His-story

So there has been a topic I’ve been breaching for weeks. Actually, about 8. But yesterday, as I was gushing to D yet again about another information-loaded day at school, an idea sparked and this is me attempting to give it form and figure. I was lamenting about the fact that as riveting as the material presented in lectures, seminars and workshops have been, it’s been a tad overwhelming. An onslaught of information so fast, so furious, and yet so terribly fascinating, that integrating it all and making sense of what I’m being taught has proven to be quite the challenge.

And then I forgot my old friends – pen and paper, and words. So here are the beginnings of my first clinical notes, I suppose. The exercise of scribbling down short snippets of observations and points-to-note, now to document what I’m learning, and later on about my patients, certainly appeals strongly to the annotator in me.

I want to just start by saying what an enormous privilege it is to be where I am, at this stage of my education. I will unabashedly exclaim that I’m one of those people who have been blessed with the opportunity to potentially make a living out of what I love, simply, to put passion into practice – and I hope that this is a gift that I will never squander, nor take for granted.

So perhaps I should start with the first lesson that I feel compelled to write about since beginning my clinical training. It was an epiphany of sorts in one of the early workshops on history-taking. It’s a really simple one, in fact. At risk of stating the obvious,

Everyone has a story to tell.

And if you dig deep enough, implore hard enough, are daring enough to let curiosity ask the difficult questions… there are no boring bits either. No matter how bland you think you are, or how dull you think the person next to you is.

So on that particular day, I had to share one of my own. One very close to home. I was strangely at ease with it. Although, I’ve often noted this (slightly worrying) comfort derived from my open book policy – but perhaps this is a conversation for another day. In any case, I put my hands up to play client, and found myself slipping on Dad’s shoes. They were black, but had lost their shine, and were worn at the edges. And clunky, oh so very heavy. And as the flurry of questions came, his many worries and troubles pervaded my mind, his thoughts of hopelessness and worthlessness took turns to batter at my esteem, his words spelling defeat and impending doom became my own.

And I daresay, almost like it was the first time, I really listened, and understood.

The afternoon saw us doing another activity. We were asked to get into pairs, draw our family tree and share with our partner about our histories in whatever propensity we were ready to.

So my partner was one of those people in the cohort whom I would simply label ‘colleague’. Those that you don’t talk to beyond ‘Hey, how’re you going?’, unless there is work to be done collaboratively. Sometimes, I catch myself staring at her traditional garb, covering her from top to toe and find myself wondering (perhaps rather condescendingly) – How could I  begin to understand her world? What could we possibly have in common? How could we ever relate to each other?

Well, my partner surprised me.

Without going into too much detail, she shared in vulnerability and honesty.  She explained her genogram, all the boxes and squares, intersecting lines and crosses painting a rich, vivid history of the drama and dysfunction that marks every family. That she was so forthcoming with her issues, took me aback. But I relaxed a little in my chair when I realized – We’re all psychologists in this room, after all.

No wait, we’re all human.

And it is our pain that knits us together, and our weaknesses on which we build strengths upon.

I think I conclude, at this very early stage of my career, that one of the most fundamental qualities of a good clinician is an inherent interest in other people’s stories.

I hope I’ll never tire of them. I hope that I will always respect the sanctity of each one. I hope that I will never cease to appreciate the beauty of the complex, multi-faceted, and highly individualized nature of every story I come across.

So much more to say, lots of lessons past that I need to recount and catch up on, lots of skills that I need to process more deeply and make second nature. Stay tuned.

Catching Up

I’d like to think that I haven’t been writing because I’ve been busy out there living my life

It would be an understatement to say that “things have changed around here“. I remember thinking to myself, about one and a half months in, that I had forgotten what it was even like, living I mean, before this. Things seem to have come a little more alive these days. From stacking groceries in the black basket swinging off an arm, scurrying around the aisles of Safeway, to meticulously mincing garlic over a chopping board, to labouring over a stack of dirty dishes with soapy hands – The little mundane activities of my everyday seem to have taken on new purpose.

And I have this sneaking suspicion that it is because everything is for a certain someone.

Of course, a wave of apprehension briefly catching my breath, just ever so slightly, when I realize the weight of my statement, and check myself before I utter the next. Then again, it seems silly to talk it down, to undermine the true quality of this experience I’ve been blessed with.

I am happy.

For the most part of it, anyway. And I’m determined to make that the part that counts.

So now, we’re approaching the next marker of 2. It’s still small, and very, very young. It hasn’t been perfect. It hasn’t been without its tears. And yet, it’s a moment nonetheless, significant in itself.

It still is a little unnerving to me though, how time seems to have taken on the elastic nature of a rubber band – months in name, years in actuality. On hindsight, it now seems like it was a progression so natural, that it would have almost been absurd if today hadn’t arrived. That small voice that insisted on persistence in the face of seemingly overwhelming odds is now amplifying a loud “I told you so”. And the better (more cautious) half of me scrambles to stifle it, like a superstitious granny wagging one finger disapprovingly, the other hand rapping the table, all the time hissing sage old sayings along the likes of, “Touch wood!” and “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch!” or “Pride comes before the fall!”

I think it would be wise to take heed.

On another note, I seem to be accummulating a small fortune, maybe the better word is backlog, of latent unresolved issues. A well-meaning friend gently nudges, nags, and then not so subtly prods me to speak up, to air my mind. So  I keep setting myself deadlines, scenarios that I conjure up in my head that would be most condusive, when he would be most receptive.

And I know it’s tired, but the truth is I really don’t know what to say. For heaven’s sake, where do I even begin?

After all, I’ve had 2 years practice in being what I’ve affectionately dubbed, a ’silent sufferer’. There is this curious part of the human condition that seems innately conflicted with the natural tendency to seek pleasure, or to pursue a self-centred happiness. I guess, you could call it, the act of ‘martyrdom’ for dramatic poise. And dare I say, some days, it feels like the martyr in me is almost working full-time.

But hold your horses. Is it? On closer inspection, I think I’ve misattributed my denial of self and meekness of character to a notion grander that it really is. Fear masquerading as sacrifice. Cowardice hiding behind selflessness, a facade so magnificent that the shameful face of the former is completely obscured.

Righteousness, or perhaps, the act of ‘feeling righteous‘, can be blinding.

Maybe what I really mean to say, is that I’m afraid to lose this, to lose you. It seems more convenient to sweep everything under the carpet, a quicker fix to haphazardly shove the mess into an old forgotten closet, almost temptingly easier to just pretend that everything is fine and dandy.

It’s just that I get so damn tongue-tied when I’m around you. It’s just that your straight lines of cold hard logic bore holes through my already-ineloquent discourse, exposing the gaps and inconsistencies, uncovering unfounded yet deeply-seated flaws and insecurities, dismissing emotionally-laden words and statements as erratic and, well, crazy -

… when all this time, what I’ve been trying to teach you is that love is anything but rational. I’m sorry to break it to you, but I am one of those crazy, neurotic girls you vowed to run the opposite direction of.

I dream of a day to come where the words aren’t so hard to come by, and to speak freely, without fear of repercussion. I would like it if you could ask the questions sometimes, just so that I know you’re thinking about it, that ‘we’ at least hang somewhere in the periphery of your mind, if not at the forefront. I wish you were that little bit more intuitive to the way everything you say or do, deeply affects me. I anticipate the day you find it in yourself to go extra-ordinarily out of your way for me, like I do for you, only when you’re ready.

But everything in it’s good time, yes? I think I have enough hope in me yet to let things , to wait for you to catch up to me in certain respects, to continue trekking through this passage of life – me learning from you, and you from me, trying to put the destination out of my mind for now, and move along, ever-forward, thinking of nothing more, doing nothing beyond simply,

putting one foot in front of the other.

So for now, I shall release myself into the bliss of the right here right now, and to baby-back ribs.

Evaluations and Forecasts

I write one at the end of every year, so I thought I might as well start earlier this time, so maybe I can actually post it on time, rather than leave it simmering in my drafts-box too long overdue when the newness of the new year has somewhat waned.

//edit: Oops, haha. Too late.

“So, how are you?”

I feel the prickle of irritation on my skin at the question. And yet, it is unavoidable. What else do I really expect people to say when they haven’t seen me for months? Conversations that take place within a text-box and safely behind a screen are very condusive for diluting the truth of the matter, or to hide the blemishes. You can essentially choose the image you want the other person to believe. You reveal what you want to reveal, pick’n'mix the facts and figures according to the message you’re trying to preach. Everyday media journalism.

Yes, how am I? A part of me instinctively cringes on cue whenever the question we come to ask as a default form of civility escapes the other’s lips. I think it’s because I stop for a moment to decide whether to tell the truth or not. And more often than not, resign to the latter.

I’m good, thanks. I’m alright, I guess. Yeah, I’m okay.

I let the standard response utter itself. It’s better that way. Fewer questions asked, less explanation necessary. Still I will never be able to betray what I know to be the truth by peppering it with juicy detail of every little thing I should be ecstatic/thankful about or for. But the good ones always know how to tell the difference. And when they probe further, it all comes tumbling out, in cascades. I sometimes wonder whether they ever wish they never asked.

But I’m detracting. I notice my prologues seem to be lengthening of late. It’s like I need to warm-up, and haven’t even figured out what it is I meant to say. Anyway. The end-of-year question is in fact this very annoyance. Only I’m effectively posing it to myself – “So, it’s been a year, how ARE you really?” And the same sluggishness to reply seems to slow the turning of the wheels in my head; the same numbness from hearing the question too many times hardens the heart from expelling the emotion it was made to let overflow; the same obstinance to give an answer straight-up translates into a denial that refuses to stare actuality in the face.

Who ever said reflecting was supposed to be calming and therapeutic. Pfft. No exercise is effortless.

I think … no sophisticated, well-rounded summations in a nutshell of all the lessons and revelations that have hit home this year. Writing a 10,000 (okay, fine, I lied) 12,000-word thesis was quite enough of that.

At risk of tooting my own horn, counting my chickens before they hatch, and any other thing that might constitute the horrendous act of bragging, I’m finding myself at a very interesting juncture here (as people often do, at the end of the year). See, I’ve done it. I achieved my goal. It is by no means the ‘ultimate’ one, nor will it be the last, but it’s still pretty darn pivotal. And that being said, it was by no means of my sole doing. I was carried through by the strength of prayer, standing upon the foundation of hope, resting on the combined beliefs of all the people – selfless parents, ever-constant brother, patient friends, encouraging coursemates, supportive colleagues, well-meaning supervisors – who have stood by me through every episode of neuroses, and every moment of (more often than not) unwarranted panic and despair. Most importantly, lest I ever forget, led by the steady hands of a God who is good, all the time. Whether He gives or takes away, it is the same, unchanging, coherent Will.

Hm, so I’m deciding whether it’s even worth making resolutions. I think by this stage, I’ve faced the rude fact that I’ll never be a rockstar, or a beauty-queen. Maybe I’ll never get around to finishing the Bible. But still, I like to call up the ones I last made and survey which I’ve actually even made headway on. Ah, as expected, most of them still apply. It’s funny how they sound like I’m slowly building my mantra of life – standards I’d like to maintain, goals I’d like to keep chasing up to, bottom-lines I’d never compromise on.  I suppose it would be a good idea to verbalize them…

But before that – I was somewhat right, my fears at the end of last year were indeed warranted. After all, 2007 was a hard year to live up to. Some nights, I still find myself rummaging through old drawers of memoribilia that I’ve stowed away and chided myself into never unearthing. For my own good. Living in the past should not be done, they say. And yet, I am drawn, all too often, to the frozen smiles and unknowing bliss, our heads leant in towards each other, my hand upon your shoulder.

It used to be easier. You used to be better. Even though I probably never realized it then.

2008 was … short and anti-climatic.

It was about cementing some of the relationships I began in ‘07, and beginning new ones that I’m looking forward to extending. I feel more secure in myself now, who I am and what I’m about. It’s easier to build friendships now. It’s no longer too daunting a task to strike up conversation with a stranger, or to mill around a room filled with people, cocktail glass in hand. Mildly unpleasant, but not crippling.

It’s also funny, I don’t remember working particularly hard on anything (although I probably did), save maybe the last hungry afternoons when I attempted to fast from lunch; and sleepless nights tying up loose ends as the midnight oil burned. Every year I seem to push the limits a little bit more, spread myself a little further across many things. And I’m quite happy to report, that it’s possible to have a life – to not compromise on people, activities of service, or those precious deep-and-meaningfuls you’d rather engross your time in. Caveat of course being, that you don’t scoff at deadlines too much, they are still very much to be feared; And of course, never taking lightly the power of grace.

Sure, the year was not without events. Little spurts of it scattered at regular enough intervals to drive time ever forward. Yet, after build-ups, climaxes and winding-downs… I still can’t seem to remember for certain the words exchanged or what they meant. Everything seemed to lose itself to ambiguity, so here we are. Again. Having just clambered out from the funnel of another spiral; at the end and beginning point (if there ever was one) of another cycle, only on a different plain.

And at the end, the budding signs of young beginnings, days and evenings that I wish could have been longer drawn out, wistfully hoping against hope that they might never change. But for the most part, all seemed to have washed over me. Maybe because I kept waiting with bated breath for the big things – for you, for zeniths and breaking points, for my world to come tumbling down and then self re-generate – and lost all that time in between.

Note to self: Must remember never to do that.

Now, one thing I am most certain of:
The winds of change will come again.

And I can choose to resist it, grit my teeth and resist with all my might, in my vain efforts to defy the course of nature. Or perhaps I might throw up my hands in surrender, and let the breeze filter through my hair, and wash afresh over my face.

You’re going to start work, begin your climb up the corporate ladder. I’ve said it so many times, each a hapless effort to drum it into conscious awareness, in hopes that I might be better prepared for it – but you’re going to become a different person. I’m not going to see you as much as I’d like, if I had it my way. The day I most fear may be much closer than I think. I’m going to lose you, even though I never had you.

As for me, I’m going to drown myself in some work of my own. Live and breathe my Psychology, as I used to say. Now, I actually will have the chance to put that into practice. And what an immense opportunity this is, indeed. There were are, a lot of things riding on this – the apartment, a job, permanent residency, whether to go on a plan for my phone (haha)… my future? I saw the decision as a turning point, really. A chance for God to stop me in my tracks, and with a mighty hand, sweep across the board, and corner me into building again from the ground-up, elsewhere.

Or, perhaps – There is work yet to be done here. People yet to meet. A story unfinished.

I sincerely hope it is the latter. I don’t want to be guilty of satisfying a self-fulfilling prophecy, or a scrounging of all the reasons to justify why I’m still here. There’s an unsettling air of apprehension surrounding the whole notion of setting down roots in this place. It’s like, the path was too straight, and every step along the way was satisfied in an easy, almost, mechanical fashion. Okay, maybe I’ll take back easy. But still, it was like check, check, check and check. Now, it’s crunch-time. I’m doing this. It’s like the lead-up to a commitment ceremony and I’m getting a small case of cold feet.

Needless to say, I know what I’m missing. I know what it’s going to take to seal my future, to tie me down to a specific point on the map, to make it right. The cherry on top the icing on the cake. It doesn’t need to be said, you and I both know. It’s greater than any academic accolade, any fat paycheck, or any cushy comforts a world governed by materialism and entertainment can offer. And it lasts for a lifetime. Despite better sense, there are some days where I am convinced that I wouldn’t mind trading anything in the world for it, to know what it means, to feel how it must feel.

But there’s something else I also do know. And it by no means negates my desire for love or my need to feel wanted and beautiful. And that is that,

I Am.

I am complete. All in my little old self. I have already within me, or what has graciously been bestowed upon me, all that it takes to live a life that is full and sufficient. With or without anything, anyone attached.

Because for too long, I’ve been preoccupied by a fruitless search for something that is out of my control. Just the thought of being without it has had me side-swept. It had me distracted and disoriented. I honestly cannot remember a time when I wasn’t chasing the unrealistically impossible, or pining after possibilities that had out-lived their plausibility. Although really, who can say? But perhaps it’s about discerning where best to invest yourself into, and knowing both when, and how to bow out gracefully.

And so I approach 2009 with a few important ground-rules to add to the ones I’ve made yester-year:

#6 Immerse yourself in every person, every life that crosses yours. Just as you have in the last 5 years, give it your all. This is your life now.

#7 Priorities, priorities, priorities. Know which to put first. Some things need to give. Some people deserve your time and energy more than others.

#8 Never forget where you came from. Distance is a dangerous thing. It can wash away intensity of colour into bland shades, and water down rawness of emotion to jaded ignorance. Never allow yourself to be that far removed. Remember to care.

#9 Be open. Take chances. Revisit past mistakes. Rewrite possible regrets? The story can have a different ending, but happy all the same. There is more than one definition to happiness.

#10 Don’t hesitate. Just do it. Give as much as you have the capacity to. Love fiercely. And if it’s still not enough, that’s okay, you died trying.

And on a parting note, I just have to affirm how much I’m going to be staging a rebellion against stagnancy. It is mandatory that every year has to bring something new, something better, something more.

So if this is the best there is yet to be, no, I simply will not settle for it.

Before I Go,

I don’t really know what to say, but I feel like writing, so I’m just going to run with it okay?

Since buying this Macbook (which I love, despite some of its inconveniences and incompatibilities), I’ve been utilizing iCal. D said it would change the way you live, and I think I can kind of see what he’s talking about. It’s strange, I feel like so much has happened in the last 3 weeks, and yet, looking at it all, reduced to dot-points and colour-coded tabs, neatly tabulated in a grid… it hasn’t been that long at all, and there’s not long more to go before I have to say goodbye, and hello, and goodbye again.

So yes, I’m trying to re-count what the past 3 weeks have been about. Let’s give this a whack.

Well, I went and -

Infiltrated the other camp. I still can’t decide whether it was calculated or if it really fell into place oh so naturally, as I like to think that it did. Did I imagine it, or have I tried too hard to force the pieces, guilty of my classic crime – where I’ve once again, orchestrated things the way I want them to turn out. But I like it. I liked it when it was just the 4 of us cooking out on a sunny Sunday afternoon. It reminded me of the old days with N. I like it when we can be around other people, and I can be secure enough to let you go, and in doing so, let myself be.

Got myself new friends while I was at it. It is no act that I’ve inadvertently found myself in good company and meaningful conversation over the finer points in life, more often than not, extending into the wee hours of the morning. It’s nice to know that G understands. He’s probably the closest thing to D since, well, hmm, me. I also remember again how much I like Melbourne at this time of year. The streets are a little less busy. We set out less chairs at church on Sundays. The seats at our dining tables shrink in number. Somehow, noise and complication is ushered out along with the departure of people, one by one, after they hang up their academic hats for the year … until the city grinds to this sort of standstill, or rather, slows to a comfortable lull. Yes, I think I like this pace. I can manage these people. I am well-suited to this routine. I also know, that it doesn’t last. So, I’ll soak up what I can, and treasure it for what it is.

Lost hope; Only to find it 2 days later, and revive it to its full glory a week after that. I’ll say it again, it was a good lesson. A wake up call. A slap to the face. I had to face a split second of utter devastation. I had to be brought to my knees, crippled by powerlessness, driven to cry and rant and pray. I am aware though, of the part of me that was still indignant, that refused to believe it. They must have made a mistake. That’s what made me pick up the phone to verify it anyway. But still. In any case, I am thankful that I was cornered into embracing the possibility of change, stripped of petulant pride and arrogant airs; To finally come to fear a God that gives and takes away, and to trust that He directs my path.

Got my heart broken, again and again, and a 1000 times over. Expectations are a cruel, cruel… thingamajig (for my lack of a better word), I have to say. Y’noe how good things only happen to you, when you least expect it? And when you anticipate and anticipate, pine and pine, it’ll just never come? I’ve fallen prey to that too many times to count, and I’m absolutely sick of it.

Finished reading Twilight in 2 days. Edward is too good to be true. I find it exasperating how the narrative is so deceptively simple, the plot so blatantly straight-forward; and yet manages to ensnare my attention, enthrall my imagination, encapture my emotions. I guess Stephanie Meyer’s secret is quite elementary really. She appealed to the fantasies that every adolescent, or single and remotely lonely girl wants to realize. It’s a tried, tested and sadly, true way of getting it in the bag.

Speaking of ‘too good to be true’ are the double engagements over one weekend. I know, I know, we’ve been through this. I still can’t help the surge of envy that overcomes my better sense of well, civility and politeness. And as I courteously extend my ‘congratulations’ and ecstatic ‘I’m so happy for you’(s) and chirpy ‘I can’t wait for the wedding(s)!’ I think about the incredible act of laying down your life for another human being, and the immensity, the grandiosity, the audacity of that notion. It seems incredibly difficult and distant. Not because I don’t believe that I’m incapable of it, but because I can’t imagine that someone could, would do it for me.

Learnt how to play DOTA with the boys. I think I might be addicted. Now I can understand why boys can waste away spend hours upon hours holed up in cyber cafes. Time does seem to slip away much faster during game-play. I’ve also learnt that stew is the best dish to cook while DOTA-ing. In the midst of heavy battle, there it may lie, simmering all its yummy goodness into the broth while it sits forgotten on the stove. That being said, I kind of suck at it. I’m still at the stage where the goal is simply, not to die. Maybe I should spend the holidays secretly honing my skills and come back with a vengeance and astound all the boys. Heh.

So yeah, those are but some of the things, I went and done.

And now, I’m thinking of -

The amount of money I’ve spent trying to fix my face. I can’t begin to express how much it’s been bothering me. I feel tortured flipping through magazines, walking along the streets and having to meet with flawless, porcelain complexions. I can’t even look him in the eyes. What must people think, when they lay eyes on me? Please… go, go, go away

How I’m annoyingly finding myself at the exact same place as I was last year. A little more bruised, a little more battered. But still, standing. Same same, but different. Same talk, only with added attempts at outlining boundaries with chalk, rubbed away and drawn over with ease, as and when pleased. Same incapacitating insecurities, same hyper-sensitivity, same heightened paranoia, just different girl, different song. Same sliver of possibility, this time on a different land, in a different room.

What it means to say, I love you; and the tragedy of uttering it to move impassive eyes, cold rationality and a stony heart.

Home, and how it might be strange to return to ‘homes’ that I’ve never lived in (or not for long anyway), and what it might feel to live under the rules of the household again. But of course, I’m looking forward to running into the arms of the people who have loved me their whole lives; where there is no condemnation, no shame.

Only love, freely given.

The Lions’ Den

So today we returned to a familiar tale from our Sunday school days – of a man who was thrown into the lions’ den for his defiance of the law, but by a miracle of God, emerged alive and in one piece.

I noted with bemusement at how the boys run things. They adopt a straight down the line, mechanical, step1-to-step2 type methodology. Everything is logical, calculated, sterilized even. The events must be chronologically laid out. The narrative must be coherent. The characters and their motivations have to make some sort of sense. It is a critical operation of scouring through the text verse-by-verse, picking apart the inconsistencies and taking note of the nuances, analysing and breaking down to minute packages of digestible detail.

On a side note, I think we girls have much to learn from that. Perhaps this led on from lunch conversation, where we were contesting the appeal of American soaps to the lay-woman. Often, they feature the emotionally-charged female protagonist with her posse of equally neurotic gal-pals. Together, as they go about painting the town (Wisteria Lane, Tree Hill, Seattle Grace, Upper East Side Manhattan, Beverly Hills, whatever) red, they inadvertently sometimes promulgate messages. The promise that ‘everything that you ever wanted’ (McDreamy, for instance) can be yours even though you’re a little bit damaged. It’s okay to cry a little, to be crazy for a bit, to be demanding for just a little more. And we sometimes celebrate all that in the name of self-respect, or independence (whatever tagword they use these days), because we’re all beautiful and princesses and yada yada.

I sometimes, just call it being spoilt.

On the flipside, there is then the glaring lack of emphasis on contemporary examples of male bonding or kinship. The notion of brothers, who band together around beer and peanut shells strewn all over the floor. No matter the occasional derogatory talk that objectifies females, or the distasteful random toilet joke, they have each others’ back, and sometimes (maybe, hopefully) drum some sense into each other and help their fellas learn a lesson or two. This has become increasingly rare, in my opinion, and all the more precious for it.

Anyway, I’m going off tangent, and that is a conversation for another day.

So, the discussion in this room over deeply-fried food, amongst this band of brothers, was somewhat tiresome for me. Faced with cold, hard, sterile facts, I found myself fidgeting in frustration at some points, mentally asking in exasperation, “What is the point of nit-picking over whether Daniel was the third highest ruler or the highest ruler in the kingdom?” But I soon grew to realise that debate over the most seemingly insignificant of detail was but one of the leading points, a foretaste if you will, yielding insight into much larger questions.

And so, we do it the boys’ way for once, which is also how we find ourselves painting quite the different portrait:

Daniel isn’t young or handsome. He is old, probably in his eighties, coming out of semi-retirement, weary from being forgotten generation after generation, and yet, still proving to be a formidable force of resilience to be reckoned with. Our Daniel isn’t perched on a rock, eyes raised towards heaven and hands positioned in prayer, bathed in pale moonlight. He is probably cowering in a corner, rocking back and forth to calm himself, all the while sweating, shuddering, praying profusely that hope against hope, that lions won’t be hungry. And they, these fearsome kings of the beasts, aren’t lying by his feet like obedient dogs sitting by their master, docile and drowsy. They are probably licking their lips and gnashing their teeth, on the prowl, taking prideful powerful strides around Daniel like sharks circling their kill.

Only, the difference is that their mouths are sealed shut.

It is true how we always pray for escape. We ask for a way out. We call on God for rescue. We desperately plead for pardon. We pray, more often than not, for the pain and suffering to be taken away from us. Oh, would You spare us this ordeal? Oh would You reach in with Your mighty hand and smite our enemies, and lift us up from this mess we’ve created?

But perhaps we shut out the real message that is really, quite unpleasant to the ears, that -

• the best lessons are learnt through the harshest, and cruelest of ordeals.
• you need to fall down, before you can learn how to pick yourself up.
• death comes before resurrection, the rise again.

And that is why people are frustrated with Christianity. That is why we think that our prayers go ‘unheard’. We are disillusioned with notions of miraculous windfalls and taken in by grand prosperity gospels. The thing is, the system won’t go away, the suffering doesn’t stop. But God can reach in with His mighty hand and manipulate the machinery, tweak the screws and bolts, to make things go His way, to make the system, serve Him. He can teach you to brave anything, but only by the process of breaking your heart and toughening your skin.

It reminds me of all my close shaves with failure. The times when I’ve stared it in the face, and snubbed my nose at it; When a Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card was delivered into my hands, and I got away, scot-free. I used to call it luck, a fluke-shot, only to realize that really, it was God’s grace, a blessing, favour. However today, I find myself standing at a point again where the reality of failure is very imminent before me. And although, that I perhaps should count myself fortunate, to have been spared from it time and time again, but when and if it does come – this time – to knock, and then break and enter, I will have to learn to let it ransack all that I hold dear, plunder and pillage.

And with what is left, with all these broken pieces, still find wholeness and restoration.

But wait,
I’m also thinking about the dens I audaciously walk into, the lions I willingly throw myself at.

Was Daniel challenging God when upon hearing the decree being made, threw open his windows and made a blatant show of his devotion?

Am I making a farce of God’s grace by refusing to fly from this? And so this is where I evaluate my motivations for still being here. But I want to be here. I so do. I’m not really to leave yet. Don’t take me out of this situation. I would really, do anything for you. Those were but some of the rationalizations that buzzed through my head. Perhaps, there is a reason why I’m still here. Perhaps this pain is necessary.

And so, today’s lesson seemed like my brand of self-soothe medication. A justification for this insanity. But now I’ve got to ask myself some vital questions -

Does it make me noble? Am I truly selfless? Have I crossed the fine line between helping someone and having a Messiah complex?

OR

Does the implicit expectation of something, anything in return (consciously, or not) negate sacrifice? Is this love a selfish one? One that serves a personal agenda, one that is a slave to nothing but mere cowardice and fear of my greatest fear itself.

Have I laid down my life, where it isn’t needed?

All but a vain sacrifice & a sacrifice in vain.

Getting Away

It has been excruciatingly painful to find the words to write these days. Or even, really, find the time to sit down and consolidate the million and one things that are racing through my mind.

The weekend was an extreme mix of highs and lows. Maybe not so much of the former, except in brief spurts. But nonetheless, illuminating.

It came to me with a piercing clarity at the peak of desperation, hurting as it always does. After all these years of growing pains, seasons of pushing against the current; and when I grew weary, surrendering myself to the might of the tide and terming it “going with the flow-ing”… I thought I would have learnt.

But I am still that same, awkward school girl that dreaded gym class; that later would escape to cubicles for refuge in the throng of the party. I am terrified of the people. Their glances seem to survey you from top to toe, picking out every flaw along the way, a judgment is passed within a second, and you’re out. My ears are jarring from music I could never find melody in.

And I guess the thing is, I have a big problem with this. I have a major gripe with people who are different by day and by night. I have a serious issue with seeing you like this. I see it’s attraction, I do. I understand the allure of masquerading in the shadow of the night; of donning on the cloak of anonymity in dim light, blaring music and pressed-up bodies. But I can’t, I just cannot do it. The alcohol is a sorry excuse. Or perhaps, this is the jealousy talking, knowing that I could never be that girl. I do not understand what it means to let loose, to let your hair down, to break free…

Wait a minute, is this what freedom means?

So, I have choices to make now.

Conversations

I find that I’ve been learning things from the most unlikeliest of people – garnering truth and perspective from the uncanniest of sources, leant on unfamiliar shoulders for strength and comfort.

It is a period of night – the darkness seems to settle more thickly, sink more heavily. Sleep is a mischievous imp, chasing circles around me, daring me to catch him if I can. But I am too tired to play games, and finally, even when he catches up to me in my non-compliance, it is Rest that truly eludes me. The flurry of thoughts scattered through my mind transform into fantastical dreams. Fantastical yes, but monstrously so. They twist and contort into a mangled mix of fact and fiction, of tender emotion and raw instinct. And I wake from them bewildered and disillusioned, and slip into my shell, ready to take on the day.

Even still, I’d like to think that this shadow of the valley of death that I find myself wandering into is going to be a time of strengthening. A time where the fragments of the puzzle are starting to consolidate; where my worldview is beginning to take shape and form; where I am gathering a storehouse of experience, from which to speak truth into others’ despair.

They say curiosity killed the cat.

Admittedly, I wanted to know about her. I wanted to see what it is, who it was that I was truly up against. And true enough, I found myself face-to-face with a Goliath of emotional baggage, now having to wrestle with a ghost of the past. She remains faceless. Like a legend, almost as if she might not even really exist. But wow – fantastical, perfect.

And that’s the last I want to hear of the matter.

I’m going to take a different approach this time. I’m going to say that I don’t need this. No, I don’t want this. And truth be told, it pained me to hear of the person that you were that I will never know; to finally learn that you are never going to love me like that.

Sigh, we are very similar people, you and I. We are jealous lovers. We allow ourselves to be consumed by our love; we make, no we want, our passions and our life-goals to revolve around another person whom we can pour our all into. We also had to learn the dangers of such a love the hard way.

A pity that we aren’t each other’s worlds. Perhaps, so that we would not swallow each other into a vortex of self-consumption.

And so, I can say that we have reached quite a few conclusions today:

• Faith is not the same as saying ’stuff it’.

• It’s okay to say ‘No, I can’t handle this anymore.’ Even though, I desperately want to. There is strength in being able to turn off the taps, and stop. Haaalllttt… There is strength in throwing in the towel, and that there is nothing wrong with saying ‘I can’t handle it anymore’ or finally conceding that ‘You are a bad thing for me’.

• I don’t want to write anymore beautiful things about you.

• “There is something in [me] that won’t be beaten.” Thank you, and I’ll cling to that for dear life.

And finally, a line that sprung from my own lips, in the most unexpected of ways -
“Don’t let this be the other boat you step into because you don’t have the faith to walk on water.”

Passion

Whatever happened to pure, unadulterated passion?

It’s been a night of rather intense debate. From a round table on the 10th floor to a lone chat-box that pops up on my screen at 1.30am. It is a curious activity. First, everyone glances at each other shyly across the table, eyes darting this way and that. Anything, to avoid engagement. Second, the first hints of opinions and observations start to emerge. They start off polite and apologizing, barely skimming the surface. Describing and explaining, rather than critiquing. The arguments now start to circle each other in a cautious dance, careful not to step on another’s toes. We’re heading somewhere now, layers are built upon layers, questions are growing increasingly audacious, daring to probe deeper, antagonising those sore, sensitive spots.

And before we know it, we are launching into a full-fledged, all-gloves-off war of words and opinions and ideals.

T, in his usual fashion, put forward an annoyingly confronting question, to which we were to respond on first instinct. In the event that we were to destroy the whole mechanism of house church, what would you be doing on a Saturday afternoon? Sans responsibility, sans structure. What’s the first thing that comes to m—?

Of course, my mind snapped to you.

And like a free association exercise that could have taken place in Freud’s lazy arm-chair, it was so telling indeed. Just like that, it became clear as day. All manner of alarms angrily ringing their little brass bells off in every possible cavity of my mind. Every erroneous belief, every pretentious front, every little white lie that I’ve told myself to conceal the ugly truth of the matter, every corner that I’ve tried to cut just to make ends meet – exposed.

It’s opened up a Pandora’s box of conundrums.

For me, it seemed to all come down to the issue of authenticity. I’ve learnt it in Social Psychology 101. My supervisor herself has dedicated her research career to the study of the self and the constant, struggling tensions between the ‘actual’ and the ‘ought’. Let’s not even factor ‘ideal’ into this equation for the moment. In short, it’s the battle between the person we are, and the person we should be; and to what extent the discrepancy between the two, can somehow be reconciled, fused into a single entity.

There are so many things that I ought to do. There are far greater passions that I should be taking upon my shoulders. Here enters ‘ideal’. Those giddy, grand notions of Doctors without Borders, joining the Peace Corp for a year, spending a month in Africa helping the starving children, and so forth.

Actually, let’s not even go that far. Heck, I have trouble loving the hyper-active kid at the Flemington flats, who really, just gets on my nerves. I shun the straggly-haired lady that pleads for a gold coin at my stop after work in Albert Park. I’ll even pretend to cross the street and circle back around, just so that I don’t need to lie to her face that ‘I have no change.’ I can’t seem to find it in myself to look the old man on the tram in the eye, plagued by his insanity, muttering curses under his breath to an unseen villain conjured up by his schizophrenia.

And when I grow up, I want to be a psychologist.

Don’t misunderstand, I whole-heartedly acknowledge the importance of enlarging your tent. To be homo-sapien is almost synonymous with selfish ambition. And if no one had the resolve to go against the grain, to fight against their natural egocentric instincts, to say ’sometimes you’ve got to do things you don’t necessarily like to do’ – the world would probably have imploded by now. It’s like trying to get up on a frigid winter’s morning. If it didn’t come down to that split-second of willpower – that burst of psychic energy that prompted you to first kick your legs off the bed, you’d probably never emerge from under your doona.

Everything else seems to follow after the initial hurdle. It’ll be easier after you take the first step. Or so they say.

But my question here pertains to authencity. Are those bigger-than-myself resolutions that finds themselves on every ‘1000 things that I want to do before I die’ checklists there by default, by choice, or because of some warped idea that doing it would be nothing more than ‘cool’. At what point do those (very noble) aspirations become integrated into one’s core, so much so that they are inseparable? Self consumed by passion, passion subsumed into self. One and the same.

Frankly speaking, I know I’m not there yet.

And so I have a battery of crucial questions that now I, ask myself:
How many hours of each day am I present to the moment?
How much of what I say, the actions that I undertake reflect the truth of who I really am about?
What are you really doing right now?

The next time I’m up late watching Sex and the City, I’ll say it. The next time I’m putting my innermost thoughts into print, I’ll say it, damn it.

What am I so ashamed of? Why am I so afraid of how you perceive me?

I want to find a way that I can worship authentically, to pray without the vocabulary of a Sunday school catch-phrase book. I want to be able to say that I am ‘Christian’ without feeling like a complete fraud. I want to feel pride instead of shame when I mention that I am a follower of Jesus Christ. And I want people to be able to understand in a tangible way, what this means. I want to stop shunning the saying of grace before every meal, or stumbling clumsily over my words when I finally am coerced into the task. It is after all, the very natural courtesy to thank the Lord for every blessing, with every ounce of gratitude that I have in my heart. I want to know the God I claim to be in conversation with every time I clasp my hands and utter a prayer.

So that even though, I may not have all the answers, or be the most eloquent of speakers; even when the actual is a million miles away from the ought/ideal – the truth will be like a shaft of light that chases out the darkness, revealing the fallacies of my doubts and insecurities; and like a sword of clarity, pierce through the lies of cynicism.

Dig deep, until you can feel the earthiness of your core. Listen to the still, small whisper that speaks ever so meekly, ever so subtly, hovering above the congestion of the traffic and the sounds of a busy world. It’s only just barely there. But oh, how I am confident that when it reveals itself to me, it will ring ever so true.

I need to find my feet.