we walked in the movie theatre. Tears would almost swell up into my eyes as my young heart pumped heavily from the loss. No, images like that do not exactly seem appealing, but I took the invite bravely this time.

On the way to the lunch place, a Vietnamese restaurant – another adventure for me as it would be my first bite – I was informed that there might be other people joining us. My new found courage diffused further on top of the prospect of foreign food. I grumbled and mentioned about “getting another table for myself”. My friends as well as coworkers would never associate “shy” with me, even though I am horribly uncomfortable with crowds. I usually resolve in hiding myself near the food tables and stuffing my mouth with food to avoid meeting or talking to people. It turned out there was but one showed up when we got there. My anxiety though not gone eased off a little bit, but I was still helplessly self-conscious. I averted my eyes from this harmless Asian colleague, acting cooler than necessary and talking more than usual. When I tried to be anything but frantic, I was a wild animal caught on fire. He became my object of my frenzy. I asked him about his family, where he lived and even his marital status, none of which belonged to a casual lunch conversation with someone that I would probably never meet again. Even my 2 other coworkers raised their eye brows and commented afterwards: “and you said you wanted to get a table by yourself??” I wanted to retort back: “EXACTLY why I wanted to get a table by myself!”

I thought of another occasion with this past Sunday’s potluck at the church. Even with a crowd bond by the same faith, some of whom I have known for more than 2 years, I could not stop that inner debate whether to stay or not to stay the entire time during the service. The thought of where to sit and whom I might have to talk to and what I could talk about paralyzed me. My conscience after the convicting sermon of that Sunday morning on “the functions of church” screamed out loud that I should stay, but my fear had the upper hand eventually. I couldn’t flee fast enough right after the church. As I sped out of the crime scene and even had a chance to rejoice in my narrow escape, it dawned on me that I was actually in the “hospitality committee”.

What is the right thing, running away or facing the enemy with expenses and casualty on both parties? If doing the right thing changes who you are, is it the right thing any more? Then again, if who you are isn’t what you should be, then shouldn’t changes be the right thing? On a Friday morning when dreams and hope come alive once a week, questions such as these do not fit the mood or occasion. I am somewhat thrown back to my earlier downcast. A 15-minute walk with my iPod and the bell chiming the sweet old hymns from the church a few blocks away seems now a much preferable choice for both therapy and celebration…. I should have known; me and myself are enough for any party.

Vanity of vanities!

2010-04-20T11:56:00.000-07:00

One of those days when everything seems wrong: it’s Monday; none of the tasked assignments goes anywhere; you feel completely alone inside and outside of the cubical, deserted by both men and God. And it’s only 10AM in the morning.

But the sky outside is a pane of crystal blue, mocking me on with my gloom and doom relentlessly. Somehow, even the crisp air on a glorious Spring day lost its grip on me. I am under captive of a deep castaway and pang. Isolation has never troubled me; in fact, I have to be careful with this indulgence for fear it might steer me too far to return. It is clearly not the case today. The disappointment in both men and things has rendered me hopeless and thus sad.

Besides myself, there is none that knows me better than my mate, who always helpfully pointed out to me that I will never be happy. It takes one to know one, not to mention the 24 years of firsthand experience as his solid ground of testimony, therefore this allegation cannot be easily dismissed. I am, however, wondering if it is somewhat different this time. In the past “unhappiness” in either people or things, I have always managed to find outlet in the comfort of the other. i.e. I turn to work when “people” fail me or turn to people when work doesn’t work out. It may not cure me, but it alleviates and redirects.

Work-wise, the up and downs seem to swing to the downs altogether with frustrating obstacles such as deadlines that cannot be met, tasks with no redeeming quality and technical difficulties beyond my control. Meanwhile, I found no noble spirits worthy of my defection. I couldn’t help wondering: is this what Solomon, the all-wise king, moaned for in Eccleslastes: the ancient old sufferings from the desires that never satisfy? And yet the more mysterious question is: why is it others never seem to be affected by the same curse of futility and vanity of life? I am in awe at their ability in adapting any pestilence of life as my ear picks up their mechanical typing on the computer key pads, the light exchanges of conversation nearby and the blank faces in front of the PC screen. Do they not ache for the realization that “all is vanity and striving after wind” and tomorrow like yesterday and today brings nothing new to rectify this predicament?

It reminds me of being stuck in the traffic jam. While I huff and puff in frustration, the other drivers patiently sit and wait. Even in facing misfortunes such as heartaches, aging, even death, they move on without wavering. Such aloofness! If our fear and care determined our places in heaven, then I would have lost my reservation long ago. My head may reckon (most of the time) from the good Book and His foot prints on my life that I am heading there, but this deep groaning and restlessness inside says otherwise. Can one belong to Heaven and be so far away from heaven at the same time?

No, this morning I mourn not from the separation from my fellow men’s presence, but separation from their mindset, their immunity to melancholy. For one who resents to be anything ordinary, I wish nothing but to be in their midst. Then again, I wouldn’t
be able to appreciate the kinship, though excruciating yet dear, with someone like Solomon, whose revelation on grief that no one can match:

“All things are wearisome; Man is not able to tell it. The eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor is the ear filled with hearing…. And I set my mind to know wisdom and to know madness and folly; I realized that this also is striving after wind, because in much wisdom there is much grief and increasing knowledge results in increasing pain.”

Stranger Mine

2010-04-12T09:47:00.000-07:00

Easter came and passed. We had planned nothing significant except for inviting a young couple recently moved here from the mid-West. The menu included the holiday’s center piece, ham, one of the favorites of the college son. Easter, however, does not fall on the college’s holiday or spring break schedule. Since the college is but a 15-minute drive from home, it was natural to think of him followed by a hopeful phone call: “I am making ham for Easter… want to come home?” My short question was reciprocated with a short answer: “No, thank you”. Our interaction maybe somewhat unconventional, but it was neither surprising nor anything personal. He has not had a habit of coming home except for school breaks when college shuts down and food and lodging become unavailable. The politeness of our conversation also reminds me of our other iteration at the end of our short and sparse phone calls when I declare my motherly affection in “I love you”, he’d always reply: “Thanks”.

This May would conclude his 2nd year of college, although we expect him to extend beyond the normal 4-year term. He is at best a B or C student thus far with 4-class load per semester. Comparing to the accomplishment of our friends’ or acquaintances’ children from far more impressive schools, his report or prospect is inferior but not sad. His father went even further by saying he would be out dancing on the street if he in fact finishes this semester with all B’s.

Thinking back, he has not come back much this whole sophomore year. When he finally came home for winter break, we noticed the changes. The only thing that bonds us together has always been his obsession with movies and TV series, for which he would almost zealously invite us to watch with him. For two middle-aged, over-working parents with a 4am wake-up call, staying up beyond 9pm was indeed a struggle both physically and mentally, but our love for him eventually did overcome and we had then watched and enjoyed quite a few good series with him. We were hoping to continue our bonding during the Christmas break, but just like many of his obsessions (robotics, video games and biking) it stopped. Either he had found nothing good or merely lost interest in our company, the invites became a thing in the past. He disappeared into his room for the most part of his 1-month break. Except for his showing up for meals, I’d almost forget he had come home.

Such lack of maternal instinct for him might appear to be unloving on my part. I have wondered sometimes if my coworkers, friends or even extended family ever question the reality of our love for this other son as his name hardly ever pops out of the conversation. Those who don’t know us or him well may think it has something to do with the common “second-child syndrome”, but even with those who know us better probably couldn’t help judging us for our obvious bias between 2 children. Besides conversation topic, he has also been missed from family activities such as trips, hiking or bowling. I could not fault them. The truth is we don’t even think of him much since he went off to college.

Ironically, his presence before then had been anything but muted. The thought of him even now is as weighty and volcanic as he is. As imaginative and expressive as I am, I am lost at words when it comes to him. Having lived with him for 20 years, there is time when I doubt if I could even figure him out given another 20 more years. One more month before summer break, I am already overwhelmed with mixed emotion for his return: excited, fearful, expectant,reluctant.... Mayhap this is the story of him: an existence of oxymoron in many folds: innocent yet damaging, present yet absent, my son and the stranger.

My heart is full but words are done. A short glimpse of him on a Monday morning will do for now. The mystery of this human being has added such spice in our life that no one could ever dare to match. He may be no trophy son as others are, but if I ever had a choice, I would be proud to be someone like him – complex and unpredictable beyond all words and norms.

The truth shall set you free

2010-04-01T03:21:00.000-07:00

Woke up to a Monday drenched by rain, sounds, volume and all. The road was already saturated with pools of water while the sky continued to weep for a beginning of another week. Driving was treacherous despite of the extra effort from both driver and my less than 6-month old cross-over. The 2-block walk to the office, however, proved to be even more perilous. No rain gear could have saved me as the road sat lost from the overnight downpour. By the time I treaded to the office, I was helplessly soaked. While I tried to dry myself under the blanket in my wet jeans and socks, my colleagues came in later, all mysteriously dry and unharmed – their umbrellas worked fine and the water obviously had been parted for their sake.

The weather forecast had warned us of the rain after a cooler yet dry weekend. There was no hint of rain Sunday evening as I lingered outside, seduced by the sweet breeze moving across the greening lawn, the golden daffodils and the pale sky. I was almost in a state of contentment, had I not been preoccupied somewhat. A day later, I found myself struggling still, not with the raining irony but with the Saturday’s conversation with my good friend.

It had been a few months since we talked. I decided to call her while I was doing my weekly shopping. Conversation with my sweet friend is always comforting as if the 600+ miles of distance and 2+ years of separation never exist. We happily exchanged updates on family, church and life. Like all girl-talks, this one took its random course and somehow landed on some soul-bearing topic as I shared with her my struggle between the roles of a mother and child of God. Waging between the carnal and spiritual natures, I am no exception from this predicament keeping my faith in the war zone. My turmoil, however, is not only in its secrecy but also in shame and guilt. The Calvinistic belief teaches me to submit to whatever outcomes, agreeable or not, that my Maker permits. The knowledge is there, and yet we all know that the heart tarries to follow suit. When it comes to the conflict of interests between that belief and the welfare of her children, such wrestle is double or triple folds in every aspect. The same preaching on “trusting God” becomes irrelevant and painstaking if it involves her children, in my case, her lesser children. What’s worse is that my heart comdemns as much as it pains.

So there I was, disclosing to my good friend of this inner-most ferment, hoping to find some solace from outside of my secret world of disgrace. Nearly 10 years of my junior, she is probably 10 times more mature in her faith, love and grace. I had not planned on communion on this topic, knowing already what my friend in her candid and motherly nature would say or lecture. Somehow the confession went forth regardless of my better judgment. Yet, how many times do we share for the sake of guidance instead of a sympathetic ear? Unfortunately as any godly friend would do, she immediately pointed out my sins embedded underneath my self-pity: my pride, the lack of forgiveness and communion with God. Every single word proved to be true and justified, but none that I wanted – how surprising – or needed right then. I had no case but could not withstand it either. I finally stopped her. A kind and forgiving friend, she let me have it about my excuses, but whether I convinced her or not I would not know. When our phone call ended, the questions popped up and lingered on: Did my sin more there for not wanting the truth? As necessary as it is, is there timing and room of grace for truth? I know well that my prideful nature abhors truth when it convicts, but I also remember the liberation it brings when I am ready for it. There have been plenty of times when truth was disclosed by many others and brought its intended healing to my lost vision and soul. Somehow, it does not necessarily depend on the deliverers’ words but rather the receivers’ hearts, which must be pre-conditioned by a Supreme power that has waited, pursued and reclaimed. It was so with the very first conviction, and every time after that. The difference lies in that the confrontation has always been paired with perfect timing and perfect love.

Rain continues to fall. There hang the windows was a pane of gloom and pitch darkness. It is not going to clear up any time soon. I am, however, dry and warm now. Contrary to the storm outside, the light seems to be shining through the clouds within me. Yes, the truth has come. In fact, it has always been there inside of my wounded heart. Regardless of how it was redelivered, I doubt not its full capacity to once again reveal, settle and, in due time, set me free.

Pride and Prejudice

2010-03-25T06:33:00.000-07:00

Here he came, walking straight toward me on the narrow pathway between cubicles. The annoyance instantly emerged at the sight of him. I looked about and there was no way of avoiding or skirting away. I could sense my facial muscle stiffened up and worse than probably self-evident enough. It was hardly my nature to be rude to anyone, especially when I don’t even know who he is, but this time I had made up my mind: the brute was going to have it. We crossed our path. My face turned aside and I walked pass him without even a grunt or nod.

The irony was that I am well aware this drama had caused no impact of the guy of which I had taken such dislike after the incident, which again, he would have absolutely no recollection of. It was at the coffee lounge a couple of days ago when my coworker and I were making our morning pot of coffee. A young sweet thing of her late 20’s, she is a sight of pleasure for both female and male co-workers with hair thick, makeup perfect and a size 3 figure clad under tight jeans and shirt. On top of a nice package, her nature is even, definitely girlish and properly flirtatious without trying. Even I myself enjoy and admire her assets. For the past 1.5 year, we have developed a more than average colleague relationship as we share our morning coffee and sometimes switch lunch bites together. I am pretty sure she has regarded me as her mother-figure confidant for matters such as marriage and children issues.

So there we were, chatting away with her recent development of life: bargain finds, husband issues and some idle subjects. Most of the time I did the listening while we waited for the coffee maker gurgling on to finish the brew. Then in walked the guy to our cozy girl-talk space with his mug and a face I recognized and name I never knew. He was probably in his early 40’s, medium height and, although no George Clooney, not exactly a pathetic sight to look at. I had bumped into him a few times and courteously said my hi’s as I do with anyone at the same floor. My colleague and I politely paused our conversation for good manner’s sake. With an exchange of “good morning”, the conversation seemed to take its course to evolve from a party of two to three, until I chimed in my first and only one sentence. His back on me, he smiled and flirted on with my young friend as if I had never spoken. Older but not wiser for many things, however, I was quite sure to conclude then that I was as non-existent as the coffee ground spilled on the counter: you see it, you ignore it or pretend you don’t see it.

Never a beauty myself all my life, except to those who love me “just the way I am”, I am none the less proud and vain. I needed no more hint to realize I wasn’t wanted. It wasn’t the first time when it comes to in the company of my young and adorable colleagues. As those two continued on with their exchanges, I took my leave without a word.

Growing up with two beautiful sisters has indeed trained me to accept my less fortune in the beauty department. Small and dark with a stormy temperament, I was never the popular or adorable one. Nevertheless, I prided in the person inside for her thoughts, conviction and even the fact of being “rejected”. I realized in my work environment on top of my “lesser” package I have more years in age, which steer me in the disadvantageous side even further. Still, I am once more amazed how we work or behave in our relationship with others. Youth, beauty and status always dominate at first glance or chance. We couldn’t help our instincts of living by sights. But how far would our eyes take us in any relationship? I have hoped (for my own sake) that time would be my avenger when people see past the insignificant and “worn” exterior and uncover the much more interesting inside. The evidences unfortunately prove otherwise, time after time – including this one.

Perplexed, fuming also, I went around grumbling to myself about the coffee guy and recalled the conversation I had with another male colleague on the similar subject. He replied without an apology for his sex about their preferences on outside rather than inside: “only gays are interested in inner beauty”. As indignant as I was with his straight answer, I couldn’t deny that there is definitely a prejudice or preference for youth and beauty for both sexes. Our eyes cannot help being drawn to the pretty and healthy young things intuitively. Mayhap in time they might see further, but they always start from outside. The truth is: while I may be the casualty of this nature, I am also the instigator or participant like the rest of the world – at least for a little brief moment. Suddenly it dawned on me that as I condemn those brutes’ behavior, I am reminded of my own – how I stormed out, and just now repaid the dude with coldness, and from now on will cut him off for good, as I would do and have done with prior offenders. Indeed they have owned their prejudice, but I too have formed my share and repaid it fast enough. For me, it was not at all about inner essences versus outside beauty; it is all about vanity and pride.

Ah, the classic pride and prejudice…. I started out convicting the world and ended up doing the opposite. What a surprise.

Molly and I

2010-03-22T12:07:00.000-07:00

2PM Sunday afternoon, still groggy from the sleeping aid I took the night before, I laid in bed with a house of silence. The sun was still bright behind the bedroom sheer penal after 2 days of dreary rain. The good father had taken off to drop off the college son and a 5-mile hike with the other afterwards. Molly, my dog, was besides the bed, quiet and still as usual. She had been out this morning with daddy for a brief constitutional bathroom walk and was probably in need of another as the backyard sat in an absolute mass (or mess) of water and mud. Both my eye lids and head heavy, I wished nothing but to stay in bed forever. The spring air dancing in that glistening sky, though, persisted on to lure me outside. It was accompanied by a guilt that wouldn’t go away – something that associates with a thing called dogs. I turned my back and rolled away from the temptation outside the window only to face my dog silently lying on the floor, her eyes closed and breathing even. No, the guilt was not going anywhere. I sighed and struggled to get up finally. Yes, Molly, we are going for a walk.

How many trips have we taken together? I was thinking to myself as I strolled out with my 12-year-old black lab. Her tail wagging in glee, she went about the yard in her initial excitement. After almost 10 years of routines, the walk never lost its appeal for my silly dog. It could be as short as just around the end of the cou-de-sec or as extensive as miles. I called for her to put the leash on and there she came, crouching down with ears back and eyes filled with submission and adoration: I am here; do as you wish.

We have found a school yard right behind one of the neighbors’ street. Thus I came all prepared with a ball so that she could have a good run. As we walked into the little trail in the woods leading to the school field, I unleashed her to let her do some exploring before we reached our destination. The air was cool with a scent of rain despite of the filtered yet glorious sunshine. It is indeed March now; Spring is finally approaching after a seemingly stretchy winter loaded with much rain and a few unexpected snowfalls. A neighbor with his dog came into view as they had just finished their fun. Before I had time to call back my dog, she was already greeting them in her usual friendly manners. Both man and dog didn’t seem to mind, so I yielded to their brief meeting. A few more yards down, we were already on the open field, deserted in its solemn peace. The breeze continued to move to and fro. Besides the potent scent of rain fromthe past two day’s rain, I could almost smell Spring. Molly was all ready for actions now, circling about me with tails and ears high, awaiting for me to throw the ball. The pure and simple joy became so infectious that I was instantly awakened to the same excitement myself. We went about our routine as I tossed and she fetched. Occasionally my heart would skip a beat on her relentless leaps for the high-bounced ball. She was not aware of her mortality at 12 years old. Her face spelled trust as she went forth to retrieve the ball and returned to me with the same zeal and faithfulness as if it had been the very first day. How many times have we done this? How many years has it been since the day she came? And then the final, inevitable question always follows: how much more time do we have left?

I couldn’t help recalling the day when she came, how frightened and unsure we all were of this new relationship. She had just moved from NC to their new home with the only 2 owners she ever knew and her companion Golden Retriever. She was 2 and ½ with a body of pups not yet filled up. Her owner had dropped her off and sneaked out, leaving her with me in the middle of our living room. Her initial excitement and curiosity was replaced in no time as she went about the new space and found no Robert. I took her to my kitchen and sat down by the table, hoping to distract her from her uncertainty. Restless and confused, she walked back to the living room and continued her search. No, still no Robert. Finally, she laid herself down by the window, where she looked and waited -- for one whole month, during which she ate 3 or 4 times, grieving for her loss. In contrast, the very same change marked the beginning of our healing as the four tormented souls locked behind the door and banned from a normal world found comfort in a simple animal whole love never strays. Nine years of circling between Virginia and New Hampshire, our life has indeed gone through enough changes in many aspects, but she remains the same; older, but none the less obedient, compliant and faithful.

She came back one last time, finally tired out. Her eyes still glowed from the good and honest workout she had just had. They were saying also how happy she was and whatever it was next she was all ok and ready for it. A simple creature she indeed is, she lives with absolute contentment and trust for life supply of food, shelter, work and love, while we, the intelligent species, eagerly work for the same things with insatiable appetite that can never be satisfied. We worry for tomorrow, next week or next month and she lives one day at a time. She reflects the very two natures of my Savior’s ever-present love and His hope for me in this life. The alarming resemblance is not only in the love of a perfect God but also in the image of a perfect child of God. I stared at her, thinking how anxious I had been about my work project this past week, how the college son had made out with his mid-term and what should happen with the other’s future planning. They all seemed legit, but the truth remained: have I not ever been worrying all the time, all my life??

We took our return on the same trail; Molly ahead of me, bouncy and jolly as usual, while my steps idled and my thoughts somewhat weighted down. The woods were covered with hints of green sprouts here and there which would soon and effortlessly lead into such magnificent bloom that even the most skillful gardeners and talented artists resign at her dare. Somewhere on the tree top, birds were singing away while the squirrels were chasing up and down, celebrating their good fortune of a fine early Spring Sunday. Awe-struck and almost haunted, I stopped and stood there, as the matchless beauty and care-free joy of its inhabitants (my dog included) persisted on with the million-dollar mystery of life: in what way, or any way, are we, human, really the superior?

It's a party!

2010-03-11T02:38:00.001-08:00

It happened again. As reluctant as I could be for pride’s sake, I have to conclude it is officially another defeat. My dinner guests from a week ago looked away as we exchanged glances across the room. There was no residue or recollection of the “party” in their eyes or body language. My insecurity increased when none of them stopped to say some polite words about that dinner. It was not at all unexpected, but none the less unbearable.

We have all been there: hosting one of those embarrassing dinner parties when food, conversation or fun just went flat. As any prideful hosts would do, I couldn’t help questioning why and how. Did the food over-bake in the oven just a tap too long? Did we repeat some jokes we might have told already? Or, are we losing the “touch”? Surely we have hosted dinners plenty enough times from Illinois, Virginia, all the way to New Hampshire and now back to Virginia. There definitely have been successes and yet it was always failures that surface up to haunt us.

There is this conflict within me when it comes to interpersonal relationship. My friends laugh when I tell them in simple words: I am very shy. To them, shy and I are as immiscible as oil and water. What they fail to see are the pages under the cover. In any crowded setting, I become so uneasy that I would resolve in hiding myself in excessive words or food. Thus attending or hosting a party is definitely outside of my comfort zone or against my better intuition. Any attempts would be more like embarking on a challenge then fulfilling the basic social desire. It’s logical to think if you practice more you might just get better. To face this particular daemon, I am constantly calculating strategy for win, one of them being the art of mixing, i. e. bringing the right crowd together so that they may play with one another with minimum endeavor or even interference from their brave yet insecure hosts.

With this in mind, guest list was carefully engineered. Menu planned and a trip to the supermarket later, I was all ready to conquer. This time I felt unusually confident with my clever match-making skills in both menu and company selection. Needless to say the irony of life once again came to taunt us: all hope failed to deliver. Despite the hours of cooking, cleaning and organizing, the food was just as bland as the conversation. I was actually feeling sorry for my guests who dutifully sat as good sports would do, engaging with one another pleasantry for two long hours. I wondered if any of them peeked at that wall clock as much as I did. It was one of those surrenders you hate to take for pride’s sake at the same time you wish for its end for deliverance’s sake. And when the end finally came, the relief was always accompanied by shame and the inevitable frustration. We pretended to bury ourselves in the clean-up without exchanging words on the touchy subject. I think we even looked away from each other for fear that our eyes might betray ourselves. It doesn’t matter how many times you have done it, accepting or acknowledging failure never comes easy. Like sweeping the dirt under the rug, you want it out of the way and out of sight. Then again the lonely exile can only go so far when it comes to suffering. As aching as it may be, admission of defeat brings comfort among fellow comrades in a kindred spirit. So with the last dish put away and trash picked up some 15 minutes later, I could no longer continue on with the pretend and asked my partner-in-crime that same old question after every party: “did you have a good time?” His straight-through and not-at-all surprising “NO” brought the anticipated, instant relief and maybe even closure. I felt the burden vaporizing surely and steady. I set the dish washer to go and turned off the kitchen lights. I was ready to retreat. Yes, we have done it: we took on, tried and now it was time to own it – our bitter-sweet end.

Till next time.

And the winner is...

2010-03-03T02:41:00.000-08:00

Sunday noon – instead of getting ready to leave the church, we were on the road to a music competition which Luke’s teacher had planned for him since last year. It was but a short 20 minutes drive from home. Traffic was light and the sky was clearing up from the early morning’s dreariness. The young musician next to me, though, was not as jovial as the beautiful sunny day outside. He had dressed himself this morning in his so-called “concert pants”, which means white shirt and black pants. With face shaved and hair newly cut, he was looking mighty handsome and yet somewhat worried. A couple of times he would withdraw his attention from his favorite high way scenes and turn to me to say: it’s going to be hard, but doable, right? I could tell it was probably one of his teacher’s sentences and he was just repeating it to acquire my concurrence. Having been to plenty of competitions all these years, we are realistic enough to know that he is no competition as in no chance to win. We were doing this, hopefully the last time ever, only to make his well-meaning teacher happy, same as we do with his recitals or performances. It pains us to see his heart haunted, thus we had made our best effort to alleviate his apprehension on this matter. Clearly, he was still not quite assured that it would be of no consequences to us one way or another. I would have turned around to go home if it had not been for his teacher’s sake.

So here we were at the Presbyterian church where the competition was held. We went through the registration process and asked for permission to leave for lunch. I was only too happy to take him away from the setting if only for a little bit. No problem, they said, just be sure to be back before his scheduled rehearsal time and performance. An hour later after a bite and a stroll on Target, we came back just in time for his 15-minute warm up. As he dutifully went through a couple of spots, he actually looked more and more relaxed. The usher came to retrieve him to the waiting room with a couple of other contestants waiting for their turn. Their faces were somber and serious. One young man was staring at the score with unwavering attention. Suddenly, it hit me hard and I am ashamed to admit that after all these years’ “training”, I was nervous as if I had been the one going on to the stage. I reached to touch his hand – it was nice and warm. His angelic face revealed a world so untouched and almost sacred. I don’t know if it was that or the pre-competition tension that took me aback, but I almost could not breathe. I took my leave to step out to the lobby to walk off my nerve.

I came back later – there was no sight of him. My eyes went around the room, but it was my ears that found him as the familiar Beethoven streamed out from the stage. My breath went short as I pictured my son steadily playing on despite of a whirlwind of turmoil going on my whole being. His tiny frame was probably bending down a little too much as he concentrated further on every single phrase, line and dynamic that his teacher had taught him. It was déjà vu all over again: while I was down here, he was trying his utmost to speak to our world with the only language he knows best. Surely I knew it was more for my sake that through moments like that this world might see a soul so pure and fine such as his. My heart was pumping in such a craze that I feared it was going to stop. Do you, o world, even come close to catch a glimpse of perfection beyond those resonating notes in that little 5’ 5” frame, his faithfulness, trust and contentment despite of all?

He stopped. I heard the applauses, followed by him walking out in his regular speedy pace, his head slightly slanted with his usual quiet composure. Tears rushed to my eyes like the first time and every time. My heart now pumped with joy as I walked up to embrace him. There is no comfort and peace than this, I whispered to myself, besides in the arms of Jesus. Then again, moments like this lead to that with Jesus too, when I am reminded of the unfailing promises through this shadow-like little person. When I am crushed by the vileness and inconsistency of the world, sometimes myself included, I am always brought back to the essence of my existence, or any existence – His purposes and the most splendid plan to reveal Himself. My Luke has been here for that very reason and we are only too privileged to experience Him through him.

We walked out, now both joyfully and light-heartedly. He was all excited about taking a different route home and the bowling we were going to do afterwards. He had worked hard, come to deliver his best and now ready to move on. The result of whether he won or not mattered not. How immensely shamed I was there and then, but at the same time I was not at all ashamed to be rewarded with this special prize right next to me. God and I both know that I need him to keep me in line. The announcement of the winners would not be ready for a couple of hours, but as we drove off the parking lot I already knew who the winners were…..

Match in Heaven

2010-02-23T08:49:00.000-08:00

One whole week has passed since my last contact or email with AH. AH is one of the users whose applications we manage. While working on one of the upgrades, we have discovered he was from Pittsburgh till late teen when he joined the navy. From Pittsburgh to Steelers, we slowly developed a bond beyond users and administrators. Once in a while when Steelers scored, we would congratulate each other through email. Since the playoff, we had talked more as the drum roll started picking up for the grand finale, Super Bowl. In between exchanges on football scores, we would add on bits and pieces on life, family or hobbies. I welcome a little distraction from my tedious and sometimes frustrating routines, especially when the distraction comes from outside of my group. The neutral ground makes it void of conflicts of interests, thus much safer to vent. In a work environment, being safe or guarded is a must. The “what goes around comes around” is a unspoken code we live by. Iterations with AH did fall on that guideline and we kept it up for almost a month.

For someone with extreme personality, I too have somewhat extreme tastes. Food-wise, spicy and hot is always preferable; music, BACH alone is the only supremacy; church, no room for Praise and Worship as a frozen chosen. As for people, both conversation and mind have to be interesting and respectable. AH is boarder line for both. He served the purpose more for being available than being acceptable. Then like the rest of my relationship (but one bonded by holy matrimony), this one too dwindled and ended. I was struck by the initial confusion, followed by frustration and finally lamentation. When it comes to any failure, it’s hardly about why and how, or “it” or “whom”. It’s more about me, or my pride: I flunked it. The sadder truth is: it was not surprising.

Clearly, it was by no means my first or my last failure. When young, I stumbled times after times with being accepted as a moody and needy friend. Now, many decades later, I faithfully continue to fail for different reasons. I am well aware, though, that I am not without company in this “loserville”. In a little more than two years, two couples of our good friends have ended up quitting their marriage. Thus far, though I may be exempted from failing this particular relationship for credit not of my own, I certainly cannot say so with the rest of my relationships. In fact, the older I get, the more I dread them. I discovered that I am most secure only when I am my own company. Giving it time, I would either be disappointing or disappointed. As proud as I can be, I couldn’t help asking: why do I fail in relationship? But as I am not at all alone in this struggle, the better question is: why do we fail?

There seems to be a cycle in a failed relationship that goes like this: initial excitement, honeymoon, followed by disillusion and the inevitable doom. The corresponding causes are: failure to impress, failure to accept and finally failure to commit. As self-absorbing and self-serving as we are, we gratify and glorify in our gains only. For any endeavor we put in the relationship, it is somewhat more about performance rather than a single-minded, uttermost interest for the other, which is the only guarantee for a secure relationship. The most unselfish love on the face of the earth is none other than that of a parent, but even that is not devoid of self-interest or pride. Thus we fail. The truth is: we are not conditioned to do otherwise as we cannot love selflessly.

Here I was – reaching my final answer as I struggled through the monologue, though not exactly a happy ending as one would quote. In the back of my mind, I was keenly reminded of another relationship I have not failed thus far – once again not with merit or choices of my own – and how it differs in that it fails not or ends not despite of myself. In tears and shame I was reminded of how He first loved me in my wretchedness, continues to love me in my unfaithfulness and will love me still despite of my failure to impress. While I may continue to disappoint or be disappointed in many more relationships, I have yet one more assurance in this one.

Feb 14, 2010: D-Day or V-Day?

2010-02-18T02:50:00.000-08:00

Another puzzling event or phenomenon – 2nd Sunday of February – has come and gone. I have to confess that media was my only accomplice that I remembered this day of festivity as TV and radio ever so faithfully blasted the world with commercials of chocolates, flowers, cards and, of course, jewelry. Some of my coworkers, as all dutiful lovers would do, had even agonized over the tokens or surprises to affirm their devotion. Despite of 20+ years of being part of the “lovers” category, I continue to marvel how this day has such a hold of human race across different cultures, mine included. I remember as a young and impressionable teenager browsing through those Valentine cards at the bookstore back home, my heart pumping with wild imagination and wonder for this amazing thing called love . The truth is, I have no excuses of blaming my lack of diligence or effort in this matter on this culture. On the receiving end, I have indeed benefited once – twice, counting yesterday – when my lover surprised me with roses delivered to my dingy, roaches infested apartment. We had then just started talking to each other. It was a sweet and memorable gesture from him, considering it was my first dozen of roses. The proclamation stopped after the 1st dozen. I may have received another bouquet on a different occasion after our wedding, but never again anything on Valentine’s Day.

Most friends or acquaintances have wondered how slacking we two are with this sacred day. “What!? You don’t do anything at all?” “NO! You have to do something” I always become more intrigued by their frustration than worried about my own pathetic excuses. As an outcast of this tradition, still, I have no doubt in our devotion for each other. The sensible me calculates that roses last for at best 3 days, chocolates much shorter than that, and diamond, though forever, never the right choice for me. My lover needed no more confirmation to drop the dreadful task from his to-do list. In fact, I am quite sure he thanked his lucky star for his good fortune and praised God for having found this virtuous woman on the day he was excused from this yearly torture.

Coincidentally, this year the V day fell on a better alternative and passion for him: Daytona 500. Unlike the rest of his sex, most of whom dreaded this day of atonement, he eagerly looked forward to its coming and carefully planned out all details: DVR was set, as the race would start before returning from church; lunch afterwards, followed by a trip to the gym, and finally the well deserving grand finale and ultimate reward: a few hours of bonding with his sofa and remote. Amazingly, he even managed to picked up a box of chocolates in between activities, granted the day before I had done my part of grunting “where is my Valentine card?”. So, there we were on Valentine afternoon…. While I shoved my face in my Godiva, he too in his HDTV, we concluded the dreadful love test of the year with flying color. Still I couldn’t help wondering: did we feel move loved? The million dollar question is: does love need to be gifted in the form of chocolates or roses? I know what the answer should be, but my less-than-overwhelmed heart was not convinced then and there. To me, the much preferable choices may be our Saturday mornings with a cup of coffee, a blanket on my lap and an hour of idle talk, a phone call from him from one of their father-son, male-bonding trips telling me that they are almost home, or his calming words and sometimes kind forgiveness in my distressing moments of self-torture. They are far more precious not only in magnitude but also in the essence of being shapeless and timeless. And, I may have it any time or any day.

Could I have possibly just come up with an ingenious innovation of celebration for lovers or is it another ploy from a contrarian, anti-tradition rebel such as I? I don’t know about the rest of the world, but I know my soul-mate would gladly chime in “AMEN” and happily announce: Feb. 14, 2010: D-Day definitely!

Oh when the saints go marching in....

2010-02-12T02:59:00.000-08:00

Annual event of the nation, besides Christmas, New Year, finally arrived. After having been part of the melting part for nearly 3 decades, I am at times amazed how this sports event, besides World Series, plays such a significant role in this culture. At Sam’s club, the lines were unusually long even for Sunday afternoon. I couldn’t help noticing the contents in the shopping carts: beer, chips, cupcakes and sandwiches. Even though my cart wasn’t nearly as elaborated, I was there partially for the same reason. There was no party for us at home or elsewhere despite of the invites from a couple of dutiful and zealous fan friends for reasons double folds: (1) Steelers not being part of the game; (2) some family member (no name) has a tendency of losing control in moments of frenzy. Thus, party of 3 it was: nice and simple, and safe.

Being one of the opposite sex, I am not ashamed to admit that I prefer gossip to politics, shoes shopping to sports events. Over the years, however, I have slowly developed an interest in baseball and football after living with 3 men for over 20 years. It started with baseball games, when I discovered the fun at the ball park in the 2 plus hours of fresh air, easy talks and a shared kindred spirit with a stadium of fellow fans. Football-wise, it is a natural evolution from marrying into a family from Pittsburgh, thus inheriting their sports teams. Watching a football game with Steelers involved, however, may not necessarily be fun as you and your whole being rise up and flop down with their performance. The easiest solution for us is to follow up the results after the fact. In comparison, a Super Bowl without Steelers would put us on the neutral sideline with nothing at stake, thus securing for us a night of safe enjoyment.

We had hoped for Vikings and Chargers to make it there this year, but Saints and Colts would do too. As underdog lovers, we unceremoniously sided for Saints. After all, for the longest time they have been known as the ants, the losers. Going to Super Bowl must have exceeded their as well as the rest of the nation’s wildest dream. As cliché as it may be, their win would be a “feel-good” ending that everyone loves. And a happy ending we indeed had hoped and received as the night concluded with Saints being crowned for the 44th Super Bowl champion. The game was perfect, not merely because of the win, but more of its drama, suspense, rise and fall, followed by a twisted, unexpected outcome with a satisfaction that no sure wins could ever deliver.

As we watched the celebration at the stadium on our HDTV, I couldn’t stop thinking of the silly tune “Oh when the saints go marching in”. For decades they had been nobody and on that Sunday night with the confetti showering down and the whole nation cheering on, they might as well be marching straight to the pearly gate. The infectious joy lulled us both to stay on the TV even after the trophy was passed and title awarded. We watched with a smile on our faces those jubilant fans and players roaring in their ecstasy and almost wished that the celebration wouldn’t end. Tonight I would visit my bed with excitement still warm in my heart. We would talk on even after the lights were out, making silly remarks such as “Saints Bree’zed through the win”, “we ain’t ants any more” and recapping the game like two kids that wouldn’t want the night to end. Drunk in glee as I might have been, I did not forget that in a day or two all this exhilaration would vanish like vapor under the sun. No wins on the face of this earth last on. This pessimist should have been deflated to gloom in no time. Somehow, I managed to come back with an epiphany. Despite all let-downs from this life, there indeed is yet a final parade when the saints go marching in at the call of our maker on that final day. In every way and with far greater magnitude we, the elects, are living a Cinderella fairy tale here on earth, waiting for that call and the happy ending in heaven. For many of us, we were once lower than the ants but now the beloved, the privileged and the saints. There is no greater win than this.

I laid my head down and closed my eyes; my heart sealed in peace and contentment.

Love me, love me not

2010-02-12T02:57:00.000-08:00

Another restless night. By now, I have lost the count as to how many days have passed since this persistent ailment started. At 3:54 am I gave up fighting with the 3 blankets and gained a 6-minute start for the day. After nearly 20 months of working, I continue to improve my morning efficiency by cutting or simplifying all routines. From dressing to heading out, it takes as little as 15 minutes. I think I even beat that record today. Better yet, I beat my morning pal by a hair of room. He was right behind me when I walked through the chilly dawn to the office. Today, I got to turn on the lights. I never realized my competitiveness, or the extent of it, until I met him. He has in fact been pushing up his morning hour because of me and I found it annoying. As painful as it has been, my insomnia actually paid off and brought me some sweet consolation in this ridiculous win. I felt brave, triumphant and proud.

By the time coffee was made and emailed opened, it was barely 4:45 am. Another long day was officially unrolled. After over a month of sleep deprivation, my body seems to adjust well. It is always faithful, ready for work despite of my heavy eye lids and mild headache. For someone with high energy and spirit such as me, it is not hard to imagine. What amazes me is that I actually don’t seem to mind. Though a scrooge still, I may have accepted my fate here, work and insomnia included. I have always found comfort in routines all my life -- just never thought that would include a 4am wake up call, 10-hour work day, and yes, no sleep night.

End of January concluded my 20-month of working after 20 year of child rearing. A dear friend of mine recently commented how happy she was for me and that my making it means there is hope for “late” boomers such as me. I am not nearly as encouraged as she is as I know well how much struggle it has been and still is for me to have jumped back into this deep end and tried to float atop after 2 decades of absence. I face not only the professional, technical challenges but also the interpersonal, social skills, the later to me proven much more complex than the former. It may have something to do with a changed world for which I was not prepared, having been confined and consumed by another world of totally different dynamic. Yet, the further truth is that the deficiency or struggle within this department has always been there.

In my growing years, I was always quoted by family as difficult even for ghosts’ company. I remember having frequent emotional outbursts as a very young child when agitated. After moving up to school age, I gained some control with my firing fits only to be confronted with another mission impossible: the forever quest for approval from both adults and peers. My emotional well-being or balance was constantly hanging by a thread. Any perception of rejection would result in a mass of explosion. Gone was that little dark shadow at the corner, there emerged from nowhere the green Hauk frantic in her wounds that no one could tame. My beautiful older sister was then my sweetest dream and also most hated rival. I longed to be her: straight A’s, popular and adorable. The mystery remained forever why and how she could be that well controlled in the realm of the same world we were both in. There was this confidence and capacity in her to take on anyone or any task with very little effort, while I looked on with astonishment and could not even begin to imitate. Patience, perseverance and maybe even detachment were what I perceived her biggest assets. I hardly ever saw her losing balance for anything or anyone, not that they ever became anything disadvantageous to her. The loved her as much as she loved them.

But how I did too love and long to be loved… except that desire and acts seemed to have included something else. It was the deepest personal abandonment, followed by a price tag of my whole world and my sense. For someone with so much at stake and at the same time such extreme passions, interpersonal relationship was a dangerous, if not impossible, task. Years of head-on combats later, the little frustrated girl eventually calloused up and became an old soul. She learned to clam shot most of the time for self preservation sake. For the longest time, even after that night when God and I had our first chancing, I have continued to struggle to make peace between the one He loves and the one I do not, and more importantly, between His approval and man’s. Twenty months are nothing comparing to twenty years of dormant, but I started sensing the danger in the dilemma: sense or sensibility, love-me or love-me-not? Can I, decades later, dive into this battle all over again – only this time with clearer perspective on Him whose love I should really care? As self absorbing as man is, can anyone really love, himself included, without regret or fear?

The time ticks 5:30am when my colleagues will soon be showing up. I have hoped that I never have to play the daisy game, as older and wiser I thought I have become, but the anxiety is submerging up slowly. This time around, the question on the surface seems to be more of love you, or love you not, but maybe, as it has always been, is it still: love me or love me not?

Sleepless in VA

2010-01-15T10:44:00.000-08:00

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.

Happy New Year

2010-01-08T02:36:00.000-08:00

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….

Silent Night

2009-12-30T02:01:00.000-08:00

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.

Happy Birthday

2009-12-24T05:59:00.000-08:00

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.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy

2009-12-22T04:14:00.000-08:00

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.

Most popular kid in town

2009-12-08T05:39:00.000-08:00

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.

Left behind

2009-12-03T02:59:00.000-08:00

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….

"Oh Christmas Tree"

2009-12-01T11:36:00.000-08:00

We have done it again – Christmas tree was up right after Thanksgiving. As unconventional as we have always been, I have actually become the driven force for this new tradition, granted it is only our second year. The idea was not all that appealing, especially after all that Thanksgiving indulgence with a huge serving of guilt on the side. The anticipated moan and groan from the designated worker does not help either. Nevertheless, I am a determined, overcoming defender of a couple of newly established family traditions (another one being driving around town to look for restaurants that open on Christmas Eve) and thus bravely called for tree motion. The grunt surely came, followed by foot stomping, door opening, boxes banging and finally the gleeful caroling on the radio. That was the signal of safe landing. I tip toed out, all ready and eager to offer my assistance in our tree assembling ceremony.

I am a practical romanticist, a realistic dreamer and a proud owner of the 20-year-old, duck-taped box of Christmas tree lying on the floor. Our observing, rational son commented that it is probably one of the very few artificial trees made in the USA, as noted on the box. It matters not to us. We love our fake tree, despite that we have to take great pain assembling it branch by branch and afterwards fighting to put strands of lights on before the 501 ornaments can go on. Our preference is nothing environmental. To us, she is just perfect in size, color and shape. We did once commit the despicable act of straying by replacing her with a pre-lit model. That unfaithfulness lasted merely one season. The next year we returned to our old love with shame and forever loyalty.

Next comes the lights thing – they will have to be multi-colored instead of the clear kind. Those colorful lights once made our first born so happy when he was young and thus tradition of colored lights as it is. For the longest time, the tree was the only royalty for our Christmas as no wreath or garland should be there to take away attention from her. But during the last few years she has been accompanied by a garland on the mantel and Mr. and Mrs. Snowman in front of our fireplace. They were part of the Cinderella magic night when our quiet New England ski lodge house was transformed to a sparkling ballroom by a couple of special friends who happened to drop by on that Christmas caroling night. The fireplace was roaring, the roast cooking in the oven and Alison’s “Amazing Grace” ringing high on the cathedral ceiling of our great room. The pumpkin indeed had morphed into this glorious chariot with such love and joy. Once the exiled vagabonds, there we were home in our Canaan flowing with milk and honey.

Two and half hours of deliberated effort later, there stood in our great room our handsome tree majestically adorned, her friends humbly trailing behind and four admirers staring at her in awe and silence. Five-ish on one of the last days of November, it was already into the night. The room was dark and there singing light-heartedly was Dean Martin’s “Winter Wonderland”. It was 60’s that day – the song as well as our snowman in our southern Virginia home was totally ridiculous, same as our oh-so-artificial tree. Yet, we were spell-bound like a fool having his love at the first sight moment all over again. My heart was full as I echoed those words from that old carol “Oh Christmas Tree” :

"O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!Much pleasure thou can'st give me;O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!Much pleasure thou can'st give me;How often has the Christmas treeAfforded me the greatest glee!O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!Much pleasure thou can'st give me.

O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!Thy candles shine so brightly!O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!Thy candles shine so brightly!From base to summit, gay and bright,There's only splendor for the sight.O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!Thy candles shine so brightly!

O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!How richly God has decked thee!O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!How richly God has decked thee!Thou bidst us true and faithful be,And trust in God unchangingly.O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!How richly God has decked thee! !"

We all know it’s not about the tree or the snow at all. It’s the memory, covered by the unyielding love of Christ. Scarred it may be, it sparkles all the more like those twinkling lights year after year…

five more minutes please

2009-11-30T08:55:00.001-08:00

The dreadful Monday after 4-day long weekend has arrived. I beat my alarm clock unofficially, waking up 3 times at 12AM, then 1:45AM, and finally 3:56AM. I did not get up till the buzz went off 4 minutes later. The road was quiet and air cool. There hang on the dark night a clear moon almost full. Two more days, I estimate, and it will surely be full moon.

I was the first in the office. My morning buddy, a motorcyclist, surprisingly was late – there has been this unspoken on-going competition between us “who gets to turn on lights first” and today I was more than delighted to claim my victory. Besides this childish competitiveness, there is something utterly essential about this “alone-time” before 5:30 when the next morning crew flood in. It’s as close as a therapy or even a religion. I have never actually thought about why and when it started till now…. Maybe it was along the time when I got back to work after 20 years of living in a world with much smaller population of four, sometimes even three when the children were young. Then this new life started and things changed. I was accustomed to speak in one syllable monologue for the longest time, and suddenly these alien-like, so-called “co-workers” submerged with different language and behaviors. I had to learn to talk to not only the 2 boxes on my desk called “My computer” but also these foreigners with way more complexity than the machines. The initial shock was accompanied by excitement, granted we are after all the socializing creature, followed by the unfortunate disillusion and then finally the acceptance accompanied by my morning therapy, and the coffee.

Are we really superior to our creation such as technology boxed in a container some of which is no thicker than 1 or 2 inches? I wonder. As frustrating as these boxes may be after one and half year of acquaintance, I find my fellow mankind, myself included, quite the contrary. I recall the pre-children young “career world” I was once in briefly, but even then there was already hint of disappointment. My passionate nature does the opposite of aiding. It actually became my biggest enemy in my dealing with the human world. While I may have this “love-hate” relationship with these boxes on my desk, I came to appreciate their simplicity and loyalty. For one, they perform their duty as you demand of them regardless of your sex or age. Moreover, they do not take offense with my black and white emotions. I have plenty of my emotional outbursts with them and they power up and open for me day after day faithfully. Not so with the other superior subject. I have tried a few times of grunting and found my co-workers not receptacle or forgiving like my boxes. Besides my extreme nature, I am as much alien to my co-workers as they are to me. What do people like me with grown-up children have anything in common with these 20’s or 30’s? I could see in their eyes what they are thinking: man, what are you doing here? You should be like dead or something. It is usually not until then when I see the reflection of this old person in their eyes that I realize I am out of sync. Emotions may be ageless, physical reality isn’t.

So like a child squirming back into his warm blanket at the annoying wake-up calls, I am hiding here in my quiet quarter for a little bit longer. I need time to check back in this ageless child and the full blown version of passions before coming out. I am waking up slowly; five more minutes please….

child's play

2009-11-25T07:06:00.000-08:00

4:30 AM on Pre-Thanksgiving day. The road was quiet and wet. The sky was dark with a veil of rain coming down lightly. Weather forecast says it would dry up by Thanksgiving. I do not mind it at all; there is something magical about quiet night mixed with light rain. They go perfectly together and bring out the poet inside of me. The car radio as usual was rigidly off since no disturbance of any sort is allowed. The windows were up and yet I could still hear the splashing sound of my tires running steadily on the wet road, which was just about the only noise in this private corner of the world. It was not at all unpleasant for a morning grouch like me. I don’t thaw out till well after 8AM. At work I even have a sign on my forehead that says “STAY AWAY” for my colleagues; they know of the “after 8AM, MAYBE” though never spelled out rule. It’s just me and my thoughts, my very quiet thoughts. It’s a rough world out there and I need my dose of me-time before facing the enemy.

I have acquired this 4AM schedule for some time now. As unconventional as I may be for many things, I am strangely an animal of habits. I wake up the same time, take the same route to work and park on the same spot. To get to work, there were 15 lights along the way, which I could easily avoid if I take the Interstate. Taking Interstate is longer and somehow makes the commute more official and thus unbearable. The trade-off is it is a daily battle to fight through the traffic lights, most of which run on motion detection at early hours. The biggest bear of all is one that takes you through all sequence should you ever miss it. Every day I could feel my blood running hot as I drive toward the giant traffic light from the distance like a marathon runner facing his final ribbon. Try as I might, I miss the light half of the time, like this morning.

So there I sat, being the first in line, waiting for the light to run through its sequence. There pulled besides me a Suburban truck on the left, waiting with me for the light to turn green. Most of the traffic at this hour heads for the same direction, my company, which would require you to take the right lane that leads to the ramp to the main road where the company sits. At that light, it’s safer to stay on the right lane or else you might miss the ramp and then you would have to take a frustrating detour to get back on track. The toss up comes when there is already a line of cars on the right lane, which means you might miss this light sequence, so there will be times when I or anyone would gamble to move to the shorter left lane, hoping to cut back in when the light turns green. Well that was exactly my Suburban friend's intent. I wouldn’t have guessed it if he had not impatiently (and unwisely) started inching forward a tap too early.

There is some built-in human nature, although more so for some than the others , one of them being “ if I know you are cutting in, I will definitely rile up to make sure you don’t”. And that was exactly what I did when the light turns green. My almost brand new car, though no competition to the beast Suburban in size, has good acceleration and I was determined to use it, aiming to shut down my competitor’s scheme. She did not disappoint me as I pressed on the gas pedal. Within seconds she ramped up discreetly to 40+ MPH, throwing my surprised rival behind. Before I had time to savor my victory, there came from behind the black devil screaming and screeching in speed well over 50 MPH and cut in and sped to the ramp in a nick of time.

The result is in: he won, I lost. Unfortunately that wasn’t the only defeat of the day for me. My Christian charity and virtue always faces their challenge on the roads in time like this and need I mention I lost again in the form of some colorful outburst.

Why is that child in us never goes away when there is competition involved? Those few seconds of victory or defeat on the road seem important enough that we would fight and even risk our life for it as if we were defending our honor or name. I know well that in a matter of minutes life goes on as if none of these ever happened and yet when tempted I am ready to do it all over again. As I wrestled through this mystery, I saw the crowned winner ahead of me slowing down on my right and just when I passed him there went off his disgruntled (or triumphant?) horn. The nerve of the brute! I was amazed at his protest, feeling my blood running hot again and it just hit me with a new-found revelation: My playmate in fact was more bothered than me! That realization for some reasons brought me comfort instantly. I am back to myself, or should I say: my time and my dignity, while he is still there – 5 years old, whining and gloating, not ready to move on.

Perhaps, just perhaps, I have won this round after all?

turkey or no turkey?

2009-11-24T08:08:00.000-08:00

Almost thanksgiving – one more day to go and there will be turkey, gravy and sins and indulgence of all kind to last all day long and even afterwards. For two years since our move back to old VA after 6 years of exile in NH, our Thanksgiving was so tragically marred that it was hardly anything worth giving thanks. The first year was in our rental townhouse waiting for our new home to close. Since we were living off the suitcase with all our possessions in the storage, it seemed logical to downsize the menu to chicken, store bought stuffing and mashed potato. At 7pm, the chicken was merely halfway done, so we went on with our "feast" on stuffing and potato alone. The next year we charged back with vengeance and a real deal, the turkey, hoping to recover from the shameful defeat of the previous year. At 7pm the turkey was still undone. There is nothing more deflating and unappetizing than a turkey running in pink fluid, thus another year of birdless thanksgiving with nothing festive except for mile piled shame.

We have had some memorable and successful thanksgivings. I couldn’t help wondering what went wrong: the bird or timing of the bird? Why is thanksgiving defined by turkeys when we aren’t even crazy about it? Looking back, those successes were tagged with the presence of friends and families, and yes, the stupid bird too. So maybe it is not about the turkey? Still, I remember a couple of times when we tried to contradict the tradition by substituting turkey with other alternatives, one of them being everyone’s favorite, Chinese dumplings, and as delicious as they were it didn’t make it on the memorable list. Rebels we may be at times, we always return to that mysterious bird after straying.

For a small family of 4 with barely a handful of extended families left or nearby, Thanksgiving, like Christmas, is a perplexing question of not only “turkey or no turkey” but also “friends or no friends”. The answers seem to be obvious and yet we struggle every year like fools that suffer from short-term memory loss. There is fun and good food when two (turkey and friends) are combined and yet it comes with a price tag of the loss of aloneness, serenity and everything selfish. Commitment as small as a dose of half day means the loss of freedom which at times may seem excruciating that even no turkey and fun can make up for it. I can’t help thinking alone the line of the Visa commercial with a version like this: turkey dinner, yum; company of friends: fun; luxury of freedom: priceless.

So here we go again, with a day to spare, facing our enemy up close and personal: turkey or no turkey? As plain as it is, this question remains the greatest mystery of all time and shall continue to torment us year after year.

hello world

2009-11-23T02:18:00.000-08:00

First workday of the week, first blog and first post- cliche but true. Why blogging and why now? It is so against my nature to follow the trend, a born rebel I have been all my life who resists changes and anything new. I can only conclude for now it's the writer in me that yearns to come out. The opportunity to vent from within a frustrating cubical cell in the form of safe monologue is another contributing factor. Did I mention I am cautious? Impulsive too, which sounds illogical, but then again that is totally the story of me or my life – struggling between extremes, searching for compromise (and failing miserably).

First off: why Benjamin Button? Certainly I am not at all looking younger everyday; in fact I am at a stage of doing exactly the opposite and fighting hopelessly with aging as most vain people do. It’s the “living backwards” that brings me and Benjamin together. Most people follow the pattern of schools, jobs, marriage and children, while I may have similar pattern with schools and marriage, but the job thing is definitely out of sync. After 20 years of staying at home for children and family, I am back on the horse with this “career” thing. Even that, I know I am not unique - plenty enough people have done that, but 20 years of absence in the IT/Computer field is another ball game. After one and half years of “adjusting”, I am still adjusting. Benjamin fought with his external, physical “out-of-sync” and I with my internal difference, the skills and the ability to learn. He faced his daemon with a world moving the other direction in “growing old” while I with my 20’s, at most 30’s, colleagues that seem at times total aliens in many ways such as experience, culture and values. My 20’s and 30’s days besides being young have nothing in common with theirs. I wonder at times if my parents’ generation ever struggled with the same realization at their time as i do with mine.

A very quiet Monday before Thanksgiving – Many people have already taken off to make it a full week of vacation. Being one of the new employees with little time to spare for vacation, I will be here till end of day Wednesday. For me, that is vacation: half of the colleagues gone means extra parking spaces and peace and quiet. I can feel the calm inside of me already even without the help of my 60’s oldies. It is indeed the drudgery Monday, but I am excited. I am almost horrified to realize that I want these three days to drag on forever…. My ears are still ringing the tune from the Christmas caroling this morning “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow”, except my lyric is: ” let it last, let it last, let it last”.

So hello world, meet your new Benjamin! May your pre-Thanksgiving days be as jolly as mine and may you be blessed by the unusual dose of serenity from this forever restless soul in the jail of cubical 20.