I'm going to get religious on you for a quick minute.
If you're a Christian, or if you have a lot to do with the church, then you'll know that one of the main things we hear all the time is how we should strive to be just like Jesus. But if you're anything like me, you probably hear that and think something along the lines of, Well, I'm pretty sure I've already made a royal screw-up of that. And then you probably start feeling low and depressed, because you get to imagining Judgement day and how, when you get there, Jesus will probably be unable to do much more than stare at you with his jaw hanging. "You did... what? OUT OF MY SIGHT." This is what my imagination shows me, anyway, and it scares the crap out of me, despite knowing that it's just not true.
Anyway. Recently, I was reading a book called Plan B - Further Thoughts on Faith, by Anne Lammott. Which is a great book, by the way. And in it, she quotes poet Denise Lervertov:
She did not cry, "I cannot, I am not worthy,"
Nor, "I have not the strength."
She did not submit with gritted teeth,
raging, coerced.
Bravest of all humans,
consent illumined her.
Doesn't that sound so great? I feel like sometimes, if you're not Catholic, Mary gets put aside a little in the Christian faith. Sure, we remember her and sing a few little songs about her at Christmas, and her name gets mentioned in passing once in a while. But I feel like she's just so much more than that. And I don't think that's wrong of me - I'm not saying we should get on our knees and start praying to her, because there's nothing in the Bible that suggests we should. But, reading that poem, I got to thinking that sometimes, if being like Jesus is a little much to live up to, maybe Mary would be a good place to start.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Contemplating Fear
I used to pretend that I wasn't scared of anything. I thought it was brave, to never show fear or react to scary situations. As a little girl, as silly as it sounds now, I wanted to be a pirate. I devoured any book, movie or TV show that advrtized or starred pirates. I wanted to be a pirate because they fought in battles, they dealt with imnpossible situations, they overcame everything. Pirates were brave.
Then one day, when I was 16, a lot of things fell apart for me. And ever since then I've been learning that to fear isn't to be a coward. A brave person isn't a person who never gets scared. Real bravery is taking in a frightening situation, admitting that you're terrified, and then dealing with it anyway. Real bravery is fighting DESPITE being scared. Real bravery is admitting your fears to other people, and being vulnerable to them.
So, these are some of the things that I'm afraid of:
1. Creaks in the dark.
2. Being alone, forever.
3. The world forgetting about me.
4. Not making my parents proud.
5. Frogs and toads.
6. Being robbed.
7. Demons and spirits.
8. Living.
9. Hurting my friends.
10. Judgement day.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Waiting For Morning
When I was a little girl, I used to get really bad nightmares. Every time I had one I would wake up and cry out for my Mom. Some nights she would wake up right away and come to me, telling me everything was okay. Other nights it would take longer, but she always eventually came.
I only remember one night that she didn’t come. I woke up from a nightmare and I was so frightened that when I tried to shout, I couldn’t find my voice. I tried and tried, and no sound would come out. I had literally been scared into silence. There was no way I was going to get out of bed to find my Mom, because there was no way I was going to make myself vulnerable to the darkness, and so I huddled right down in my bed, under the duvet, switched on my flashlight and waited for morning. Every sound, every chirp and squeak and creak, had me jumping out of my skin. I was absolutely terrified. I didn’t sleep the rest of that night.
The thing is, when I think back to that night now, I don’t remember the terror as it was that night. I don’t even remember what the dream was about. I just have a distant memory that something scared and upset me. I keep waiting and hoping for this to reveal itself to be just the same; that this period in my life that has got me so terrified and alone, this is just me hiding under the duvet with my flashlight. I’m just waiting for morning. And one day, I’m going to look back on this and not even remember what it was all about.
Monday, February 11, 2008
The Ocean
There’s a small child standing on a beach, right near the edge of the ocean. The water varies in its approach to the shore; sometimes, it comes in softly, gently, just touching the little girls feet. It teases her, tries to make her believe it’s a safe thing, inviting her to come closer. At these times, she feels joyful, carelessly happy, dangerously blissful.
Other times, the waves come too close, too quickly. They rush up and grab her around the knees, threatening to pull her in. She’s scared, but something’s making her stick to the spot she’s standing in – she is unable to move away. She’s curious. And she’s still clinging onto that idea of the gentle, teasing water that she encountered earlier. She’s still hopeful.
And still other times, far too often, a vast body of water, a huge wave, comes crashing in to shore fast and engulfs her, covering her, completely enveloping her in loud, strong, terrifying white foam. It knocks her off her feet, swirls her around and around. It disorientates her, makes her believe that left is right, up is down, wrong is right. It tears her apart, devours her. It breaks her. Then it spits her back up on the sand, where some force of nature drags her back onto her feet and makes her do it all over again.
Other times, the waves come too close, too quickly. They rush up and grab her around the knees, threatening to pull her in. She’s scared, but something’s making her stick to the spot she’s standing in – she is unable to move away. She’s curious. And she’s still clinging onto that idea of the gentle, teasing water that she encountered earlier. She’s still hopeful.
And still other times, far too often, a vast body of water, a huge wave, comes crashing in to shore fast and engulfs her, covering her, completely enveloping her in loud, strong, terrifying white foam. It knocks her off her feet, swirls her around and around. It disorientates her, makes her believe that left is right, up is down, wrong is right. It tears her apart, devours her. It breaks her. Then it spits her back up on the sand, where some force of nature drags her back onto her feet and makes her do it all over again.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
November Rain
I find myself addicted to this place right now, this weird place called Solitude. And just like any other addiction, it feels like there’s no escape. There’s this self-perceived length of elastic between it and me, and every time I try to walk away and free myself from it, it pulls me back. And every time it pulls me back, the attachment gets stronger; I’m growing fond of it. I’m starting to enjoy its company. Solitude is becoming my security blanket.
Yet at the same time, as that realization grows, I keep hoping even more for eventual release. And that Hope is what’s keeping me going – keeping the addiction from taking over completely.
It's like the difference between November rain and January rain. There's something about January rain that just mades me feel so sad, so helpless. The fact that it comes right after Christmas, after all the festivities of New Year. The pathetic fallacy of it all. It reminds me that there's nothing more to look forward to, not for a long time. There's nothing to keep your spirit warm; it's just cold and wet. November rain, though. November rain is different. When it rains in November, you still get cold and wet, but it tends not to dampen your soul as much, because there's still that promise of Christmas approaching. And at Christmas, all becomes right with the world again.
I’m more like November rain. It’s true, I haven’t been myself lately. I’ve been feeling lost. Some days. On other days, I just feel detached, numb. Those are the days I don’t need to cry, when all the tears have run out and I’m just… existing. I’m not sure which are worse – the lost days or the numb days. I wouldn’t normally be as public as this with my feelings, but I have to be, to try and make you understand. Because even though I’m going through all this, and I’m struggling… despite all that, I know there’s something more to come. There has to be. All my faith is in it. Because if there’s not, if you take that faith away, then there’s nothing here. Not just for me, but for any of us. November rain has that small thing that January rain doesn’t:
it has Hope.
Yet at the same time, as that realization grows, I keep hoping even more for eventual release. And that Hope is what’s keeping me going – keeping the addiction from taking over completely.
It's like the difference between November rain and January rain. There's something about January rain that just mades me feel so sad, so helpless. The fact that it comes right after Christmas, after all the festivities of New Year. The pathetic fallacy of it all. It reminds me that there's nothing more to look forward to, not for a long time. There's nothing to keep your spirit warm; it's just cold and wet. November rain, though. November rain is different. When it rains in November, you still get cold and wet, but it tends not to dampen your soul as much, because there's still that promise of Christmas approaching. And at Christmas, all becomes right with the world again.
I’m more like November rain. It’s true, I haven’t been myself lately. I’ve been feeling lost. Some days. On other days, I just feel detached, numb. Those are the days I don’t need to cry, when all the tears have run out and I’m just… existing. I’m not sure which are worse – the lost days or the numb days. I wouldn’t normally be as public as this with my feelings, but I have to be, to try and make you understand. Because even though I’m going through all this, and I’m struggling… despite all that, I know there’s something more to come. There has to be. All my faith is in it. Because if there’s not, if you take that faith away, then there’s nothing here. Not just for me, but for any of us. November rain has that small thing that January rain doesn’t:
it has Hope.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
So This Is Christmas...
Christmas has come and gone again, but this year it feels a little odd. In a way, I’m still waiting for it to arrive. Hasn’t it felt like there was just no build-up to it this year, it just sort of crept up on us all? This year there just seemed to be less festivity, less carol singing, less anticipation. Or maybe I’m just growing up, something that I thought wasn’t likely to happen in the never-never land we call Hong Kong.
Christmas always makes me feel a little melancholy, too. Not the whole day; just that for a few short minutes in the day for the past two or three years, I’ve reflected on past Christmas’s, and it saddens me, how much it’s changed for me. I’m sure you’re the same – when you’re only little, Christmas is the most magical time of the year. There are presents and mince pies and singing, and everybody seems to be so in love with everybody else. Everything bad that’s happening, all your uncertain circumstances or times of trial, they all get put on hold for the few days that Christmas consumes, and everybody’s high-spirited and happy. Or so it seems, to a small child. Christmas is made for children. I remember year after year, waking up at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning and racing into my parents’ bedroom to wake them up and then leaping down the stairs to the living room, to see what Santa had brought.
Sad to say, this year, I woke up on Christmas morning only because my Dad had come through to the living room where I was sleeping (I don’t have a bedroom in my parents house anymore) to use the computer. For a minute, it didn’t even hit me what the occasion was. Thank God for the little boy my parents are fostering, the only person in the house who seemed excited about the whole thing. He came into the living room and kissed me, wished me a merry Christmas and proceeded to rip open his parcels, yelling over them like each one was the best gift he’d ever received. Like I said, Christmas is made for children.
That’s another thing about growing up, when it comes to Christmas. When you’re little, everything you open is like gold. It could be anything from the world’s biggest doll house to a packet of jelly beans, to a child, it’s nothing but exciting. As you get older, not only does your yearly pile of parcels diminish in size, but the gifts get less exhilarating and more useful. That’s not to say we don’t still appreciate the presents, but it’s a different kind of appreciation, isn’t it. It’s less “Oh, this is fun!” more “Oh, this will come in handy”.
But I’m talking like Christmas is all about presents and food now. It’s not. I guess the one great thing about understanding Christmas more from an adult point of view is that you really start to appreciate the true meaning behind it – Jesus. That really struck me this year, singing a carol about shepherds going to visit the new-born King: how awestruck they must have been, looking onto that baby and knowing He had come to save the world. How absolutely speechless that must have left them, and how honored they must have felt to be some of the first human beings to stand in His presence. And that’s what makes Christmas something special every year, without fail, is knowing that we’re really celebrating how great God is, that He wanted to share His Son with us in that manner.
Christmas always makes me feel a little melancholy, too. Not the whole day; just that for a few short minutes in the day for the past two or three years, I’ve reflected on past Christmas’s, and it saddens me, how much it’s changed for me. I’m sure you’re the same – when you’re only little, Christmas is the most magical time of the year. There are presents and mince pies and singing, and everybody seems to be so in love with everybody else. Everything bad that’s happening, all your uncertain circumstances or times of trial, they all get put on hold for the few days that Christmas consumes, and everybody’s high-spirited and happy. Or so it seems, to a small child. Christmas is made for children. I remember year after year, waking up at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning and racing into my parents’ bedroom to wake them up and then leaping down the stairs to the living room, to see what Santa had brought.
Sad to say, this year, I woke up on Christmas morning only because my Dad had come through to the living room where I was sleeping (I don’t have a bedroom in my parents house anymore) to use the computer. For a minute, it didn’t even hit me what the occasion was. Thank God for the little boy my parents are fostering, the only person in the house who seemed excited about the whole thing. He came into the living room and kissed me, wished me a merry Christmas and proceeded to rip open his parcels, yelling over them like each one was the best gift he’d ever received. Like I said, Christmas is made for children.
That’s another thing about growing up, when it comes to Christmas. When you’re little, everything you open is like gold. It could be anything from the world’s biggest doll house to a packet of jelly beans, to a child, it’s nothing but exciting. As you get older, not only does your yearly pile of parcels diminish in size, but the gifts get less exhilarating and more useful. That’s not to say we don’t still appreciate the presents, but it’s a different kind of appreciation, isn’t it. It’s less “Oh, this is fun!” more “Oh, this will come in handy”.
But I’m talking like Christmas is all about presents and food now. It’s not. I guess the one great thing about understanding Christmas more from an adult point of view is that you really start to appreciate the true meaning behind it – Jesus. That really struck me this year, singing a carol about shepherds going to visit the new-born King: how awestruck they must have been, looking onto that baby and knowing He had come to save the world. How absolutely speechless that must have left them, and how honored they must have felt to be some of the first human beings to stand in His presence. And that’s what makes Christmas something special every year, without fail, is knowing that we’re really celebrating how great God is, that He wanted to share His Son with us in that manner.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Everybody Wants a Water Buffalo
I feel like I just haven’t been able to breathe lately, there’s been so much going on, and I feel totally over-whelmed by it. I’ve realized something about myself: I find it really, truly difficult to relax and do absolutely nothing. I don’t know how some people can just sit and stare into space and not feel guilty or disturbed; I wish I could do that. But whenever I try, I have to resign myself to the hundreds of chores and to-do’s running through my head and it only results in me feeling more stressed out than before. I think that’s why I like blogging so much. It gives me something to do whilst at the same time releasing stress, rather than creating more for myself; I can relax and stay busy simultaneously. I guess it works in much the same way as journaling for other people, only journaling doesn’t work for me because it starts to feel like a chore and then I end up feeling guilty if I forget or neglect to write in it for a few days. Additionally, blogging and knowing that other people are reading what I write provides a certain release for me.
On Saturday I moved house, and to start with it was a lot of fun. I’ve been working hard making my new house look pretty and it’s been good, a chance to re-organize and throw out everything I no longer use and haven’t seen or missed in the past year. However, everything has a pitfall; in this case, my hands constantly smell of cardboard and there are small pieces of ripped off box littering my entire apartment. And, naturally, there are all the fiddly little things that must be done when moving house, small but hugely significant – informing banks, friends, work places and so on of your change of address, contacting PCCW in order to get them to come out and re-wire up your broadband and phone line (something I have yet to do, mostly because I’m thoroughly dreading trying to communicate my needs to a machine voice on the other end of the line). Paying whopping, great big deposits on the apartment and all the bank-scrounging that comes with that.
And then, just when you think you’ve got everything under control, you decide to take it upon yourself to be a plumber. My kitchen drain was blocked, and so I thought it would be most impressive if I could fix it by myself. I managed to successfully take apart the entire sink (as you do) and clean the drain, only to find that I now can’t put it back together. It’s not just me being incompetent either, I had my dad over this evening to try and fix my mistakes, but he couldn’t fix it and it looks like I’m going to have to call out a (real) plumber this time. At least I can say I’ve tried, though, right?
One of the high points of living in Sai Kung though, I must say, is the constant company of the actually rather friendly water buffalo. Contrary to my former beliefs that they closely resemble bulls, hence having me in a nervous state every time I thought about them lest they started chasing me down the mountain where I live, I’ve discovered that they’re actually pretty awesome. The other night, arriving home at around midnight, I dropped my keys in the car park and bent to pick them up, and as I stood up again I found myself, quite literally, face to face with a huge water buffalo. I had a fleeting idea of petting it and making fast friends with it, Dr. Dolittle style, but scratched that idea pretty quickly for obvious reasons. But as I looked around, I noticed that it wasn’t just one buffalo in the vicinity with me, there were at least 4, just milling around outside with nothing better to do than wait for the next day.
Since that night, I’ve stood on my balcony every evening and waited for them to come up, which they do, without fail. I have a feeling if they were a little smaller and didn’t smell quite so funky, they’d make very loyal pets.
On Saturday I moved house, and to start with it was a lot of fun. I’ve been working hard making my new house look pretty and it’s been good, a chance to re-organize and throw out everything I no longer use and haven’t seen or missed in the past year. However, everything has a pitfall; in this case, my hands constantly smell of cardboard and there are small pieces of ripped off box littering my entire apartment. And, naturally, there are all the fiddly little things that must be done when moving house, small but hugely significant – informing banks, friends, work places and so on of your change of address, contacting PCCW in order to get them to come out and re-wire up your broadband and phone line (something I have yet to do, mostly because I’m thoroughly dreading trying to communicate my needs to a machine voice on the other end of the line). Paying whopping, great big deposits on the apartment and all the bank-scrounging that comes with that.
And then, just when you think you’ve got everything under control, you decide to take it upon yourself to be a plumber. My kitchen drain was blocked, and so I thought it would be most impressive if I could fix it by myself. I managed to successfully take apart the entire sink (as you do) and clean the drain, only to find that I now can’t put it back together. It’s not just me being incompetent either, I had my dad over this evening to try and fix my mistakes, but he couldn’t fix it and it looks like I’m going to have to call out a (real) plumber this time. At least I can say I’ve tried, though, right?
One of the high points of living in Sai Kung though, I must say, is the constant company of the actually rather friendly water buffalo. Contrary to my former beliefs that they closely resemble bulls, hence having me in a nervous state every time I thought about them lest they started chasing me down the mountain where I live, I’ve discovered that they’re actually pretty awesome. The other night, arriving home at around midnight, I dropped my keys in the car park and bent to pick them up, and as I stood up again I found myself, quite literally, face to face with a huge water buffalo. I had a fleeting idea of petting it and making fast friends with it, Dr. Dolittle style, but scratched that idea pretty quickly for obvious reasons. But as I looked around, I noticed that it wasn’t just one buffalo in the vicinity with me, there were at least 4, just milling around outside with nothing better to do than wait for the next day.
Since that night, I’ve stood on my balcony every evening and waited for them to come up, which they do, without fail. I have a feeling if they were a little smaller and didn’t smell quite so funky, they’d make very loyal pets.
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