04.29.08
Healing
My first memories of healing have nothing to do with doctors and hospitals. I knew that ginger chicken soup heals the cold, aloe vera cools the “heat” from wounds, and mint sticks cure headaches, when I was very little. Once, as a child, I stuffed a ball of prickly plant in my nostril and inhaled it way up into my nose. Thinking back now, I know that my father took me to the hospital and a doctor must have taken the plant out from my nose, but I have no memories of it. What I remember is that nights after the plant was taken out, I had nose bleed. I’d wake up with red, round patches on my pillow. It didn’t get better with time. I’d be playing with my siblings and cousins when a warm, salty flow of blood ooze into my mouth. So my father took me to his “master”, a medicine man (My father suffers from arthritis since he was 12. He is 52 now and just visited a specialist here in Canada who still could not diagnose his problem. I think it was the arthritis that brought my dad to the medicine man).
It was night time when we arrived at the medicine man’s place. I’d like to say that the medicine man open the door for us holding a black crow in a bamboo bird cage, and that the smell of thousands of herbs wafted in the air and consumed me, but I don’t remember much of that night. The only thing I remember is the wall of small, wooden drawers in the dark room. The medicine man opened this drawer and that drawer to pull out mysterious things. Later, we left with grounded up medicines enclosed in thin, translucent paper. I am not sure if it was because the tissue in my nose grew stronger or that the medicines worked, but my nose bleed stopped not long after my visit to the medicine man.
In some ways we make our own memories. We pay attention to the things that interest us and these things become our memories. Sometimes I think my memories and experiences make me who I am, but who I am also plays a part in what becomes my memories. Anyways, back to healing.
I watched a lot of ancient Chinese Kung Fu movies as a child. The heroes in these movies like most protagonists, face a lot of obstacles. And because these are Kung Fu movies, one of their obstacles was always getting injured so severely that they almost die. But they don’t because they are also always lucky enough to meet some one who could heal them and sometimes as a bonus, increase their Kung Fu. This was one of my favorite parts of the movies. The closed eye hero soaking in a gigantic wooden basket filled with steaming, dark, herbal soup with beautiful flower petals floating on the surface. The sweat beads fixed on his forehead and steams flowed out from his head. Later, he’d sit crossed legged on a bed with his eyes closed and the healer would sit in the same position behind him with his/her arms extended, palms pressed against the hero’s back, sending energy into the hero. I loved this method of healing much better than the modern medicine.
Something is always wrong with me and I truly believe my physical health is a direct reflection of my spiritual health. I believe all the negative thoughts I harbor of myself and others turn into toxic and make me sick. I believe that all the truth held back by my lips, my throat, my heart and swallowed into my gut make all these organs of mine suffer. I believe in a “generational” sickness. In that, all the sufferings and bitterness my ancestors had to go through are passed down to me and it’s up to me to balance it out with compassion, kindness and love. I also believe that our bodies is like our earth. If we care not for our environment, we probably don’t take care of our own bodies very well. And of all things, I believe in balance. Physical sickness is a manifestation of an internal imbalance. I really think so.
There are many kinds of balance. One that many people are familiar with is a balanced diet. But even that is kind of vague. Many people think a balance diet means to have enough vegetables (healthy food) to balance out the unhealthy food they eat. Some people aim for the health food guide to eat enough dairy, meat, vegetables, fruits and legumes. I am not quite sure what I think about a balanced diet. I can tell you that I think everyone’s body is different and therefore a balance diet for you would look different from mine. We were born different, our environment different and life circumstances different. So many factors come into the makeup of our beings that I doubt an universal diet would satisfy everyone of us.
We are all born with the wisest teachers within us, our intuition. Most of the times if we stay still and quiet enough to listen, we have all the answers. This applies to healing, too. Ask your body, what do you really need right now? and stay with it until something comes to you. I am still learning and most of the times I crawl to liquid advil to alleviate my pain, but I do believe there is another way.
Our world is in a state of imbalance and much healing is needed. I would love to soak it in a great herbal soup and make it better, but I can’t. I am going to bore you one last time with what I believe. I believe that if we could all live a balanced life and take good care of our souls, the world would heal along with us.
04.25.08
About Nothing
School has finally come to an end for now. It is really a wonderful time for me to be taking this long break: the spring is here, and cherry blossoms are covering our vancouver sky. Before moving to Canada, the only mental picture I had of the country was a snow capped mountain, and then I was shocked with the over flowing beauty of this country again and again. The cherry blossoms are one of my favorite surprises.
I haven’t been posting for awhile, or at least it feels like a long while. When school was in session, my brain was turned on and going and I found so many things to blog about. As I prepared for the last finals, I was also going on an emptying phase of being. The engine slowed down to prepare for its stop. Part of me felt quite panicky for not producing any writings (who am I if I can’t write? my ego was only too happy to cling onto this new identity), but another part of me, the wiser, calmer part of me, was at ease.
What have I been doing if I am not writing? I am going to be bold and say that I am nurturing my artistic self. I wake up after I have had absolutely enough sleep. I go downstairs, feed the dog, grab breakfast and eat it with Nina. We sit with our pjs on, talking about the most important nothings in the world. My shredded wheat turns soggy in the chocolate soy milk, my black coffee cools, and Fifi claws me desperately to get her some doggy treat to reward her for finishing her food (it is a very strange rewarding system that my father has created).
When we feel that our breakfast session has come to an end, we get ready to go out. Today, we went to DeSerres, an art supply store in Vancouver. Nina drove her red Mazada Protege, which is at its cleanest in years. It, too, is preparing for Nina’s departure to Boston. We listened to her music and I said, “the music makes your car yours because cars all look the same,” and she nodded. I looked at the gray clouds and complained that it should be sunny because my school has finished, then I grabbed Nina’s hand and bursted into tears because I realized I was happy anyways with her here.
Yesterday I drove us to west 4th. We spent an hour and a half in Banyan bookstore and left regretful that we didn’t take the whole store with us. We went into Naam after my problematic parallel parking. The steamed soy milk perked me up. We were to meet Michelle, who walked in and lit up the room, partially because her jacket sparkled but mostly because she was gorgeous.
After occupying the seats hours after we had finished eating, we had finally enough conscience to leave the restaurant and let the people lining up outside have our table. We walked to the Wired Monk (a great name for a coffee shop. I love great names. For instance, the spa Jess goes to is called Past Tense and I find it just brilliant). There was a live band performing in the coffee shop and we chatted some more.
I am now sitting alone in my room writing because Nina is composing her Buddha painting. Tonight, I am going to watch a movie with Kelvin and our friends.
I am kind of writing like Christopher, the 15-year old boy with Asperger Syndrome, from The Curious Incident of the Dog in Night Time because I had just finished reading it… I gotta start reading something else.
This post is about nothing, which is really what I always enjoy doing the most.
04.16.08
Calligraphy:Family History
My family went on a cruise trip for Christmas. It was a 21 day vacation, 10 of which we were at sea. This was good because I had moved far passed my teenage years (into my late twenties as I mentioned in the previous post) and knew to appreciate the company of my family.
I had spent a lot of time chatting with grandpa and one of the things I kept asking him about was the home he grew up in. What did it look like? Who lived with him? Grandpa was born in a wealthy family. His grandpa was a scholar, equivalent to a Ph.D nowadays. His family owned a lot of land so he had a very privileged childhood compared to most people in China. Everything changed for him when he was twelve, but that’s another story for another time. I only want to talk about the calligraphy for now.
He told me they had a guide to life written in Chinese calligraphy hanging on their wall (when he was little, everything was written in Chinese calligraphy). He had to study this writing and live according to its guidance. I kept asking more about this guide to life when my grandma overheard us talking. She said she has a friend who could write it out for me. I eagerly said, “please!” That was four months ago.
Dad came home from China two weeks ago and brought with him two pieces of writings in Chinese calligraphy for me! Grandma didn’t forget. She never forgets what her grandchildren want. One is the guide of life grandpa had in his house when he was little, the other one was a famous Chinese saying that translates as this: Be eager to walk the high mountains and rocky paths; the sea of learning is endless, ride on the boat of hardship. The other piece is much longer, I won’t bore you with the whole translation here. But to give you a taste of it, here are some lines from it: Better prepare for the rain before it comes; do not dig a well when you are already thirsty; when you want your kindness known to others, it’s not true kindness; but when you want to hide your sins, those are “big” sins… Oh, there I go butchering the writing. But hopefully I got the essence across.
Anyways, dad kindly got these two writings framed for me at a gastronomical price, so I am very grateful. I now have them hung on the walls in my room. My teachers have been asking me what I preferred to be called lately because I have been using my Chinese names on my homework. I used to avoid doing that because I didn’t want to be different and have a strange sounding Asian name but I am reclaiming my Chinese name now. There’s a theme of broadening in my life. As I reach out more in the world, I am also digging down, searching for my roots.
Titles
This is not the first time I have owned a blog. I used Xanga before, but it was more of a journal base blog. Every entry was dated and a snippet of my life offered. It was usually about some guy. I was never too motivated to write about anything else but my love life. That was me in my early twenties. It’s funny I should say this because I haven’t quite turned twenty-six yet and I am already looking back on the first five years of my twenties and thinking: How green.
I think I had the option of giving my entries titles but I hated the idea. I mean, really, how could I give a title to every little thing I had to say about how this boy made me sad and that boy made me mad? They would’ve probably all look something like this: Betrayal, or Happiness in His Bed, or The Breakup, or How Could He?!
Okay, okay. I was not that stupid, but it’s not far off.
I’d like to think that I am a little more evolved now in life, meaning I have one and boys aren’t the only thing I care about. So when I started this blog, I didn’t intend to use it as a journal, although I give myself full permission to do whatever I want with it. I wanted to write to be a writer. And along with writing, I have also realized how much I now enjoy giving my writing a title.
When I give my writings titles, I feel like I am naming my babies. I am giving the entries weight and importance. They are not anonymous. They have names and they’re here for a reason. And I love it.
I am really loving this stage of my life. I am still confused and not in any concrete sense of the world established, but I feel good. I respect myself more now and I appreciate my past. This is why I now name my writings. I acknowledge I am important and what I have to say worthy of titles.
Freckles
I have a trying relationship with the faint brown dots on my face. Once a long, long time ago, I had a face like Fion’s, porcelain and without pores. But it was not for long. As I ran around barefoot, rode my pink bike with one hand while the other held a popsicle, climbed trees, followed hermit crabs on the hot sand and dipped my feet in the cool river below, the sun painted on my face.
I could care less of the permanent markings on my face. At first they only dotted the bridge of my nose, then one hot summer morning, I looked in the mirror and saw that the brown spots had invaded both of my chubby cheeks. Oh well, I shrugged, then went catching grasshoppers. It wasn’t until one day, sitting on an aunt’s lap that I started forming my first opinion of my freckles. “What a shame,” she said looking at my face. “You have such beautiful skin, too bad you’ve got those freckles.” I touched my face and wished for the sun splashes to be gone.
They did not go away. They grew fainter in the winters and dark brown in summers. ”Freckles are angel kisses,” someone said to me once. Then another person laughed and said, “they just say that to make you feel better.” “It looks like someone spilt coke on your face,” my little brother joked. Overall, my freckles were not well received and I wished I could peel them off.
Sabrina has always been the one to tell me that she loves my freckles. But she adores me and sometimes even my farts seem endearing to her, so I often over look her positive opinions of me. Every so often, some middle age woman would say to me, “you know you can get those laser off now.”
I have never really thought about having them surgically removed. I mean, sure, they were slightly annoying when people kept commenting on how they looked bad, but overall, they had never really gotten in the way of anything. I had even fallen in love with a boy completely covered in freckles and learned to adore the dots on someone else’s skin.
But I saw this commercial one day. There was an Asian girl wearing a silky black dress, sitting on a rock by a still, ink black lake. Her face was fair and porcelain. She looked so calm and beautiful to me that I wished I looked like her. I wished I had a face that resembled the stillness of a calm lake. Instead, I looked like Pippi Longstocking with black hair.
Two days ago I attended a voice workshop. It was the first time in months that it was warm enough for short sleeves. I wore a white dress with puffy sleeves over jeans, baring my arms and a chest painted with rose. We were to eat lunch outside, so I chose the sun lit chair and sat with my feet up on it. My body rejoiced in the sun. Really, every single cell in my body danced and relaxed into a nap simultaneously. My face fair from the winter, tilted up receiving the light and I knew my freckles were just soaking every bit of it in. And I was really happy.
I think I am never going to be a calm lake. Maybe I would have moments when I resemble one, but these moments would slip away quickly. But it’s really okay. It was when I stood on the street purchasing sugar canes, when I laid stomach down on the grass, ready to catch that grasshopper, when I dipped the empty ice cream cup in a pond, scooping out tadpoles, when I biked through symphonies of cicadas hiding in the trees, that these freckles popped out. Every single one of them is evidence that I have had a wild, sun-filled childhood.
I love being in the sun almost as much as I love listening to the rain. If the sun insists on using my face as a canvas, so be it. I am at peace with my freckles today. I even love them a little.
04.14.08
Another Dream
We were staying at a hotel. I was to meet dad at 7 in a place, a mall perhaps, so I set out to take a bus. But I got on the wrong bus. It started driving away from the city into the mountains. I kept riding in the bus until it came to a stop. Everyone in the bus got out and lined up. They were all women and some were holding their babies. I followed them on a small path in the mountain. When I saw a wooden shed, we had stopped walking. I saw the woman in the front of the line, holding her baby, kneeled down. She was wearing a green scarf over her face. Then, someone from behind her shot her. Her baby fell to the ground. I had to go. I turned around walking away from the women. I walked and saw a concrete building with square holes as windows, no glass. Inside laid countless babies wrapped in pink blankets, eyes closed. I kept walking on the narrow path. Two men holding guns looked at me, and I explained, “I am not supposed to be here, I got on the wrong bus.” They let me through. And then I got on another bus with green seats. There were only two other women in the bus, both laid curled up on their seats and I did the same. When I saw dad, I started bawling. I kept crying, “The baby was splashed, the baby was splashed.”
04.11.08
Reading at The Surrey Arts Center
Awhile ago I got a letter from school and to my surprise, I was recommended by my writing profs to apply for a creative writing scholarship. Two days later I got an email from one of my creative writing teachers. It was an invitation to have an one on one appointment with our writer in residence, Charles Montgomery. Both very exciting invitations for me, but also somewhat scary. I was extremely uncomfortable in the light. For awhile I was under the assumption that I was a number, one of the many students in the program. My writing was read by only my peer editors and my teachers. When the letter came, I realized I was actually a person with a name in the creative writing program. Like I said, it was both exciting and scary.
So as I prepared for my proposal and portfolio to apply for the scholarship, I also anticipated meeting with Montgomery. He was going to read my memoir and give me feedbacks. What is he going to be like? Should I ask any questions? What if the awkward silences creep up on me?
I imagined what he’d look like. From the picture of him on the poster, he seemed like a tough guy. He had a beard in the picture and he was looking seriously into the distant sky. Perhaps he was going to be one of those cocky, macho men who thinks being rude is cool. I hoped not. So with a timid smile, I poked my head into the office where I was supposed to meet him and there he sat with one long leg over the other. He was wearing a dark forest green sweater over a blue shirt and black pants. And was he ever handsome. His blonde hair neatly trimmed, his long fingers holding my memoir and he looked up at me through two sets of magnificent long blonde lashes. With his first smile my nerves were calmed. And for the next forty five minutes he went through my memoir bit by bit, giving me advice on how to improve my writing. He was genuine, generous, kind and honest. I was a student, humble and grateful for the opportunity of learning. He crossed out lines from my memoir and told me to expand on some areas. He taught me something he learned from another writer: Write with intervals of scenes and actions and have the theme running constantly through them.
He was so down to earth and helpful that I was infinitely charmed by him. (His good looks really didn’t hurt, either). ”Are you coming to the reading after this?” he asked me. “I was going to decide upon meeting you,” I said. “Well, you better be there then! Or else I’d be offended.” I did go to his reading and had him signed his book for me. He wrote, “Keep up with your brave writing, I am a fan!”
Soon after meeting Montgomery I got an email from the head of creative writing department saying that since I was one of the nominees for the creative writing scholarship, she’d like it if I do a reading on the creative writing gala. So I nervously prepared an exert from my memoir and practiced reading it a few times to myself to prepare for my very first public reading.
I was just one big trembling nerve the entire week before the reading, but something happened the night before that gave me a little confidence booster. I had to do a presentation for my children’s lit class and after my presentation my teacher praised me for my voice. “You have such a great voice! Are you a singer?” Before meeting with Julie, I would say no, but that night I proudly gave her a definite “YES!” “No wonder! Right when you started speaking, I just had to listen to you. Your voice is so great that I want to listen to you. It really didn’t matter what you had to say,” she said. It was funny because the night before, when I was doing some homework for creative writing, I wrote the exact same thing about Yi Shu, my favorite chinese writer. These were my exact words, “I have been reading her since I was ten. It’s been almost sixteen years and I am still reading her. I’ve finally figured out why. It’s her voice! It’s that knowledgeable, wise, sarcastic, fair and loving voice she exudes that I enjoy so much. She could write about nothing and I’d still read her, for her voice alone.” What a coincidence and such a great compliment for me to receive! So with the new found confidence I gained in my own voice, I went into the creative writing gala the following night.
Firstly, I’d like to note that I have yet to meet a writer I do not like. We are all so unique in our own ways, but we share something very similar to each other. What is it? Is it our sensitivity? Is it our love for the trees, the mountains, and the old man sneezing by the bus stop? Is it our appreciation for words and books? I am not sure, but I knew when I stood amongst all the other budding young writers, I belonged. In this group of various ages, sizes, races and sexual preferences, I belonged. Ha!
I said hi to one teacher and she greeted me with such a huge smile. “Aren’t you gorgeous!” I felt like I was in a family reunion, chatting with my favorite cousin. “I want you to know that Charles Montgomery was so impressed by you. When I was driving him home, he told me that you were the best thing that happened to him coming to our school. He said he couldn’t believe the things that came out of your mouth.” I had my hand pressed on my chest overwhelmed. He saw me, too!
Soon after I said hi to everyone and stood along a wall in the room, the reading started. Kistie was the first to read her poems. Her voice was strong yet vulnerable. Her body moved at the tempo of her poems and I felt like crying. One after one, the writers went on stage to read their own work. They were all so good and so different. I laughed and cried, and sighed and frowned… and then it was my turn.
I was nervous. I tried writing “rice” in Chinese on my palm and eating it. It was something I learned in elementary school to calm the nerves and it seemed the right occasion to give it a try. It didn’t work. I tried being mindful of my own breathing, oh yes, I was breathing quickly. That didn’t help, either. Finally, I had to take the little walk to the stage. Behind me was a crowd of my beloved writing friends cheering for me. Very well, take deep breaths, read slowly and remember, quality requires attention, I reminded myself. Then when I stood in the front, everything became quiet. I was by myself with my memoir. I read it loud and clear. I paused when I thought I should pause. At the end of it, I looked up and again saw the people in the room. I smiled at them, took a little bow and walked back to my friends.
I didn’t get the scholarship, but it was okay. I sat there comfortably as they announced the winner. At first I thought I’d smile awkwardly like an actress waiting for the announcement of the best actress award and continue on forcing a smile when I didn’t win. But I turned out to be more graceful than I had expected. Sheila, the head of creative writing department said something about each nominees. I forgot most of what she said about me, but I remembered this part because I liked how it sounded. “Huang’s writing looms and charms.” How beautiful.
When all the readings were finished, I had to go. I had a conjee date with Kelv. A teacher walked up to me as I was saying goodbye to my friends. “I have never read any of your stuff, but you were great tonight,” he said to me. When I left the gala, my own teacher ran out to catch me. “Hsin Mei!” I thought she was leaving, too, but she said she just came out to talk to me. “I just want to tell you that you really are a great non fiction writer. You have to keep writing and one day, I will be at your book launching. I just want you to know that,” she said to me.
You know, the night before the reading I laid in my bed thinking, I have had enough of being ordinary. If there is any reason I’d want to win the scholarship, it’d be because I want to be recognized. I want the universe to tell me that I am special, give me a sign. I want the world to reflect to me what I secretly believe-I am great. And at the reading last night I got it. I got so much of it that I needed to doggy bag it. So I sit here writing this piece, partly to brag, partly hoping I could remember the gifts I had received so I could pull them out in darker, gloomier days.
Dreams
I have been having such lucid and vivid dreams lately… and it all started since Monday after I meditated with Patricia. I have meditated on my own and with her many times before but this one was very different. I want to talk about it, but not till later. It is still a very sacred experience for me. Anyways, onto the dreams…
Dream I: Flying
I sat crossed legged on a grass field and felt a lightness in my body. Far away from where I was sitting was a lovely little village surrounded by soft rolling mountains. I wasn’t sure where I was but the houses had chimneys and they seemed to be built with wood and moss. There were no cars, no electrical wires, no street lights… just a big blue sky, dark green mountains, grass fields and cottages. And I sat.
As the wind whispered in my hair, my face, and filled my sleeves, my body lifted off the ground. It was the most natural thing to have happened. At first I floated just a little bit off the ground for awhile, and after I got used to being in the air, I flew higher, remaining the crossed leg, meditation pose. I thought to myself with excitement: I knew I could fly!
So I kept floating in the air. My body was weightless. I was like a piece of cloud but more solid and grounded in the center. Somehow I came to a stop in front of a small cottage. An old man was sitting in his front yard, greeting me as I descend from the air. “Where are you going?” He asked me. “To the village in the mountains.” Did I even know that was where I was going before he asked me? “You need an umbrella if you are flying there,” he said and I thought, of course! what if it rains as I fly? So we went up into his attic with a triangular ceiling. It was dark and had a woodsy smell. There was a window and from the little light, I could see two boxes filled with umbrellas. He looked in one box and I looked in the other. No, not this one. I pushed the blue, lacy umbrella away. Mmm, not this one, either. The black and green umbrella was just plain ugly. “Here!” The old man turned around excitedly with an umbrella in his hands. It was of a silky texture. The umbrella had big white polka dots on a dark blue surface. I loved it! So we decided this was the umbrella that was going to travel with me in air. It was a strange thing, but I knew that this umbrella wasn’t just going to be an umbrella to me. It was going to be my companion. It was like the magic wand to a fairy godmother, or a specially crafted sword for a warrior, the compliant rod for Sun Wu Kung… The umbrella was going to be my item of identity.
So I had acquired the umbrella and it was time for me to take off (literally) again. I sat crossed legged with my eyes closed and very soon, the lightness returned to my body…
Dream II: Christina/Escaping from an Elevator
I was walking in a narrowed night market type street in Asia, perhaps Taiwan, when I ran into Christina, my best friend. She was sitting by a stand as a salesperson. We chatted and I told her I want to get a tattoo of Koi done. She said she knew this great tattoo artist. She could take me there right now. So we walked away from the crowded market, into a car littered street and stood in front of a white high rise building. This is it. She told me as we walked into the elevator. There was another girl in the elevator. She hated us. I knew it because it was my dream and I knew many things I normally wouldn’t. It was a surprisingly long elevator ride. I started noticing how small the elevator was. It was just a white box, trapping the three girls inside in too close of a proximity than we’d like. The elevator stopped but the door didn’t open. It started to shake from left to right, and then it dropped! From whatever floor we’ve already gotten, it started dropping down. Somehow I managed to open the elevator door to see that the building was gone, and the elevator was dropping down from the sky into the sea. We have to jump out, I said to Christina and girl. So Christina jumped into the ocean first, then the girl, and then I jumped, too.
We were in the water now, leaning on some rock. I could see the white building we had entered awhile ago but it was so far away and then it exploded. Smokes came out from the building. It was the elevator dropping to the ground and causing an explosion. We were safe though, far away in the ocean.
Dream III: Suicide
I remembered it when I woke up but now all I can say about it is that there was a woman jumping off of a building. I was standing by where she fell and became bloody pieces. And the woman kept jumping off the building, kept turning into bloody pieces and I kept having to be there and see this.
Dream IV: Tigers and Wolf
I was sitting in my living room watching TV when I casually glanced outside at my backyard. There were two kitties with black and yellow stripes lying in the green grass, and one was licking its front paw. They were so cute so I turned my attention completely to them, then I realized they were not kitties, they were tiger cubs. Five feet behind the cubs were two massive tigers lying with their stomachs flat on the grass. But their backs were arched and they necks erect. They were alert like the wild beasts should be, but they were in my backyard. The backyard seemed ten acres larger in my dream. Far away from the four tigers were two white ones, lying close to each other, looking more relaxed than the pair with the cubs. There was also a wolf sitting beside the cubs. The wolf’s eyes scanned around the yard. It was a protector of the cubs, I just knew. I went into the sun room where I was only a glass wall away from the animals. The wolf walked right up to the glass wall and examined me. I tapped on the glass gently and the wolf’s cold blue eyes turned warmer.
04.06.08
To Sink or To Float
Taking baths is a guilty pleasure of mine. I like submerging my body into the hot water and let the warmth envelop me. It is the next best thing to a great hug.
Yesterday I drew a bath in the afternoon, liking how the sun warmed the tub. It was a quiet afternoon with just me and my book in the tub. But after awhile a creak came from the door and Kelvin came in. “Hey, how was work?” I looked up from my book and gave him a squinty, lazy smile. “Good,” he said leaning in for a kiss. Another creak from the door, and Fion, my seven year old sister walked in as well. I gave her the same smile warmed up by water.
“Dad wants the tool box,” Fion said, and with that, Kelvin went searching for the tool box. Fion looked at me intrigued. “You are taking a bath now?” “Yea, would you like to join me?” I was in a sharing mood. She thought about it for three seconds, then nodded, looking glad for the opportunity of doing something spontaneous. She laid her clothes carefully down on top of the toilet seat cover and stepped into the water.
So there we were, two sisters, 18 years apart, sitting on two ends of the bath tub naked, smiling at each other. Our bodies different, but the same.
“Look,” she extended her hand out in the water. “Do you know why sometimes it floats, and sometimes it sinks?” Her hand sinking to the bottom of the tub to her feet. “If you contract your muscles, then it’d sink, but if you relax, it’d float.” We both held our hands out in the water letting them sink and float, sink and float.
“Sometimes, when people are drowning, they get so nervous, all the muscles in their bodies are tightened and they just keep drowning,” I looked at her long fingers in the water. “But if they just relax, the water would hold them up and they’d just float.” Then I sat silent for a long while, thinking how true this rings with life.
How often have I fought so hard only to sink even deeper? It takes a completely different kind of strength and wisdom to let go and float. Sometimes, all it takes is some faith to loosen up your muscles and before you know it, you are in the light again, taking big breaths of air, cradled on water.
Kelvin brought Fion’s towel over and wrapped her up the way dad used to wrap me up when I was a little girl. Dinner was almost ready. In the kitchen, Ching’s back faced us, her elbows up in the air as she stir fried some vegetables. Dad was sitting in the TV room rocking his chair. Floating was easy this afternoon.
04.04.08
Looking for Kamala
I had an English tutor when I was in ESL. Her name was Kamala. She was a tall, slim woman with short hair tucked behind her ears and curled out from underneath the earlobes. She told us she was half Caucasian and half aboriginal but both words were foreign to me. All I knew was that she had skin the color of honey and black hair like me. Warmth spilt out from her hazel eyes and her breath smelled like the sweetness of green tea. She always wore a pair of black jeans, and an oversized beige jacket over a sweater.
Kamala used a black pen that made a calming scratching sound on the paper like the sound of an artist sketching something with a pencil. She bought grammar books and books of essays and questions. She’d get me to read an article and let me struggle with pronunciations until I spat out something close to the accurate way of saying the words. We’d discuss about the article and work on the grammar book for an hour. Sometimes Kamala would bring in a song and cut up pieces of paper with its lyrics printed on. We’d listen to a song a few times, and then she’d have me puzzle the words together.
We worked on Deseree’s song, You Gotta Be. I slowly put the words together: You gotta be bad, you gotta be bold, you gotta be wiser. You gotta be hard, you gotta be tough, you gotta be stronger. You gotta be cool, you gotta be calm, you gotta stay together. All I know, all I know, love will save the day.
Kamala, it’s been over eight years since I have heard from you. The journal you gave me with many different kinds of shells on the cover is still here. There’s a huge box of gratitude stored in my heart for you. Until we meet again.
