(from a very good friend.)
I think one of the most universal human experiences is feeling alone. You'd never know it, but there's most likely tons of people feeling the exact same way. Maybe because you're feeling abandoned. Maybe because you realise that you aren't as self-sufficient as you thought you were. Either was, when you hit that low point, you have a choice. You can either wallow in self-pity...Or you can suck it up. It's your call.
To most people, it might have seemed that nothing had changed. But it had a little.
It's about the day I realised that admitting we're not heroic is when we're most heroic of all.
JD,
Scrubs
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Saturday, December 01, 2007
a boy broke my heart last thurday. a little boy.
it was at the airport. there were so many people there. especially japanese. there was a bunch of college boys. i think they were flying home to tokyo and they'd just ended an exchange programme here. i was overwelmed by their presence because there were so many of them there. they seemed to exude some kind of superstar aura. i wanted to walk up to one of them to ask to have a picture taken. Alas, i was too shy.
i had just had a cup of hot milo with my mom and dad and my sis and my grandma, after seeing my brother off. it was about 10 plus. there were still alot of people at the departure hall. people of different sorts. i like watching people.
then i saw him.
he was two feet tall. he came around the pillar and hid behind it, on my side, so you couldn't see him from the departure hall.
he was crying. he placed his forehead to the face of the pillar and whimpered. i couldn't hear what he was saying. . his face was in his hands and he was crying. his grandma came over and said something to him. i watched him as he went on crying...
then after a few moments, he ran in front of the pillar and towards the glass panels of the departure hall. as he ran, he cried, "Papa!" his mom picked him up. she was there already and perched him on her knees. it ached my heart to see him cry like that.
"Papa!..." his hands to the class and in that childish longing for his dad. that was my last image of him.
he broke my heart, i wanted to cry.
i want a hug.
it was at the airport. there were so many people there. especially japanese. there was a bunch of college boys. i think they were flying home to tokyo and they'd just ended an exchange programme here. i was overwelmed by their presence because there were so many of them there. they seemed to exude some kind of superstar aura. i wanted to walk up to one of them to ask to have a picture taken. Alas, i was too shy.
i had just had a cup of hot milo with my mom and dad and my sis and my grandma, after seeing my brother off. it was about 10 plus. there were still alot of people at the departure hall. people of different sorts. i like watching people.
then i saw him.
he was two feet tall. he came around the pillar and hid behind it, on my side, so you couldn't see him from the departure hall.
he was crying. he placed his forehead to the face of the pillar and whimpered. i couldn't hear what he was saying. . his face was in his hands and he was crying. his grandma came over and said something to him. i watched him as he went on crying...
then after a few moments, he ran in front of the pillar and towards the glass panels of the departure hall. as he ran, he cried, "Papa!" his mom picked him up. she was there already and perched him on her knees. it ached my heart to see him cry like that.
"Papa!..." his hands to the class and in that childish longing for his dad. that was my last image of him.
he broke my heart, i wanted to cry.
i want a hug.
Monday, November 26, 2007
i saw a man and his dad, sitting at the front of their house that day. i like these father and son moments. i wonder what they were talking about...
i haven't had a talk like this with my dad for over a year. the day i got married to my wife, my life took a different turn. not to mean anything bad, i love my wife very much. the responsibilities of married life came to me quicker than i expected. i got a promotion too, which was good and bad. i was alot busier and i didn't have the time to have proper dinners at night. i missed my wife alot during the week and we'd decide to take some time on our own during the weekends. it was only after awhile that i realised i haven't gone over to my parent's house for quite some time. my mom calls me a few times a week to check up on me and chat with my wife. i hardly talked to dad. my dad was not exactly the chatty person and it was not his habit to make phonecalls. but i sure miss sitting down with him after dinners, talking to him about everything under the setting sun. i used to do that when i was still living with my parents. my dad was quiet, but he was wise in his own way. he talked to me about life, about his childhood, about my mom and my brothers and sisters. the chances of having after dinner conversations with dad became less frequent when i started working. but i knew my dad understood.
once i moved out of the house with Dina, who was my fiance then, lots of things changed. i made an effort to go over once a week, but my dad and i hardly talked. my mom fussed alot about me and Dina. she did most of the talking through the night. my dad just sat and listen, smiling at me once in a while.
today is my dad's birthday. the whole family came. my mom cleaned the house and cooked his favourite dishes. my brothers and sisters came, some with kids, some without. each of us bringing him a present. he was beaming. its been a year since we've had a huge gathering like this.
after dinner and opening of the presents, dad took his mug and headed for the garden. the rest of the family talked and watched tv. mom was fussing around again. i walked behind dad, i wonder if he heard me coming. he sat down on the ledge at the drive way. coming from behind i planted myself next to him.
"Happy Birthday, Dad."
He smiled, "look at the sunset ahead, always makes my day."
"But the day is ending already..."
"Exactly."
Maybe...(:
i haven't had a talk like this with my dad for over a year. the day i got married to my wife, my life took a different turn. not to mean anything bad, i love my wife very much. the responsibilities of married life came to me quicker than i expected. i got a promotion too, which was good and bad. i was alot busier and i didn't have the time to have proper dinners at night. i missed my wife alot during the week and we'd decide to take some time on our own during the weekends. it was only after awhile that i realised i haven't gone over to my parent's house for quite some time. my mom calls me a few times a week to check up on me and chat with my wife. i hardly talked to dad. my dad was not exactly the chatty person and it was not his habit to make phonecalls. but i sure miss sitting down with him after dinners, talking to him about everything under the setting sun. i used to do that when i was still living with my parents. my dad was quiet, but he was wise in his own way. he talked to me about life, about his childhood, about my mom and my brothers and sisters. the chances of having after dinner conversations with dad became less frequent when i started working. but i knew my dad understood.
once i moved out of the house with Dina, who was my fiance then, lots of things changed. i made an effort to go over once a week, but my dad and i hardly talked. my mom fussed alot about me and Dina. she did most of the talking through the night. my dad just sat and listen, smiling at me once in a while.
today is my dad's birthday. the whole family came. my mom cleaned the house and cooked his favourite dishes. my brothers and sisters came, some with kids, some without. each of us bringing him a present. he was beaming. its been a year since we've had a huge gathering like this.
after dinner and opening of the presents, dad took his mug and headed for the garden. the rest of the family talked and watched tv. mom was fussing around again. i walked behind dad, i wonder if he heard me coming. he sat down on the ledge at the drive way. coming from behind i planted myself next to him.
"Happy Birthday, Dad."
He smiled, "look at the sunset ahead, always makes my day."
"But the day is ending already..."
"Exactly."
Maybe...(:
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Shmily
My grandparents were married for over half a century, and played their own special game from the time they had met each other. The goal of their game was to write the word "shmily" in a surprise place for the other to find. They took turns leaving "shmily" around the house, and as soon as one of them discovered it, it was their turn to hide it once more.
They dragged "shmily" with their fingers through the sugar and flour containers to await whoever was preparing the next meal.
They smeared it in the dew on the windows overlooking the patio where my grandma always fed us warm, homemade pudding with blue food coloring.
"Shmily" was written in the steam left on the mirror after a hot shower, where it would reappear bath after bath. At one point, my grandmother even unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper to leave "shmily" on the very last sheet.
There was no end to the places "shmily" would pop up. Little notes with "shmily" scribbled hurriedly were found on dashboards and car seats, or taped to steering wheels.
The notes were stuffed inside shoes and left under pillows. "Shmily" was written in the dust upon the mantel and traced in the ashes of the fireplace. This mysterious word was as much a part of my grandparents' house as the furniture.
It took me a long time before I was able to fully appreciate my grandparents' game. Skepticism has kept me from believing in true love, one that is pure and enduring.
However, I never doubted my grandparents' relationship. They had love down pat. It was more than their flirtatious little games; it was a way of life. Their relationship was based on a devotion and passionate affection, which not everyone is lucky enough to experience.
Grandma and Grandpa held hands every chance they could. They stole kisses as they bumped into each other in their tiny kitchen. They finished each other's sentences and shared the daily crossword puzzle and word jumble. My grandma whispered to me about how cute my grandpa was, how handsome and old he had grown to be. She claimed that she really knew "how to pick 'em." Before every meal they bowed their heads and gave thanks, marveling at their blessings: a wonderful family, good fortune, and each other. But there was a dark cloud in my grandparents' life: my grandmother had breast cancer.
The disease had first appeared ten years earlier. As always, Grandpa was with her every step of the way. He comforted her in their yellow room, painted that way so that she could always be surrounded by sunshine, even when she was too sick to go outside.
Now the cancer was again attacking her body. With the help of a cane and my grandfather's steady hand, they went to church every morning. But my grandmother grew steadily weaker until, finally, she could not leave the house anymore.
For a while, Grandpa would go to church alone, praying to God to watch over his wife. Then one day, what we all dreaded finally happened. Grandma was gone.
"Shmily." It was scrawled in yellow on the pink ribbons of my grandmother's funeral bouquet. As the crowd thinned and the last mourners turned to leave, my aunts, uncles, cousins and other family members came forward and gathered around Grandma one last time. Grandpa stepped up to my grandmother's casket and, taking a shaky breath, he began to sing to her.
Through his tears and grief, the song came, a deep and throaty lullaby. Shaking with my own sorrow, I will never forget that moment. For I knew that, although I couldn't begin to fathom the depth of their love, I had been privileged to witness its unmatched beauty.
S-h-m-i-l-y = See How Much I Love You.
My grandparents were married for over half a century, and played their own special game from the time they had met each other. The goal of their game was to write the word "shmily" in a surprise place for the other to find. They took turns leaving "shmily" around the house, and as soon as one of them discovered it, it was their turn to hide it once more.
They dragged "shmily" with their fingers through the sugar and flour containers to await whoever was preparing the next meal.
They smeared it in the dew on the windows overlooking the patio where my grandma always fed us warm, homemade pudding with blue food coloring.
"Shmily" was written in the steam left on the mirror after a hot shower, where it would reappear bath after bath. At one point, my grandmother even unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper to leave "shmily" on the very last sheet.
There was no end to the places "shmily" would pop up. Little notes with "shmily" scribbled hurriedly were found on dashboards and car seats, or taped to steering wheels.
The notes were stuffed inside shoes and left under pillows. "Shmily" was written in the dust upon the mantel and traced in the ashes of the fireplace. This mysterious word was as much a part of my grandparents' house as the furniture.
It took me a long time before I was able to fully appreciate my grandparents' game. Skepticism has kept me from believing in true love, one that is pure and enduring.
However, I never doubted my grandparents' relationship. They had love down pat. It was more than their flirtatious little games; it was a way of life. Their relationship was based on a devotion and passionate affection, which not everyone is lucky enough to experience.
Grandma and Grandpa held hands every chance they could. They stole kisses as they bumped into each other in their tiny kitchen. They finished each other's sentences and shared the daily crossword puzzle and word jumble. My grandma whispered to me about how cute my grandpa was, how handsome and old he had grown to be. She claimed that she really knew "how to pick 'em." Before every meal they bowed their heads and gave thanks, marveling at their blessings: a wonderful family, good fortune, and each other. But there was a dark cloud in my grandparents' life: my grandmother had breast cancer.
The disease had first appeared ten years earlier. As always, Grandpa was with her every step of the way. He comforted her in their yellow room, painted that way so that she could always be surrounded by sunshine, even when she was too sick to go outside.
Now the cancer was again attacking her body. With the help of a cane and my grandfather's steady hand, they went to church every morning. But my grandmother grew steadily weaker until, finally, she could not leave the house anymore.
For a while, Grandpa would go to church alone, praying to God to watch over his wife. Then one day, what we all dreaded finally happened. Grandma was gone.
"Shmily." It was scrawled in yellow on the pink ribbons of my grandmother's funeral bouquet. As the crowd thinned and the last mourners turned to leave, my aunts, uncles, cousins and other family members came forward and gathered around Grandma one last time. Grandpa stepped up to my grandmother's casket and, taking a shaky breath, he began to sing to her.
Through his tears and grief, the song came, a deep and throaty lullaby. Shaking with my own sorrow, I will never forget that moment. For I knew that, although I couldn't begin to fathom the depth of their love, I had been privileged to witness its unmatched beauty.
S-h-m-i-l-y = See How Much I Love You.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Footprints in the Sand
One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord.
Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky. In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand. Sometimes there were two sets of footprints, other times there was one set of footprints.
This bothered me because I noticed that during the low periods of my life, when I was suffering from anguish, sorrow or defeat, I could see only one set of footprints.
So I said to the Lord,
“You promised me Lord, that if I followed You, You would walk with me always. But I have noticed that during the most trying periods of my life there have only been one set of footprints in the sand.
Why, when I needed You most, You have not been there for me?”
The Lord replied, “The times when you have seen only one set of footprints in the sand, is when I carried you.”
-Mary Stevenson, 1936
One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord.
Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky. In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand. Sometimes there were two sets of footprints, other times there was one set of footprints.
This bothered me because I noticed that during the low periods of my life, when I was suffering from anguish, sorrow or defeat, I could see only one set of footprints.
So I said to the Lord,
“You promised me Lord, that if I followed You, You would walk with me always. But I have noticed that during the most trying periods of my life there have only been one set of footprints in the sand.
Why, when I needed You most, You have not been there for me?”
The Lord replied, “The times when you have seen only one set of footprints in the sand, is when I carried you.”
-Mary Stevenson, 1936
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