And it itches again ...

My heart that is! No more sure of what would be more appropriate to use - soul or heart. More and more people have flung on me what looks like an accusation - I weigh my words. But what is a word if not worth its salt. No takers sadly for my sincere effort to let a word meander around my tongue, be weighed and then let out lovingly.

The itching although has nothing to do with my grief as a misunderstood soul. It is just that words are finding me again. I returned home this summer to find my neighbour gone. What stayed on were two discarded chairs on his roof. One long glance and words came out. I went on my rooftop and words tumbled out. I was fair to them. I put them down on paper and then made it a point to lose them. But that didn't help. It is like the pollen from the words have taken wings. I now want to write...and not just write but write a novel. It is funny! Funny because there is no plot, no idea and no characters. There is just a germ and that germ is making my heart itch. No more sure of what would be more appropriate to use - soul or heart.

Pat, pat, pat on the back

Many ships have come and gone by. I can tell because I never see the same lot when I take a break from staring at my computer screen. While I worked furiously at finishing my guiding course, my girl finished a year at school. While I took the next step, trusting destiny is not just pre-decided but taking a chance – I grew a year older. Somewhere along, my hands discovered the floor in my yoga practice.

By the time the first fireworks lit the skyline over the smacking new stadium, I was ready to throw my scarf in the air – to celebrate my graduation. Rest has been life - stuff cooking, acne happening, friends leaving and yoga suffering.

As I type, out of the gutters of my brain, comes out the memory of the little girl who sang at Beijing Olympics. She was pretty and she sang beautifully. It was found out later, the face was pretty but the voice was someone else’s. I have felt like this a bit over the past few months - not getting my due because somehow I am not good enough for the world to see. But today I was found out – face, voice and all. I did a tour. Not my first but my best. There was applause, happy faces, kind words and a positive feedback to the museum. I am happy. And I feel generous. Generous enough to sit over a pile of clothes and an unmade bed!

Happy Valentine's Day

Dear Ivy,

It is Valentine's Day today. It holds no meaning to me. But one V Day I would like to give you a heart-shaped balloon, a bear hug and a piece of cake I baked. The purest, meaningful and rounded love I have felt is the one you have for me. You are the dream I sometimes find written about in my old diaries. It never ceases to amaze me how different you are from your momma. And yet when you look at me with my eyes, I see myself, my words, me.

You will never remember the first time you turned around at your classroom's door, eyes distant, and said, "You go momma." You broke my heart. Momma couldn't stop crying when you said, "I sleep alone." My stick of a girl, I forgave you the moment your big eyes turned pools of uncertainty over what was wrong in being a big girl. Truth is, momma was proud of you. She was as she is when you scooter too fast, let go and raise a leg like a ballerina to relish the moment - my eagle in flight. 

Love is to give, love is to live and love is to go on. It is easy to say that while you sleep, and the house is quiet. But it is true. I love you as much as I can love. And one Valentine's, I will have a heart-shaped balloon, a bear-hug and a piece of cake ready when you wake up. 

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!