Blessed Assurance

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

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!

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?

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

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

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

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.