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.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Vanity of vanities!
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.”
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.”
Monday, April 12, 2010
Stranger Mine
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.
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.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
The truth shall set you free
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.
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.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Pride and Prejudice
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.
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.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Molly and I
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?
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?
Thursday, March 11, 2010
It's a party!
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.
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.
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