Humility before flexibility

I often have women in my yoga class complimenting me on my flexibility. The Miss Vanity in me lights up, while Miss Humble waves frantically, telling the mind to not forget yoga is about humility. I began my yoga practice a few years ago and have never felt happier. The mat is the only spot I can exclusively claim to be my own. It is my place to ponder, to look within, and to have a private dialogue.

Imagine if you could talk to your organs. Imagine if they could tell you - could you please readjust that walk, that standing pose, that lurch to the back when you dive down to pick an errant toy. It would hurt less. The body preens before you, and like a tailor you make adjustments.

You breathe more consciously. And in that moment the breath leads you a micro inch more towards touching the shin with your face, you realize the more you give the more you get.

Flexibility comes at its pace. It grabs the cockles of your ego and makes you see reality. And then, after years of frustrating efforts, it surprises you one sweaty day when your legs entwine to form an eagle.

Every time I hear I am flexible, I think about those days when my boobs and my girth suffocated me in shoulder stand. Through tears, toil, sweat, broken nails and aching muscles, my body deigned to sync with me. All I can say is I am grateful.

Back to books

I find it tough nowadays to write for the fun of it. Words overwhelm me. They make my eyes water and my brain shudder.

For the last three months, I have been burning the midnight oil reading and writing. I wonder where I would be if I had spent my five years at university with such dedication.  

With family and a kid, some things become a luxury. For me it is time. And the harder to get it acts, the harder I work - juggling being me, momma, wifey and a museum guide. I never knew it was in me to be interested in history. But here I am, furiously absorbing in the 32 signs by which to identify the Buddha. I love the musty silence of my museum. I am at an age where I accept my failings and my strengths. I am comfortable among the sentients of the past. Their silent demeanour draws me. They stir up my dried-up muse. I could not be a professor, but I am confident of being a history teacher – and a mighty good one.

Back to reading Buddhism’s esoteric form.

Midnight blues

The good comes with the evil. Happiness has sadness lurking in the shadows. My India visits are like these done-to-death sayings. Every year I come back home to my parents looking forward to be a kid again. And every year, I begin my holiday with lots of accusations, harsh words and hate thrown my way.

I am no longer sure about the right way to deal with it. I once believed that no one deserves shit and after slogging for a degree all those years, I was not meant to take shit. I was so wrong. I have been on both sides. I have hit back and I have endured it to the point of losing my sanity. But it has not worked. It hurts. It hurts to the point of losing faith in goodness, in people, in relationships. 

Hong Kong memorabilia - I

5/7/2010

I got into a cab and immediately regretted it. The driver was shouting, errr.. talking on the phone, and could split my delicate eardrums any second. 

I was ready to faint by the time we had snaked through the narrow Lockhart road and Luard road, and on to the Queens Road east. I recovered as we turned into the Magazine Gap road. But I sank back as the driver abandoned the usual way to Pedder Street, and raced again towards Queen Roads east. Making it to Yoga on time was looking impossible.

It was either my sulking face or exclamations of irritation that the driver began to talk to me.

I was caught off guard when he asked me - what were Hong Kongers called who opposed the Chinese government? 

As I debated whether he was an undercover, mainland-CCP agent, trying to deport me on the sly by getting me started onto an anti-commi tirade, he put brakes to my imagination. He inquired what was the correct way to pronounce 'dissident'. Whether it was dissi-dent, dizzi-dent or didd-ent.

I did my best helping him with the pronunciation, and explaining why demanding more electoral reforms was not dissidence. He cut me short as we entered Lan Kwai Fong, and tailed the taxi ahead.

The traffic on Wellington Street meant we still had some time on hand. The driver was now talking about how the French in the city said they were going to rendezvous when they could simply say - I am going to meet so and so. He now wanted to know if I knew what rendezvous meant. I gave a quick nod, asking him to turn into Lyndhurst Tearrace and stop.

As I handed over the fare, he asked me where had I learnt English. There was a line of cabs building behind us and conversation had to be cut short. As I slammed the door behind me with enough correctness, he said aloud - not many people understand these words in this city. You know your English!

Yoga at Joo Chiat

A few plants on the left, and a lone-one to the right, frame the vintage, grill-door to Anna’s white-washed studio. Unassuming like her, it is soaked in her trademark, soulful music and a light fragrance.

It is my first time here. The positive vibes immediately uplift my mood. 

A passionate teacher, and dedicated fellow-practitioners are essential to a group practice. And our yoga group is fortunate to be blessed with both. By the time we finish, I am smiling for no reason. I feel light - lightness of being :-)

Most often, I am soberly focussed in class, but tonight my mind and limbs feel an unusual sprint. If you have seen the grace in Anna’s practice, you may get what I mean. Perhaps, she had rubbed it on to me.

Ye agan

How do you kill the anger in you? You douse it with reason, dissolve it in acceptance, or rise like a phoenix from the ashes of your rage, and turn a new leaf. Three days a week for over a year, I have lied down in shavaasan, and pondered over the embers of my feeling wronged.

The year gone by

I am often overwhelmed by my life moving with the precision of an old clock. Well oiled, yet falling apart without notice. In motion like the gong but peppered with stillness, which comes when the mind drops pace to see the needle turn a minute. The meaning of my ambition has made a tectonic leap. I am just a mom on most days. Once I felt guilty about switching gears. Now I hold on to what I have come to have like rosary beads. Turning it over and over again, as I mediate before my computer screen.