Like Mosaic Tiles

Shards of glass,
Scratchy and unsmooth
Fragmented into asymmetrical shapes
Smashed without an obvious purpose
Lying still on the ground
A huge array of varying materials
Diverse hues in all possible colours
Small, large, long, thin,
Like broken marble and uncut diamonds
They stay silently, unaware
What a mess it seems, no direction
No reason, meaningless
Individually insignificant like a pile of broken parts
Yet one of the most
Beautiful types of art
Found in the museums, palaces and sky ceilings
Are precisely made with these
Fractions of a whole
Taken from everywhere
Incomplete and fractured
Randomly chosen and found in the same situation
Somehow placed side by side
In the large canvas
Unsure of how they fit in
Yet they all do somehow
Because there is no single spotlight
But a common theme spun with a single thread
Of unity and delicate homogeneity of differences
Curious angles different sizes
Wavering degrees of positioning
Placed adjacent, one next to the other
Whole in their incompleteness
Fitting in where otherwise they did not
Like broken bits of a jigsaw
Overlapping where the other lacks
Up close it makes hard work
To understand their meaning
Their purpose uncertain in the myopia
Of short-lived vision
Yet tilted back
Pushed a little further away
Viewed like the earth from the moon
The sum of the parts
Make an equation fall into place
The sea of fabricated materials
Follow a pattern
Of their own
Their beauty lies in their imperfections
Breathtakingly captivating
The ultimate result is theirs to own

No reservations

Watching her cry, I feel the weight of her family on her shoulders. A daughter’s anguish from watching her mother’s pain, manifested in a body connected to countless tubes in the Intensive Care Unit.

“Love one another,” she says, because you never know when they will not be there anymore. It is true, so true, and in a flashback of what happened two years ago, I remember so vividly the fear of not being able to say the things we have always felt but kept in our hearts, the traumatic thoughts of not having the chance to see those you love before they fall into unconsciousness, the fact the they do not have the knowledge that you love them so. Suddenly, the importance of work crumbles in the face of such adversity, worries about other people’s impressions and a façade to upkeep seem ridiculously silly, and all you hope for is to be able to hold their hands and tell them you love them.

Each week passes by, an oblivious rollercoaster ride of deadlines that fade into nothingness. Some days you look back at the past few months and wonder what happened during that period of time; the days seemed to have started and ended without any meaningful memories created in between. We spend hours hunched at our desk in the office, worrying about the wording of an email, which may not even be looked at for more than 10 seconds, and we stress over the promotion that might skip us by. Home becomes just a place for bed and breakfast and we don’t even realize how much has changed in the life of our loved ones. We count the pennies but miss the big bucks; we fight many wars and win them, but we lose the battle. Myopia seems to have overtaken many of us, literally and metaphorically, and short-sightedness has led to many forgetting the most important bigger picture of life, the things that matter more than those that don’t.

A conversation at the Cheesecake café with a great friend of mine kept me thinking, a thread of thoughts started not only recently. Decisions we make on a daily basis, based out of fear? Or boldness to try something new, just because we desire to? A year off work seems like a huge decision to make, just to pursue a dream, or longing, when that is the same amount of time since the start of my working life. Yet experience for me enlarges the spectrum of my understanding, makes me rooted but gives me the power to believe, and shorter-term gains diminish in light of these. Encouragement from friends who have always chased their dreams, persistent in their beliefs as well as mine, that makes me feel so much lighter.

It’s like that with so many things. Planning is great, it helps you have an idea of where you want to go; but the magic is in the boldness, of creation of doing, and of trying even if you don’t know if you might succeed. Baby steps make the journey, and building a foundation in our relationships doesn’t take place overnight on occasional birthday parties; the pretty card in the mail once every half a year doesn’t suffice if you want to be a part of their lives as much as they are a part of yours. I realize that making the effort consistently, not only when you feel like it, nor only when things crop up, is what builds the unshakable base which holds us even as we shake.

Tell them you love them, say it as often as you feel the need and want to, do it unabashedly, boldly, without reservation. Get up and do things you want to do, now, not tomorrow, not next year. Don’t hesitate anymore. In Nike’s famous household slogan – Just do it.

To never forget

“To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never, to forget.”
-Arundhati Roy

One of the signature quotes at the end of email messages, one of the quotes that always stun me in an absolutely refreshing way.

It is so easy to become immune to the violence and distress that once so thoroughly disturbed us during our daily news reading. It is so easy to frown and wrinkle our noses in disgust at the dirt-filled rat-infested conditions which the beggars live in, and then to walk on buy into the comfort of the five-star hotel, and out of sight, the poverty temporarily goes out of mind. It is so difficult to imagine and witness the pure joy on the faces of the little ones who spend their whole days playing with a simple ball, a game we take for granted, a game we are bored with, and it strikes us so hard to see these young children with more joy than us with all our expensive ostentatious goods. It is increasingly hard to appreciate beauty in what we do and have, when we have become shaped to complain without batting an eyelid, and to shout at what is not going well. We have became what we eat, and in this world of fast food, fast service, we have lost our patience for even the simplest things, we do not see anymore than we do not get nourished. It shocks us to see a woman with cancer encouraging her loved ones not to be upset, when really it should have been the other way round. We have become so accustomed to the grind of life which tells us money and status rule the world, that people high up on their pedestals should be treated like gods while poor people and those junior staff should be disregarded, ill-respected and not worthy of our time. We forget that sometimes certain things are just as they seem, and we spend precious amounts of time complicating two-dimensional matters when we should be spending more time solving and analyzing the world we live in. We become masks of insecurity mingling at events for the sake of networking, when actually we just want to spend some solitary time to gather our thoughts. What are we rushing to, where are we colliding headlong into? Why do we look away from that which is not pretty, nice or even just normal? Why do we forget so soon the things which have taken place? Why are we shocked when things which have been building up ages suddenly happen? What do we need before we can remember?

Pitstop along the journey

What does it take to achieve what you should be doing?

This is a question which has been invading my conversations, my thoughts, my dreams. What is that stirring in the heart that tells me I need something more than a day job, more than an occupation, more than a monetary obligation? What is that which keeps me awake at night, tossing and turning in my bed, causing my mind to tick non-stop, in search of an answer, to find that which would consume me with passion and purpose and drive? That is what has been driving me to question people and their motivations for their search for the ultimate goal (what is that goal, by the way?) and why they have chosen that as the final destination. It is also that which makes me ponder in deep desire of knowing, why others don’t seem bothered by a mundane and unmeaningful contribution as much as I am, if even at all. Why does the final goal have to be some place high up in the ladder, no matter which ladder you are climbing, and why do you even need to climb a ladder in the first place?

One year of work has passed, and if not for anything else, it has made me understand myself just slightly better, and each day I find the lack of purpose and significance more and more replaced by the push and urgency of a need to do something which contributes and adds value, more than just through counting of millions and the impact on a region, a division or even an entire corporation. Lehman is the best proof that an entity once hailed as an infallible god can overnight turn into shambles, its employees displaced from their previously enviable jobs. In just a few days, it turned from leader in the forefront to name in history, all for the wrong reasons. An organization whose power and might diminished and forgotten, is now substituted by other companies who have, because of the way things have fallen in place, happen to be at the right place at the right time. Corporations come and go, and employees, are similar to cogs in the machines, replaceable and easily disposed of. I don’t see myself as an employee; the word is too short-term to be of any deep significance to the people around. I have always wanted to be a value-adder, a contributor, but not just work-wise, but in all aspects, especially in the area of relations. I want to leave impacts which are lasting, and respected.

Maybe for some, this seems like a lofty notion, idealistic like a schoolgirl, silly and impressionisic. A year ago, some people told me very blankly that I am like that because I come from a pretty well-off family and did not have financial worries to tie me firmly planted on the ground, and so think and feel that notions like these are most important in a job. They said that one year later, when I had worked longer and interacted more with people who have worked for a long time already, I would withdraw my fluffy and frivolous ideals and realize my place in the practical ground, and stay there firmly rooted. I said that I hoped I would never become like that. They said let’s see. A year later, more questions pop up in my head, and instead of feeling more at home with my job and being satisfied with what I do (despite enjoying some of the tasks I have), I have gravitated more towards an immense desire to rethink and draw a new direction in my life. Technically speaking, there is one more year to think through what I would like to do, which path I would prefer to take, among the many. Yet I have a feeling leaving the pondering till a year later will be unbearable; I have already begun to consider many options that might make me feel more able to impact and influence people, in the ways that would count and last.

There are about 4 more months left of the year, and knowing how time flies, I dont suppose it will slow down anytime soon. The last 12 months have taught me a couple a things. That some people are friends right from the start, friends who encourage you and give you advice willingly, and there are some that will always remain colleagues and nothing more. And I was fortunate to have a manager who was also a friend, at least for once. Thankfully, when she changed jobs to be just a colleague, I lost a great manager, but I still have a great friend. I also learnt that most bosses do not stand up for you nor praise you when you have done something well, but that if you ever have the great chance to work for a boss worthy of your respect, you will praise him or her and their reputation will far exceed their areas of responsibility. I also realised that alot of times the limelight doesnt shine on people who have worked so hard to enable things to run smoothly, and that hard workers aren’t necessarily the most appreciated, but these are the unsung heroes who everyone else hail in their hearts and minds. I have also discovered that while many people do not personally impact your life in the long run, we take their impressions and thoughts of us much too seriously that they deserve to be taken; but the worst thing is that we realise that their opinions do not count, because in the first place they did not care two hoots while making the comments that bother you for ages. It has taught me to think carefully first about who honestly matters, not just because they give you your performance ratings, but more because they shape your life and it’s values, and because they truly put in effort and thought into what they do and say to you. And I know for sure that if you treat others with sincerity and respect, they usually reciprocate.

I still haven’t figured out a whole lot of things; I think the journey thus far has showed me I need to impact and influence people, but I am still wiping the mist off the windscreen in order to see clearly. If anything, the last 12 months have not been a waste of time, although I still am unsure about the career path I would like to take. The path less travelled, it may be, but till I can decipher the direction of my inner compass, I will try to appreciate the best of any situation I am put in. And the best are the lessons learnt.

Life’s little surprises

I often remember Mannheim days with extreme fondness, with plenty of love and happy thoughts. One day I remember especially well is the day Faye brought back a cake and I saw her walking home with it, with me sitting on the number 60 bus. Somehow I knew the cake was for me. I remember being so happy when she really did surprise me in the room with it!! And to my greater surprise, she told me that Shawn my wonderful cousin had actually contacted her via facebook to coordinate the surprise for me!

I remember skyping with Shawn as I ate the bday cake, very very happy that he had actually bothered to do all that. I can still remember the exact cake, it was chocolate coated and there was a banana on the top. I loved it.

I also remember how on the eve of my birthday I was skyping with Shawn before the dinner Faye had booked me for, and she was telling me that it was just the two of us but that I should dress up cos it was my birthday. Then when I arrived at the restaurant, I got a huge shock when I saw 20+ guests gathered at the Istanbul restaurant all beaming at me! And then later at night where half the party adjourned at my hostel to celebrate and party even more.

I think it doesn’t take a lot to make me happy, just some simple gesture and kind words and I treasure the friendship/ thought for life. Faye did the same for me last year when she brought a bouquet of flowers for me for my bday, taking me completely by surprise.

I think life is beautiful, when you are surrounded by friends and family who care and share so much.

I still remember the first day in Mannheim, our first lunch as we walked through the Turkish quarters, eating at DBO doner, as we bought a sim card for communication in Mannheim. I remember drinking in the sights and sounds of the city, smelling the freshness of summer’s end ushering in autumn’s majestic entrance, the sunshine spilling though Crystal and Jengyin’s sky windows in Hafenstrasse, and their kind offers of biscuits and chocolate.

I have a sudden longing to return and see Mannheim again, to walk next to the Schloss and its large white-framed Baroque windows. To tread down the cobbled streets along the Hauptbahnhoft, and dance in Zapattos. I want to sit down behind Hafenstrasse on the grass, in the heat of summer, lying on nothing but a mat and eating butter pretzels, drinking beer and listening to music blasting from Aaron’s laptop. Watching him cook the weisswurst in the hot water and giving us an introductory course on slicing the German sausages.

I want to return to Mannheim, and replay all the memories, so many made, and especially those with you.

Life’s little surprises, are so beautiful.

Mannheim was one of them.

My sky and yours together

Have you ever felt that you missed some people so much, you felt your heart wasn’t with you, but with them, in some far off corner of the world?

I want to be somewhere else, living a different life, knowing I am with the person that I love, away from separation. Maybe I have never felt happy living a boring but secured life, stable yet lacking in passion, doing what is expected all the time. The longing to live out a dream, soaking in brilliant bubbles of happiness and joy, has constantly been my companion for as long as I can remember.

I want to be where the people laugh and live with every molecule of their beings. I yearn for a life, where like a drawing board I can start from scratch, creating the design of my life the exact way i like it. To be able to make a dashboard of all the elements that I want to keep, and throw away those that I abhore.

I imagine building a life with beauty, a deep sense of belonging, a knowledge of belief, faith and trust. Where people burst into song and dance, where love enshrouds everything. Where practicality doesnt even register in the first few priorities; and worries of the future are but just dots in the sky.

Growing up through the years, I’ve seen birthdays and anniversaries, weddings and friendships blossoming. And among all of these, I wonder how many are but just customary, and how many else are blooming out of true radiant joy.

I want to live in a world, where my sky combines with yours, where the sun never sets, the rays of delirious sunlight stay like crystals protecting us, where my day is yours as well. I want to build a life with you, a paint the picture both of us are in, walking hand in hand. I want to hear the birds chirping instead of cars zooming by; I want to see rivers and lakes and swimming fish, instead of neatly printed roads and factory buidings. I want to be finally at home…and home is where the heart is.

Strokes of Impressionism

It is the intensely clear turquoise of a little girl’s eyes that stops me in my busy tracks, holding my world still for that fraction of a second. It is the myriad of aromatic smells wafting from a bakery amidst the bustling morning crowd, which intoxicates me to lift my neck; head tilted back as my eyes close in one satisfied moment, and just take it all in. The blind busker in that little corner of the jam-packed street, swaying with his livelihood, the accordion, and his slightly off-tune songs, he makes me slow down, relax and enjoy the random snippets of a morning which otherwise would have dissolved into nothing but a blur of city rush.

As a search begins to make some sense of an existence which at times projects itself to be mundane, un-meaningful and lacking impact, a realization comes quickly that like a beautiful Monet masterpiece, our lives are greater than the sum of individual events which we experience, but the beauty which emanates from within is captured from a wider, bigger, overall perspective.

Monet’s impressionism form of art dictates that they are best viewed further rather than nearer. According to Wikipedia, impressionists used “short, ‘broken’ strokes of pure and unmixed color, not smoothly blended, as was customary, in order to achieve the effect of intense color vibration… Characteristics of Impressionist paintings include visible brush strokes, open composition, emphasis on light in its changing qualities, ordinary subject matter; the inclusion of movement as a crucial human perception and experience, and unusual visual angles.”

At close view, the un-harmonized strokes and stark colors feel garish, too intense and vivid for the audience to appreciate. Too harsh compared to the finer strokes employed in other competing forms of art; somewhat queerly disjointed.

I’d like to imagine that the impressionist brush strokes are the individual events in our lives; that they should always be bold, strong and passionate, vividly alive with the richness of life and love; not blended into someone else’s achievements, watered down and faded. That even as individual strokes, they tell a story, albeit just a small part, but whose character is shown strong, daring, and unwavering. Like confidence deliberately marked on an originally plain white canvas, showcasing each stroke of color in a light of its own. As life runs its course, and wisdom increases in each one of us, the changing illumination on these strokes of events display a different side to them, one which has never been cast before. And these strokes tell our story, each one of the vivid, pure tones.

Purchase delivered: Experience

There are conversations that linger in your mind for a while after the speakers have returned to their daily lives, and recently these conversations have been resonating with the same frequency and heartbeat of my questions to life.

In the last month or so, I have been either the initiator or participator of engaging discussions whose individual impacts on me have transformed into compounding and increasingly urgent needs for me to know why I am where and what I am. I used to think when reminiscing on old times and looking at time-stained photographs, that we tend to believe that each instance in our lives are the best that our lives are, up till then. But frequent and subsequent contemplations of this theory convinced me that is not true. Many encounters with peers and elders alike have showed me that many are not happy where they are; perhaps they had made a wrong choice some point in time and unwittingly suffered the consequences of their actions. Or perhaps they simply chose not to reach for what they wanted, and as a result paid for it with an unsatisfactory existence.

Jonny Jr mentioned the fact that humans are intrinsically beings who need freedom of choice (amongst others in the Maslow’s hierarchy of needs); and it is often the limitations that are already in place that constrain our spectrum of choices, frustrating those whose lot in life determines they be the unfortunate few with restricted choice.

Another friend commented, on a totally separate occasion, that given limited resources, particularly resources called time and money; we should use them to attain things with the most lasting utility. Material possessions have the ability to make us incredibly happy and proud; for just one moment, before shoving us into the spiral of unending covetousness. I understood this the moment I started working and earning my own keep; suddenly every bag looks like it needs to be adopted by you; each watch seems to tick and coax you hypnotically to pick it up, and once you do so, you find something else that calls out to you. There’s an unending stream of utility in buying material goods; with the fine print that you also need an unending stream of finances. It seems that given the limited time and health that we have, a generally agreed purchase which would provide energizer-battery-style long-lasting utility is, and always will be, experience.

If at any point in life, you are the sum of all your past experiences, then shouldn’t we make a conscious effort to increase the experiences that we have all the time? The lasting impact every scenario life places us with usually makes up a piece of the puzzle we are trying to fix. But at the same time, we do not buy our paths in life off the shelves as we would a jigsaw puzzle in Toys ‘R Us. Our puzzle in life is akin to a painting yet unfinished; and each decision we make results in the coloring of that little piece of the ultimate picture that is unraveled to us in tantalizing candy bits and pieces. And the more we choose to value experience over the mere attaining of a goal while dreading the journey, the more texture, vibrancy and hues our paintings will exude.

And so, let me finish my sales pitch. Buy experience; but never, never at a discount.

The European continental story.

As often as the mind wanders to a time past and memories cased in silver, the heart stumbles upon the road winding into the garden of life, love and beauty. The frosty winter night, waiting for the tram to bring them home; the lights twinkling in the chilly dark, the jingling of the bells announcing the arrival of Christmas, they hold the keys to her heart. Gluhwein in the sunny afternoon, next to the church on the street bursting with life; the river enshrouded in the season’s mist, the cobbled streets, strong and sturdy under their feet.

So many events, so many friends, through chance encounters or similar timetables, sitting on the bus ride home, chatting, bonding, breaking the ice between the massive differences in cultures. The route to school was always new, each day bore forth a separate adventure, a different path, a unique encounter. It was the summer’s end which began the story, the scorching sun on the grand schloss’ windows. The first glimpse of Mannheim, the flowers singing in their pretty blooming heads, it was hope, and a journey whose twists were anticipated, and savored.

Bags packed and doors opened, train tickets and the travelers sauntered, into the voyage they dreamed up of; through nights and days of endless planning. Finally, the earth seemed ready, for their exploration and eager souls. The sculptures, the great stone structures, next to carefree artists; yet again spilling their love of art from the magnificent sunset onto canvas. The ancient bridge, sturdy as a rock; and there they sat, glued, to the glory of nature’s masterpiece. Rivers and canals and squares and quaint shops, they dotted the self-explored map of their adventures. The mountains and landscapes unraveled the lost history from where Mozart was birthed. It was a stunning beginning; a blindingly magnetic draw, to continue in the continent which separated two ends of the earth.

Settling down in a town now home, for months to come; the classes began, a system different yet strangely familiar. It was their first time away from home so long, so brilliant and beaming with dreams and experience. You take some time to adjust they always say, but once you have, and have found their little nook and cranny in the mould of your heart, you feel less homesick and more alive. That summer ended; and autumn took its place on stage, a gorgeous rehearsal of auburn reds and rose-burn shades. Leaves which lined the pathways and cascaded in the smooth cool breeze, landed on the ground, tracing the doorways of their hearts. Friendships blossomed and reciprocated acts of kindness brought forth the surge of confidence to do what they would never have done before. A walk by the sea in Lisbon, city of seven hills, and trudging in the sunshine. It was time of indulgence and feeling the vibes of wherever they were.

It was the winter, however, whose early chill and soon-settled nights made them more aware of life and love, of desires and longing, of a need to be met. Sitting at the stairwell, the night of the party itself, fears dissolved and will suddenly so strong, it took just that moment, after endless persuasion, to make one crucial decision. Just days before a temporary separation, that not known then, but it was a decision to stake it all and feel, the need to love and chance, to try and dare without looking back. Fighting back all tears and fears, it was in another city, where having been etched in their hearts as the seabed of their bittersweet memories, where an exchange of pieces of their different lives was made.

A jigsaw puzzle pieced carefully together, a beautiful picture, stunning and finally completed.

Cultura.

It’s been a long time since I last wrote, but today’s lunch with Juan invoked the cultural enigma that has eluded me since I was old enough to wonder and realise that the world I live in is a book, a fairytale, not the reality of the rest of the countries.

I watched the Truman show a long time ago, when secondary school worries like crushes and fitting in with the coolest of society flooded my mind. Watching it, I felt sorry for Jim Carrey, and my most vivid memory of it included how I marvelled at his ignorance that he was being watched all the time, every single second by everyone else; where his life was a movie dictated by the creators of his make believe world.

Now that I am about a decade older (hopefully wiser) and more attuned to the rhythms of the world and the cultures that are embedded in the peoples who live somewhere else, I am lost between the awkward realization that I have been living in a snow bubble and the absurdity of which the people similar to myself have swallowed it whole.

The word “Culture” stems from the Latin world “Culturar” which means to cultivate; and in light of the way we change and get used to certain ideas with the passing of time, it is the definition of us.

Someone asked me not too long ago, if I was comfortable here in Singapore; I had to think more than 2 seconds before answering. Comfortable is too vague to agree or disagree; life is pleasant for sure; we are used to efficiency and quick responses; anything slow or not up to standard earns itself a huge medallion of complaints and safety is increasingly taken for granted. I am comfortable yes; too much perhaps stuck in my comfort zone that I am lost in its maze of expectations and things I am used to. Yet I am also strangely uncomfortable in this Disneyland society. One of my mantras in life has always been to experience; soak up the culture in each place I go to, live the way they live without turning up my nose at them, and to empathize with the fact that each people is the way they are because of their upbringing. In Singapore, we frown on things that vaguely resemble potential outliers; we mark them from the start and separate and segregate them from the higher potential beings; there is an imprint on them right from the beginning of the race that puts more obstacles in their path to a better life.

No, I would say for sure that I am not comfortable here; in fact, I am sometimes repelled by the attitude with which we wrinkle our noses in disgust at people different than us. I find myself relax in the company of music drenched and dripping with passion, throbbing with life and emotions. I love the Latin culture; the music itself transports me into a different world; I am swept away by the vibrancy and deep desires they have for everything. The emotions displayed when they speak; the great need for physical touch and everything alive.

I am a sentimental person by nature; yet culture in Singapore has shaped me to be a person fearful of displaying my emotions; it was only living abroad that managed to edge me to the border, daring me to be happy, live and experience. Wikipedia writes a short snippet on shame and culture; on the feeling of failure in reaching others’ expectations. How much I can relate to that. How many times have I felt ashamed for not being the person someone else wanted me to be? Its impossible to count.

I spent the whole of last year questioning a lot of assumptions I used to embrace wholeheartedly. Now, here’s the question of the year. What kind of culture would I be comfortable in, loving every minute of it as opposed to dreading the unsmiling faces of the people around?

– 14th Jan 2009