Good Morning, C!

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?

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

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

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!

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

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.