Solid ground

It's easy to envy when other people walk on something solid. That there's a firm belief in something, a firm grounding in some value, that causes them to stand and smile. That they can smile and chime "hello" and have something sturdy to return to. That they've built a home, hammered in the nails.

When you are alone and the voices and nails and beliefs of other people fall away like dried flakes of skin, you see that you were nothing but a plastered patchwork of everyone else. When these patches fall away you are full of holes, and inside you is empty.

Even waves of overwhelming sadness is substance. Substance keeps you existing. If you can feel- if you have words- if you are hit with sheets of pain- you are still full. When you are angry, you are full. When you have treasure troves of knowledge that mean something personal to you. You are full. Being full fills you up with substance, whether sunshine or water or blood. What's difficult is being empty.

In your heart there is a hole. That hole transcends the world and realm that you know; you bleed into outer space. If you look closely into the hole you see galaxies far far away. Lots of empty space - darkness - weightlessness - if you are caught off-guard, it sucks everything out of you, a vacuum. Somewhere in your heart the loneliness of the universe, the blank space and the infinite emptiness, the nothingness calls out in grief to you. A gaping nothing. When you live in perspective of that emptiness, trudging through the day is hard. Doing things is hard, because everything is empty, as you are.

It's not a strong emptiness. Anything that's strong is substance. It simply is, and you can stuff the hole with things that look meaningful or things to help you cope but the hole sucks away and remains ever there. In perspective of it you are hollow.

the earth cracks and gives way to water

It comes creeping up at you again, as you lie on the couch reading an unbearably dense scholarly study on new religious movements. It knocks first, a small tickle at the little crevice in your heart, an invitation. And as soon as you look in its direction it gushes out of its corner in all eagerness, a tsunami that floods your mind. Memories of hands held, of heads on shoulders, of the eternity of a gaze. Of cooking together, cutting the onions and carrots and broccoli, of the outline of his back as he washed the dishes. Of wind in hair as you sat on the ledge and watched the night. Of the shape of his calves. You drown, helpless. The security of your head against the crook of his neck. On day one you cried. Now the heart is spent, too scared to let itself tremble, too tired for tears. An exhausted sailor washed ashore. You let the waves have their way.

On Death

I've watched and read every eulogy of the late Mr. Lee Kuan Yew that has been recorded over the past couple of days - albeit with varying degrees of attentiveness. PM Lee Hsien Loong's eulogies (at the funeral service, especially the meditation bit, and at the private cremation ceremony) were extremely poignant, but I think the most touching eulogies were by Lee Hsien Yang (particularly at the private cremation ceremony, followed by the one at the funeral service.)

I have dreamt about my death twice before. The first was when I was young; I had died in the lift of my HDB apartment, my soul floated away from my body and I watched from above as my mother cried over my lifeless body. The second time was a year back? - I dreamt that I only had two days to live, and I spent the time not rushing to meet people, but simply writing many letters. Mum came to me and said "You know what's going to happen, right?" and I simply nodded, at peace.

The annoying fact about death is that it's never just about you. I often say I don't mind dying now if I had to, but I'm often more afraid of others leaving my life. I'm not particularly close to my parents or brother, and I don't even live at home now, but I cannot imagine losing them. I'd probably be in denial for a long time, with bouts of eternally dark pits hitting my heart every now and then, throwing me into inner chaos, before I pull myself back out into denial. Not denial as in believing they're still alive, but it'd take a long time to register that I will never see them again in this lifetime, and possibly forever.

Imagine tying your soul to another's. Your lives join; you vow to live as one. He is your most intimate refuge, your pillar, the hope that covers you, heart of your heart. One day he leaves to get the week's groceries, or goes to meet an old friend. Hours tick by. The sky is dark. Then you get a call, but not from him, and never from him again, ever.

How would you react to seeing a close friend, or your partner, or your family member, lying lifeless in an emergency hospital bed? Maybe I would scream, or shut my eyes and shout angrily. I use sound to drown out reality - when the terrifying fire alarm rings, I scream and cry as loud as I can to drown out the alarm. When I'm walking somewhere dark and quiet, or when I'm haunted by a scary thought, I sing to myself. I probably would hug them and not let go. Letting go means letting go forever. As long as I can still touch their skin, hold their hand, they are still with me.

Then again, I've never been particularly sad at goodbyes, because I've never had to say goodbye forever to something close to me. My friends cried the day we stepped down from the Students' Council, the place where I found home; but I was like "hello, tomorrow we're still all going to sit by the bleachers in the morning. Goodbye is goodbye only when we let it be so." And we have photos and videos and vivid memories. More often, we let people die in our hearts before they actually die. There are just too many people to keep up with, and life goes on.

I often treat breakups like death, and they are in a way. He will never again be the him you knew. You will never again get to hold his hand, or sit with him in the same way. Those memories will always only remain memories. Soon you both become different people.

Perhaps I trivialise it. I've never known the death of a close one. A friend recently almost committed suicide, and I was one of her closest friends, and I had all the power to stop it. I hadn't paid attention to the signs - if only I had bothered to ask how she was doing, paid her a visit, and not be so caught up in my own selfish to-dos. If she had committed suicide in the end, I wouldn't know how to deal with that guilt.

Singapore's founding father, the man who turned the country from a dismal third-world state to one of the world's most prosperous nations in fifty years, died last week. I've never seen him in real life, and I'm not particularly sad about his death, and I don't agree with all he's done, but I am immensely appreciative of where he got us, and of his strength of character. A role model not just for us, but for other, bigger, more powerful nations. A few friends and I attempted to visit the Parliament House on Thursday at 4a.m., but it seemed that the whole of Singapore had that same idea, and the queue's waiting time was 10 hours - we would have to miss a few classes, and Lee Kuan Yew wouldn't have wanted that, would he? I was amused at our national, collective kiasuness. He had built that in us, too. At the same time, we didn't really need to see him - all one had to do was to wake up in their bedrooms, take the train, go to school, appreciate the safety of our streets, to pay tribute.

A friend shared this poem on her Facebook status that I thought was incredibly apt for Mr. Lee's death and Singapore:

Do not stand at my grave and weep 
I am not there; I do not sleep. 
I am a thousand winds that blow, 
I am the diamond glints on snow, 
I am the sun on ripened grain, 
I am the gentle autumn rain. 
When you awaken in the morning's hush 
I am the swift uplifting rush 
Of quiet birds in circled flight. 
I am the soft stars that shine at night. 
Do not stand at my grave and cry, 
I am not there; I did not die. 

- Mary Elizabeth Frye

The story of humanity

"On the day you were born, no one cared about you. No one had the slightest interest in you; no one pitied you or cared for you. On the day you were born, you were unwanted, dumped in a field and left to die.

"And when I passed by you and saw you struggling in your own blood, I said to you in your blood, 'Live!' Yes, I said to you in your blood, 'Live!' I made you thrive like a plant in the field; and you grew, matured, and became very beautiful. And when I passed by again, I saw that you were old enough for love. So I wrapped my cloak around you to cover your nakedness and declared my marriage vows. I made a covenant with you," says the Sovereign LORD, "and you became mine."

"Then I bathed you and washed off your blood... I gave you lovely jewellery, bracelets, beautiful necklaces, a ring for your nose, earrings for your ears, and a lovely crown for your head. You ate the finest foods- choice flour, honey, and olive oil- and became more beautiful than ever. You looked like a queen, and so you were! Your fame soon spread throughout the world because of your beauty. I dressed you in my splendour and perfected your beauty," says the Sovereign LORD.

"But you thought your fame and beauty were your own. So you gave yourself as a prostitute to every man who came along. Your beauty was theirs for the asking. You used the lovely things I gave you to make shrines for idols...In all your years of adultery and detestable sin, you have not once remembered the days long ago when you lay naked in a field, kicking about in your own blood.

"In fact, you have been worse than a prostitute, so eager for sin that you have not even demanded payment. Yes, you are an adulterous wife who takes in strangers instead of her own husband. Prostitutes charge for their services- but not you! You give gifts to your lovers, bribing them to come and have sex with you.

"Because you have poured out your lust and exposed yourself in prostitution to all your lovers...I will give you to these many nations who are your lovers, and they will destroy you... They will strip you and take your beautiful jewels, leaving you stark naked.

"I will give you what you deserve, for you have taken your solemn vows lightly by breaking your covenant. Yet I will remember the covenant I made with you when you were young, and I will establish an everlasting covenant with you."


Verses taken from portions of Ezekiel 16. Everything's from the NLT except verses 6 and 7, which were taken from the NKJV.

Lee Hsien Loong's eulogy to LKY, on meditation

(Please forgive the quality and background noise; I screen-recorded this part of the speech from Channel Newsasia's Youtube screening of Lee Kuan Yew's funeral.)

Transcript taken from Channel Newsasia.


"After my first wife Ming Yang died, my parents suggested that I tried meditation. They gave me some books to read, but I did not make much progress. I think my father had tried it too, also not too successfully. When his teacher told him to relax, still his mind and let go, he replied: “But what will happen to Singapore if I let go?” 

 When I had lymphoma, he suggested that I try meditation more seriously. He thought it would help me to fight the cancer. He found me a teacher and spoke to him personally. With a good teacher to guide me, I made better progress. 

 In old age, after my mother died, my father started meditating again, with help from Ng Kok Song, whom he knew from GIC. Kok Song brought a friend to see my father, a Benedictine monk who did Christian meditation. My father was not a Christian, but he was happy to learn from a Benedictine monk. He even called me to suggest that I meet the monk, which I did. He probably felt I needed to resume meditation too. 

And to give you some context, this was a few months after the 2011 General Election. I was nearing 60 by then, and he was nearly 90. But to him I was still his son to be worried over, and to me he was still a father to love and appreciate, just like when I was small. 

 So this morning, before the ceremony began at Parliament House, we had a few minutes. I sat beside him, and I meditated."

(pause. Lee Hsien Loong takes a drink of water. Members of the audience dry their eyes.)

Israel's Conquest

On Israel's conquest of the Old City of Jerusalem in 1967:

"'I stood there in the place where the High Priest would enter once a year, barefoot, after five plunges in the mikveh,' he remembered later. 'But I was shod, armed, and helmeted. And I said to myself, 'This is how the conquering generation looks'.' The last battle had been fought, and Israel was now a nation of priests; all Jews could enter the Holy of Holies. The whole Israeli army, as Rabbi Cook repeatedly pointed out, was 'holy' and its soldiers could step forward boldly into the Presence of God."

Karen Armstrong, "Jerusalem"

a valentine

we will not tire our facebook friends with so much as a picture. we will not have expensive valentine’s day dinners in fancy restaurants. we will spend the special days at hawker centres. we will eat out of takeout boxes by the riverside. we will cook our own food and lie in the grass with tupperwares. we will go on long free walks and sneak into hotels to marvel at their toilets. climb over fences and stalk random people to their apartments. free thrills. bring a guitar. we will spend special moments sweating and trekking and looking for old forgotten gems. a world war 2 bunker. the defunct railway station. i will drive that taxi. and you will speak philosophy. we will find it intensely difficult to understand one another. i will speak with my heart but your head will still be unable to read my heart and my heart will roll its eyes. you will go running. you will buy nicer shoes. i will buy you a pencil case. you will not shave your head. i will buy fruits. i will eat fruits. you will use conditioner.

The Anniversary & Death Be Not Proud (John Donne)

Two of my all-time favourite poems. We studied Donne's poetry for the A Levels, and I fell in love with the ideas that he puts forth in his work. The English is a bit hard to get, so perhaps I'll kind of explain it along the way, although it might ruin the beauty of it because AHH! it's so beautiful. The rhyming and all. But here they are.

The Anniversary

This poem celebrates the first anniversary of the poet and his beloved. The first stanza talks about how everything - "all kings", "all glory of honours", and even "the sun itself" - are now a year older than when the poet first saw his beloved. All these things are now one year closer to their destruction - but, in contrast, their love is timeless, and knows no age.

All Kings, and all their favourites,

         All glory of honours, beauties, wits,

    The sun itself, which makes times, as they pass,

    Is elder by a year now than it was

    When thou and I first one another saw:

    All other things to their destruction draw,

         Only our love hath no decay;

    This no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday,

    Running it never runs from us away,

But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.

The second stanza recognises that even though their love knows no age, their bodies will decay eventually. Even then, their souls will prove their love after death. My favourite bit here is when he says that even princes are mortal, and how he links he and his beloved to princes: they are royalty in one another's eyes.

        Two graves must hide thine and my corse;

         If one might, death were no divorce.

    Alas, as well as other Princes, we

    (Who Prince enough in one another be)

    Must leave at last in death these eyes and ears,

    Oft fed with true oaths, and with sweet salt tears;

         But souls where nothing dwells but love

    (All other thoughts being inmates) then shall prove

    This, or a love increasèd there above,

When bodies to their graves, souls from their graves remove.

What I love about the third stanza is the comparison of his love to royalty. He and his beloved are rulers here on Earth, being the kings of each other's lives. Since their kingdoms only have one another, their kingdoms are the safest of all, because the only people who can commit treason is each other. Since they are kings to each other, the poet encourages his wife to "let us live nobly" and add years and years to their kingship: they now enter the second year of their "reign".

        And then we shall be throughly blessed;

         But we no more than all the rest.

    Here upon earth we’re Kings, and none but we

    Can be such Kings, nor of such subjects be;

    Who is so safe as we? where none can do

    Treason to us, except one of us two.

         True and false fears let us refrain,

    Let us love nobly, and live, and add again

    Years and years unto years, till we attain

To write threescore: this is the second of our reign.

Death be not proud

As for this one, I'll attempt to do a 'modern-day translation' below.

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee 
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; 
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow 
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. 
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, 
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, 
And soonest our best men with thee do go, 
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. 
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, 
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, 
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well 
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? 
One short sleep past, we wake eternally 
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

Death, be not proud, although some have called you
Mighty and dreadful, for you are not so; 
For those whom you think you overthrow
Don't die, poor Death; nor can you kill me.
From rest and sleep, which are pictures of you,
We derive much pleasure; then from you what more must flow!
And our best men go soonest to you,
To rest their bones, and deliver their souls.
You are slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And you are forced to dwell with poison, war and sickness;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than your stroke; why are you proud, then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, you shall die.


Dammit I LOVE this guy. (as you can tell from the banner on my blog.) Thank you JC for doing Lit so well.

Islam Lessons in North Carolina

Sources: FOX News, The Inquisitr, WCTI. I know, not the best sources (like, FOX, what), but I couldn't find better ones; besides, one can sieve through all the biased stuff to get down to the facts of the news.) 

(source. Click image for larger view)

I came across a recent North Carolina controversy regarding a vocabulary lesson for high school seniors that included elements about Islam. Personally, I wish Singapore had more religious education. I wish that I knew earlier that Hari Raya Haji commemorated Abraham's sacrifice. I wish we were more aware of the beauty in our differences. It's great that students are being taught about who Muhammad was, and about what Islam really is about, in light of all the Islamophobia being triggered from the actions of extremist groups.

1. What's wrong with teaching about Islam? 

This worksheet was accused of "[pushing] the religion on students", being "Islamic propaganda", etc. A parent said “What if right after Pearl Harbor our educational system was talking about how great the Japanese emperor was? What if during the Cold War our educational system was telling students how wonderful Russia was?”

Is this lesson dangerous to national identity? The sentence completion worksheet does sound a bit pushy, but this is part of their World Literature lessons, "which emphasizes culture in literature". It's allowing the students to step into Muslims' shoes. Is that dangerous? A person who knows more is always more equipped to make informed judgments. Instead of worrying about the student getting sucked into other cultures just by knowing about them, why not dare to see how the world is beautiful in multiple ways? (And these lessons were for high school seniors - 16-17 years old. They're almost entering university. They probably aren't about to be swayed by every piece of information.)

Is the parent worried that learning about the beauty of Islam will make students sympathize with extremists? A terrible act (or even many) doesn't make its entire culture inherently bad; it's this sort of polarising that results in senseless racism and hate. Is Islam the enemy, or is extremism?

Fear is triggered by the unknown. In light of terrorism, should we condone irrational and ignorant Islamophobia, or teach people about what Islam really is? The parent's attitude is exactly what the school hopes to curb. Extremist Islamic movements doesn't make Islam an ugly religion. (If you would allow me to draw this analogy - it's a little like using Westboro Baptist Church to form your impression of Christianity.) I personally believe that it isn't religion that kills; it is people who do. People take the bits of religion that they agree with and run with it. But even if you believe that religion is the cause of these horrible events, does that make the religion not worth learning about? Doesn't it make sense to "know your enemy", to understand what exactly you're against and why?

The same parent said “I just told my daughter to read it as if it’s fiction. It’s no different than another of fictional book you’ve read.” Which part of the vocabulary guide is fiction? Muhammad's previous career? The five pillars of faith? The fact that it was an influential movement? The sentence completion worksheet is obviously an imagination-stimulating exercise, but it's a wonderful one: it invites the students to step into the world of another, to realize beauty in other cultures.

The real issue, I think, was identified by one of the students: “If we are not allowed to talk about any other religions in school – how is this appropriate?” 

2. Avoiding discussion of religious diversity

The problem is that countries and schools are shying away from religious discussion. America is largely moving away from the public mention of religion. Military personnel aren't supposed to talk about religion - when a fellow soldier is wounded, or grieving, or badly in need of something to hold on to, you aren't supposed to mention your faith even if it's the one ray of hope. Giving out religious material is banned from the classroom; public religious talk is treated with wariness. Last semester in school, we discussed how France (and Singapore) banned the Muslim headscarf in public schools, in the name of secularity. Schools seem to be avoiding religion to create an impression of sameness, so that the country can more easily forge a national identity, like as if we can't handle our differences and thus we must pretend they don't exist. I wish we did the opposite instead: teach one another about our faiths, deepen our understanding of one another, and celebrate our diversity.

In upper primary I hung out with the Indians and Malays, so I celebrated Hari Raya with ketupat and green packets, and Deepavali with curry and Bollywood movies. I watched my Indian friends dress up, flowers and oil and beautiful bangles. In secondary school, practically everyone wore saris on Racial Harmony Day. And when Nazeera dressed up in traditional Malay dress with her tudung, everyone was amazed by how mature and graceful she looked. Last semester I was so fortunate to have learnt more about the Abrahamic religions, and it's beautiful how they build upon one another.

Recently Divina showed me around a Hindu temple, and I was delighted to find a shrine dedicated to Rama, Sita and Lakshmana (we read The Ramayana in our curriculum). She invited me to receive a blessing from the priest - "would you like to experience it?" - but I didn't want to spoil the sacredness. Divina also says that her guru teaches about Jesus often, and that she loves Jesus too, and that John 3:16 is beautiful. I guess in polytheistic Hinduism, talking about Jesus as a god isn't a big problem. Above her door hangs a sign that says "Lord, Bless our Family". Every time Divina leaves the house, she touches the forehead of her guru in a photograph, and then her own forehead; it's lovely that she constantly remembers her devotion, and the source of her protection.

3. Why Islam in particular?

This bit is in response to the second half of the FOX article. Given the current political climate, it’s a great idea to get students exposed to Islam when they don’t know anything about it except from radical extremist terrorism. It'll help them form a more nuanced view of the matter, and recognize that the faith isn’t the one to be condemned, but the hate-filled murderers who use a loving message for evil. Learning about Islam is especially urgent now, more than Buddhism or Hinduism, because of the extremist movements. You don’t want a hate war ensuing from ignorance. A huge proportion of people don’t realise that Allah is also the Jewish and Christian God, and that Jesus is also revered (albeit only as a prophet) in Islam. How different would our feelings and fears be towards Muslims if we were more educated about Islam? (It would be great if Judaism and Christianity were discussed more too, of course, but I’m guessing the school assumes that the students know far less about Islam than the other two.) It’s a great idea that the school is getting the students to understand the religion for what it really is.

Good job North Carolina. I’m glad students are being taught something important. Maybe it wasn't taught in a tactful way; I hope that with refinement, the curriculum will be more publicly approved, not taken away altogether. Then we'll have fewer people who are irrationally afraid of the religion and its people, or who ignorantly condemn Islam, because of the actions of extremists.

amor vincit omnia

In fact, you are right: Love does conquer all. But lesser loves submit to greater loves. The greatest Love stands, an undefeated tower; in its light all other loves stand or crumble.

Stars

I am in a Greyhound bus on the way to Orlando, and I am looking at the night sky. There is no other car on the road, no streetlights, only a short constant row of dark trees blocking the horizon. The sky is almost all there is outside my window. I am looking at a drape of black spotted with stars like splotches of paint, so bold, so clear. And even here, as on the wall of my dorm room, Orion the hunter watches over me. 

Jupiter creeps out over the row of trees, and with my Sky Safari app (thank you Prof. Penprase and Cosmic Origins!), I learn some new stars: Procyon from the Canis Minor constellation, and the heads of the Gemini twins. The entire time I am thinking the heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands. Look at His beautiful handiwork all the way out there, and also consider His handiwork in us. 

Occasionally a series of super bright streetlamps come barging their way in, and the stars give way. Or a few cars with bright headlamps, or a little rest stop. When the fierce human lights command their power, the black is just black; the stars knowingly take a step back. I try to close my eyes, get some sleep, but the stars are still whispering. 

It is dark again, and the stars reappear. Hello, home. 

God's Transformation, feat. Nick & Ivan

(I'm not supposed to post the (beautiful) photos we took at the wedding yet, so here's a picture from yesterday at World of Coca-Cola featuring an unsuspecting Nick and cheeky Ivan, who had tricked him into trying the Zimbabwean drink that, according to Nick a few seconds after this photo was taken, tasted like medicine.)

--

So I'm with the cousins in Atlanta to attend my aunt's wedding (congrats!), and today I learnt that Nick now leads a youth cell group, and he's been receiving training from his youth pastor. At the wedding today (in a cabin in the woods; it was incredible) Nick and Ivan were talking about Ravi Zacharias and Tim Keller and understanding apologetics and all the things we all still didn't know, yet knowing that it was important to "always be prepared to give an answer...for the hope that you have" (1 Pet 3:15).

They're both eighteen now, and the whole time I was amazed at how different they are from the Nick and Ivan I once knew. Like, you have well-behaved children, and then you have really bad ones. Once upon a time Ivan and Nick were just...people you would never come close to associating with the "good Christian kid".

I remember the year I noticed Ivan's stark transformation from a terror of a child into a gentle, loving, quiet preteen. 2009: I was 16, he was 13. I mean, he was quiet. I was like, woah, dude, I don't even know you anymore. And he told me that at church camp the previous year, he and his older brother Ian had encountered God in a very tangible way for the first time. I guess the transformation was more dramatic in Ivan because Ian had always been the better-behaved kid, but that marked the start of their lives in Christ. Whenever Ian messages me to clarify or challenge something I said on Facebook regarding Christianity, I am reminded again of the work that God is doing in him, and that only God brings us to desire to know Him. While Ian's the more word-focused, "is this biblically founded or not" type of Christian (reminds me of Kenneth the Yale-NUS DF heh), God's work in Ivan is more evident in his relationship with Him and the grace and love that he shows to others, I think.

And I guess I only realised the change in Nick on this trip. I see Nick very rarely, and I had a pretty bad impression of his fourteen-year-old character, to say the least. I noticed it this time: courteous, helpful and obedient to his parents, not distasteful in his jokes (but still hilarious), genuine, not a single swear word. He was talking about his challenges as a youth leader, and the kids whom he really cares for and whom he'd love to see grow up; his difficulties in answering their questions or helping them with their problems, that motivate him to read up more, question more, understand his faith better.

"It's 24/7", he said, and that pretty much sums up my experience leading CF, too. It's a 24/7 job. As a church or ministry leader people somehow seem to expect you to be flawless like God, and you often trip up with a slip of the tongue, or a graceless act, or just about anything when people scrutinise and judge you that way.

It's tiring, and it often feels unfair. "Hey, you don't judge that Christian when he does this, why judge me." Once I poured it out to Yixuan and Baoyun in frustration. Frustration that I had to set higher standards for myself, when it might not even be a sinful act but could be judged to be so. Frustration that I always felt judged, like I lugged about an iron chain of watchful eyes 24/7. And then Yixuan said "but isn't it a wonderful thing to be able to represent God?" That sentence changed the way I saw everything.

Looking at my cousins, I'm also reminded of Theo, and how much he has changed since really coming to Christ around this time last year. Just in one year, he has become such a different person, so selfless and so thoughtful for other people, so helpful, so gracious in speech and thought, so anxious to live out a close relationship with God. It's incredible to witness. And I wonder if people see the change in me. I see the inward change in myself, in my thoughts and decisions and motivations, but I wonder if people who've known me through the years can also see God's work in me this tangibly. I don't think so. I mean, I wasn't a very good fourteen-year-old either, but I think I was a somewhat decent kid. And I still say 'shit' and 'damn' very frequently, and I very often forget to be graceful or reflect Christlikeness in my speech. And I'm a pretty awful child to my parents. I'm sorry, Mum and Dad, that you guys think I cannot stand you guys and would always rather be somewhere else and won't listen and will always do things my way. I was eating Sun Chips on my bed and Mum said "You know, I don't know if I should make you eat better food or just let you learn for yourself, because it's so bad for you and you'll come to see the effects one day", and I didn't say anything because I didn't know what to say, and I continued eating my Sun Chips because well the packet had to be finished anyway and I knew that once the school semester started again I'd go right back to eating junk, so why pretend? And then I thought "I'm probably a terrible child." But then, also, "will I ever please my parents?", and then, "does any child ever fully meet their parents' expectations?"

Anyway, now I'm rambling.


(I never actually try to end a post properly eh, must be a subconscious rebellion against all the pretty concluding paragraphs I try to squeeze out when I write essays)

"No, you know what? Let's talk about Kong Hee."

They say that the thing you see when you look into the mirror is your insecurity. Your fat thighs, maybe, or your acne, or your eyes that will never be pretty no matter how hard you try, or your race or sexuality. On a typical day I look in the mirror and see a City Harvest Christian. I have good reason to feel socially insecure as a Christian, and especially as a CHC-goer. Everyone judges you for being a CHC-goer, including other Christians; or at least that's how I felt for the longest time. "Oh my god, the china wine church" "Oh your pastor pocketed the money?" "Everyone's queueing up to give money to your pastor" "You all got the Greece trip? Your church bribed the school ah?" "All these biblically-shallow, feel-good worshippers" "Prosperity gospel" etc. I thought it was miraculous that people accepted me as the CF leader. This must be somewhat similar to how a homosexual pastor might feel.

I don't see the need to justify myself, or my church, or anyone. The church's been publicly shamed for longer than I've been in it. I do take the stand that my church is as sound in its main theological beliefs as any other church, and there is nothing fundamentally wrong with its mode of worship, etc. But my membership does not mean that I fully adopt the complete City Harvest identity as my own identity, just as how my passionate and steady commitment to Yale-NUS doesn't mean I fully take its identity as my own. City Harvest is a place where I feel free to worship and learn to develop my relationship with God; beyond than the immediate institution, I am first a Christian.

Besides, I also don't think it should be necessary for me to completely reject the ways and beliefs of my church - "I go there, but I don't agree with any of it" - in order to feel socially accepted. This church guided me in my journey with Jesus; without it, I wouldn't have known God like I now do. Yes, I don't drink it all in; not all of what I believe is from the church; I disagree with the ways in which they present certain things, and - well - unlike many Christians (enough to get me extremely frustrated and worried), I am very much for evolution, as much as the average non-Christian. But I owe a great deal to this place.

Also I have come to be very frustrated at the self-righteousness of many demeaningly cynical non- or anti-Christians. Oh, look at those opiate-addicted religious people, naive, unquestioning, just buying these lies. Look at this City Harvest, the thousands of stupid sheep just buying it all in. Maybe it is my insecurity, but I often feel like people try hard to continue being nice to me upon finding out which church I belong to. Oh, this sad girl. I hope she doesn't give money to the church.

I'm not giving anything, any devotion or defence or money, to a human being. And this is why I will neither defend nor demean my pastor and his wife, but I ask that, like I do, like Jesus does, you do not judge. I ask that you do not mock him, because are you more righteous than a God who will never deride a sinner? More righteous than a God who will cry for our sins, cry for the heartbreak that we inflict upon ourselves? I am a human being, and I too try not to judge. I think the basic thing we can do is practice respect and acceptance, instead of laughing at a person. Today I was invited to watch a series of videos of supposedly deranged people doing embarrassing things in public, like stripping naked in a station or wailing uncontrollably at losing a flight or picking a fight in a bus. Was I supposed to laugh? What if the person in the video, or a deranged person I encountered in the streets one day, was someone I knew, someone who had a pleasant demeanour in secondary school but who possibly got very stressed out when she started working at a law firm, and lost it all one day? Would I find it funny then?

I find it uncomfortable to be around people who practice derision, or a self-righteous sort of compassion, or arrogance that assumes a higher ground, that assumes we can save ourselves because our hearts are so good, or that those who believe in anything beyond are too naive, not enlightened like you are. Right now, halfway around the world from Singapore, I miss the gentle, all-loving respect and humility that I could easily find in those around me, in Christians and non-Christians alike. Humility is something rare and precious, something we all need to be whacked in the head to remember from time to time.

I don't think this post makes much sense. I'm just typing.

Perfectly Normal

At the institute of mental health, an old woman meets her husband clad in a pale blue uniform. He is in a wheelchair; she takes the bench. She lays out a small spread of packed food - bee hoon, chicken rice, curry. They share their lunch in silence, make home of whatever they have.

 At the institute of mental health a pretty girl who looks slightly older than me holds her bible close. She is quiet, mousey; she retreats to a corner and reads and reads and reads the bible. The way she walks reminds me of how I walked through the school corridors once, for two weeks in 2012; as if caught in a trance, a zombiefied version of luna lovegood, shrouded with an aura of grief. She will not talk to you. Behind me an old man brings food for his wife. they are having a casual chat in dialect, probably hokkien; she’s just digging into the food and talking and talking about what people did and said and he has his food in one hand, he looks at her, smiles and grunts in affirmation, leans back against the wall.

"These two girls, early in the morning they’re singing the national anthem, it’s so funny. And you see all these people just stripping out of nowhere. Like nicki minaj but not hot. But it’s really sad that there are some people here who are fine, but they express themselves differently, but society deems what is right and normal and they don’t fall within that spectrum.

“Here nobody will judge you. You can sing to yourself or twirl your hair the whole day and they will just smile and acknowledge, you're okay. Everyone knows that everyone has gone through something terrible that brought them here, they are all good people but something happened that made them this way. Here we all understand that.”

A woman is banging furiously on the door. Threatening them to let her into the meeting area. Shouting with a passion. A soft electronic beep, she storms in, a torrent of the food so bad they don't let me go out i cannot see my family. I look around at the double-enforced window grills and the pale yellow hospital concrete walls and the complete lack of natural scenery and the doors you cannot open without a staff pass and I think,  I would be just as enraged if I had to live in an environment like that, and then they would simply prescribe me a longer observation period. The woman shouts about having a settle to score with the nurses. "Don't be a coward ah, hide in the glass box. You want to fight you come out and fight lah. I not scared. My father is a policeman. Although my parents are not alive."

The old man has left, but his wife is still talking.

city night

i fall asleep comforted by the stars of lit bedrooms, students at their desks. they watch over me. the glow-in-the-dark Orion on my wall is my guardian. i fall asleep to the hum of aircon vents and the occasional song of traffic. the city is omnipresent.

You have not loved;

you have not known the way your heart expands beyond the ribcage to fill every fibre of your body, the way the world stops at the slightest touch. You have not understood the emptiness, the unwholeness when you are not held, the arms that ache. You have not understood the desire to simply sit and be with, to rest, to feel at home tucked into the embrace of another; to breathe together; to hear nothing but breath and heartbeat. The way your soul simmers into white tranquility. You have not understood the way the universe revolves around your hand in hers as you both observe, learn fragility. Incomprehensible beauty. You do not see the glory that has been built into this world, the mystery that puts a filter over your eyes that you cannot see anything for what it is, she becomes your world, and because of her the world is beautiful, all the curiosities of the human condition encapsulated in your first kiss.

You have not let all your treasures and insecurities fall to the floor in a careless heap, you have not put everything you live for into cupped hands as an offering, all that you once worshipped now worthless in the light of greater beauty. You have not allowed your monsters out of the deepest darkest place, you remain afraid. You remain sealed, a Ziploc full of air, self-sufficient. Never a leak. A leak is dangerous.

You have never let yourself be abandoned to danger. The moment you realise what you have given away it will be too late. You have not let go. One day you will. One day a girl will capture you in the most curious ways, you will wonder what has come upon you, why your thoughts won't leave you alone; you will get frustrated. You will agonise. And you will give yourself away. And later when she walks away and tears off a bit of your soul you will be left with a permanent hole. And you will struggle for duct tape but you will leak. And then you will be left naked and afraid.

It is important. We are human; we all have our patched-up tears; it is the condition of love. One day you will know, and you will curse yourself for your childish stupidity, you will not understand how the majestic parthenon - a temple of love - can so easily crumble. And we will all lie upon our ruins. One day then, perhaps, you will also find it in yourself to pick up the bricks again. Pristine, we are only young. We all have to break. Grow. Build ourselves from ruins.

I am an aunt

Today I went for my cousin's baby's first-month celebration.

I wore an electric blue dress. This was the second time I wore this dress - the first time I wore it was in this same house, the day she got married. My brother and I happened to be somewhat colour-coordinated again. We stood at the porch, bracing ourselves for all the aunts we were supposed to greet, and we mused about how in ten years' time, this was going to be us. In ten years' time I'd be 31 and he'd be 27, and the baby showers and weddings would be for our own friends (and hopefully ourselves). My aunt despaired that none of my cousins were going to be doctors. My family sat at a table and talked about that morality course I did and the expectations of working life. My brother and I traded stories of the week in hushed tones, away from the crowd. On the way back we shared music, Ed Sheeran and Charlie Lim.

She still looks and talks like a university student, which makes me nervous. I'm supposed to pass through this ritual, too, not too long from now. Her friends were there, other young people with babies, and I thought: will that also be us in ten years' time? My Council friends and me, my college classmates and me, gathered round in a house with our kids running into table corners and demanding to see the koi in the pond? Who the heck are we going to marry?! Roi, Welly, Abi, Emme - where will we be, and whose rings will be around our fingers? Will Alex and Geri still be together, and together for life? (Please get married, y'all are so sweet)

And will we remember these days, too, the 7ams on the bleachers sleeping on our schoolbags with our skirts too long and our hair too neat; the days we watched the football boys practice and mused about how love was a war and "we are veterans"; the days my friends skipped lunch break to hold me as I cried. The late nights in bedrooms and common lounges talking about Aristotle and morality and life; the 4ams we discussed theology and cried and prayed; the days we tried to use words bigger than ourselves, and the days we jumped on bouncing castles. The days we travelled, a bunch of schoolmates sharing our love stories in a Greek bar and lying on a Greek pavement to look at the Greek night sky. I think about New York and the first memory that comes to mind is of the night I missed my flight - me screaming falling flying towards carnival lights and Sabri laughing the most carefree laugh.

Will we look back and think of ourselves as kids? Kids trying to be all grown-up with grown-up philosophy, kids talking about Marx's fetishism of the commodity and the tyranny of bureaucracy like we understand this society, arguing for/against feminism in lengthy scribbles in the lift, kids puking in the corridor, kids falling in and out of infatuation. I have the habit of thinking of my past selves as far more immature, perhaps because I change and learn so much each year. But I also always think I'm stronger than I really am, more mature and disciplined, and I fall to the bottom and remember we are only human, we are still in many ways children.

Will we ever feel 'ready'? Will we feel ready to bring up another life, to wipe a child's ass and chide him for biting his fingernails, to explain why the sky is blue and why we should share our toys and why we cannot eat too much chocolate. Will we ever feel ready? I guess many people are never ready enough. Parents are also kids. Parents are also navigating a new world. We are always incomplete, inadequate. We will sit around cut fruits and cookies and our own children will befriend one another and we will fight with the person we're supposed to live with for a lifetime. We will throw things and words around. We will share our parenting woes and we won't know what to do. And there will come the day our children realise we are also only human, just like them. They will become disenchanted, and we will feel like we've failed.

When I'm married and my kids are teenagers will I look back at this and laugh at myself? I enjoy reading my primary school diary entries, that's for sure, and I'm quite ashamed at the weird kid I used to be but I still am one; I still say stupid things and dream stupid things. Also, I want to be a taxi driver, but I have to be at least 25. I want to travel. I hope I travel. I wonder if one day I'll be able to think of myself without deriding the immaturity of all my previous years, accept that we learn by trial and error, through elimination and scraped knees.

seven years ago yesterday

Seven years ago yesterday, I fell in love for the first time.

Well I did have that crush in primary school, which admittedly lasted longer than any of my relationships have - over three years - I even wanted to follow him to secondary school but my dad promised me a phone if I went to a girls' school. But just a crush is just a crush, an entirely different experience.

Yesterday when I woke up I was reminded of the date, and made a mental note that it'd be nice to do a post about it, but it slipped my mind, and now it's 2.33am; the day has passed so it shall be seven years ago yesterday.

Seven years ago yesterday, I was at a concert with a friend. We held hands playfully; nothing there. But something. Something. No one ever confessed or asked the other, but not too long after, we both simultaneously fell into deeper water, in tentative reciprocal "i miss you" texts and wide grins at phone screens.

Seven years ago minus two months, I lost my first kiss. We were in an elevator, the top floor of a building, the lift buttons unpressed. Suddenly the door opened without warning and a woman in heels walked in. We quickly pulled away. She pressed for the ground floor. That was the longest, most awkward elevator ride in my life. It was hard not to laugh.

Six years ago, I started to sleep with my phone under my pillow. Six years ago, I would often spend my time after school taking the bus to a house in Bishan and we would play with the dogs or play Runescape or just be with each other. It wasn't always pleasant. You see, the teenage phase is often wrecked by hormones; it's hard to leave unscathed. I was often dealing with a perpetually worried, perpetually insecure, binge-drinking self-harming victim of school bully, who would often spend our hours together just crying. Just crying. Why? Dunno. Worried about losing me. I said "stop drinking. Stop harming yourself. For me. Stop it because you love me." And it worked. And till this day I am thankful that this good thing came out of it.

Six years ago, I think, I folded 1314 straw hearts. Our birthdays almost coincided, but my present was very late, because 1314 straw hearts aren't easy. I counted them three times. Accompanied them with a glass bottle of M&Ms labelled 'happy pills', because the crying really needed to stop. (Yesterday I finally got around to buying loom bands at the market, and I made 8 bracelets. I've gotten hooked. It reminded me of all the other useless therapeutic obsessions I had, like friendship bracelets and small straw hearts. On our first year anniversary, I folded 93 paper stars with Chinese song quotes inside each one.)

Six years ago I accidentally sent a "goodnight babe" text to my mum. After that I deleted my mum's number from my phone in fear. Also, six years ago, my parents found out. They were furious. They said no. I had to let go. I tried very hard to keep from crying, but I said "I can't." And why? So much to say in response, so much to prove, and I blurted out "because I'd just die."

I hated how it came out, so childish and stupid. But what did I know, a fifteen-year-old; what did I know about keeping it cool and rationalising it out. We continued to spend every waking hour together anyway; there was never a train ride unaccompanied, a sick day without panadol at my bedside; there was never a text I had to wait for.

Six years ago, around this time, I came to church. I had gone to Sunday school as a child, but I stopped when I entered secondary school, and I prayed to the walls; never read the Bible; never let God be a part of my life; never thought about what it meant to believe. Six years ago, around this time, I first stepped into the building that is now my spiritual home. I was taken aback by how engrossed people were in worship. There was a God they knew and loved, a God whom I realised was a complete stranger to me. That night at the altar call I cried hard, out of a desire to know Him, and gave my heart to Christ.

It was very tough at the start. I was full of cynicism, questioned everything; it even got to a point where I prayed to just blindly believe. (Thank goodness God doesn't grant blindness to those who have received sight.) But as I grappled with frustrating doubts, God was also ever-present. There came the days of enthralling first love all over again. I cried at every cell group meeting, so moved by the tangibility of God. Answered every altar call, even the salvation ones. I read the Bible on the train to school and in the classroom during recess break. He gave me delight even as I questioned His word, and my own worth in Him. (Even up till last year, I didn't understand God's love. I still don't know if I do.)

And I guess as we run closer and closer to God, the things of our past selves just fall away. Or maybe the relationship just started to run dry, as so many do after a year or so. Five years ago, we began to argue every single day. No loud shouting fights, just cold exchanges. An hour later I'd be fine. But at the other end of the receiver would be endless crying, bottomless fear - it had started again. It frankly only annoyed me, and after a while, I couldn't be bothered anymore.

Five years ago, we broke up. I said "you need to learn to love yourself before you can love others."

Funny, because we seem to have switched places since. You have become a person so full of self-confidence and generous love. When I held that birthday fundraiser last year you donated $200 even though we hadn't spoken all these years. You have really learnt to love yourself. I, on the other hand, shrivelled up. You see, in that crucial teenage stage when you didn't know how to love yourself, you poured all your love on me; I never needed to love myself because you fed me with all a person needed. All that was meant to be reserved for yourself and more. When that was gone, I realised I was empty. And I have been empty ever since. In 2011 I wrecked myself over a boy, and it was my fault - I needed him in order to stand, and when he couldn't be my crutch I crumpled to the floor. Last year I clung on to a friend like my life depended on it, because it practically did. One day he said "I'm not going to support you until you learn to support yourself."

This year, I am a lot better. I have learnt to be okay with spending time alone, at least for now. I am learning to be independent; travelling and living alone have really helped. And I am treasuring the freedom of not being shackled to any person. I still don't know what it means to love myself, and I don't think I do, and I don't know if anyone can define self-love. But I'm learning to let me be enough for myself, and that's a start.


-
P.S. I still remember your phone number. I don't know if you've changed it. But somehow I feel like when you change it it'll be like a whole identity has been washed over; something tangible has disappeared; evidence cleared.

midnight weaving musing missing

i haven’t written in a while. i am in despair my creative nonfic pieces are a hot mess i don’t want to read my pieces out for goodness’ sake and there are things i were supposed to write for like i wanted to write about befriending strangers in poland and the tragic beauty of fleetingness like a rose and it is tragic it is as if he has died, as if i lived for three days, four, and a portion of me died 

damn i miss poland, but a place doesn't make an experience as much as the people; as much as watching french-rapping old men in bill piel attire (collared short-sleeved shirt and berms) over beer with jack daniel evans and isaac nam

as much as braving the rain along the riverbank and then taking shelter under a piece of glass barely big enough to cover us both as he talks about watching my favourite movie black swan on the alps and some guy getting a heart attack

and then finding ourselves in a place so dull that they put an advert over it on the map

and especially the last night and that berlin story and growing up in tanzania and oh

the castles and the churches and the cobblestone path memories are so fragile so beautiful i could cry

maybe it’d hurt too much to go back

but then i’ll just hop on another free walking tour in hope of similarly fun company - but never as good, never as good; never have i clicked so well with someone and never again

i wonder what agape will be like when it comes; we can play around with half-assed love now, the fun of the flutters, but it’s nothing. it’s a mockery of something more beautiful. how much more beautiful? will i get to know? will he have a thirst for travel, will we be explorers together, explorers of ourselves and of each other, and will we be work on farms in new zealand and at that divine pie place meliartos in athens and will we be english teachers in japan and will we own a cottage in oxfordshire. will we breathe israel and eritrea and egypt. will we target the little islands. will we explore this country’s own little islands. will we be explorers. will he laugh on rooftops and in fields with me, guitar and beer. will he also be a romantic shithead. will he not mind me being around 24/7. will we cry together and lift our sorrows up to the Lord. will we work hand in hand, two hearts as one. 

will i miss these days in dorm rooms, and the friends sleeping over. will i miss iowa with hamid (the most incredible days) and looking for fun on a dead monday night in philadelphia with sandra and chancing upon a karaoke bar and befriending the two dudes with a car. chris and alex? generic names. one of them was born in scotland and he didn't even know that their national animal is the unicorn. (one of their national animals, anyway.) will i miss amsterdam street with sabri sandra sarah, or the night these two guys tried to hit on us and we spent the entire night making them guess which countries we were from so that we could finish our beer and leave. no karaoke thanks. and i had to lie about my surname because i wasn't going to say i was a hoe. will i miss poland. i think i always will.

the first day i went on that walking tour in poland i befriended a guy from hong kong. can’t remember his name. can’t remember if he told me his name. we walked back towards the square together and halfway through he ran after a lemonade girl to try to hit on her, but she was attached. of course she was. she was absolutely beautiful. the most captivating eyes.

Other people will not heal you

"All I need is a girl" you say. You have that deep pit in your soul, people call it chronic depression but you just call it chronic loneliness; we were made to be with another, and that's all you need to solve yourself.

Listen to me: she will not heal you. If you are not enough for yourself, no one will be. For the longest time I latched on to people, clung to them because I thought they were what I needed, but then I needed more and more until I squeezed them dry while I was still left thirsting.

I never understood it when people said they needed alone time. Alone time is lonely. Restless. Purposeless. But over the week I became addicted to the tranquility that comes with being with myself. Invited my thoughts to a little tea party. And slowly I will learn to listen to them again, not shut them out with other people's voices and the noise of work. Slowly I will learn to be enough for myself. Only then can I let other people in.