Flutterby

Cuddling up in bed watching an Indie film with you, is the prelude to the rest of Sarah Jane's life.

Slow, Indie films evoke emotions that peek through this hardy shell of mine.

If you're lucky they come rolling out like lava. Not many chance the lava for I have for years of my life, mastered the skill of balling it up in me like a knot of yarn, simmering somewhere beneath my chest. 

You are there when the lava flows, when the lava suspends, when the lava roll begins, when explosive reactions spark.

You are there as I sob through films and as I talk through my interpretation of motion picture; when art speaks and when life makes sense again.

The way you sit patiently with me in a tub, eyes facing downwards, as music plays. 

You are quiet and your mind is calm, free, spacey and giving. I am quiet and my mind is knotted, beaded, encumbered, spiraling. 

The water grazes 3 inches below your strong shoulders. 

Looking at your being pulls at my heart.

How does this magnet work?

The closer we live, the more we crave space, but deeper yet I fall into you.

Eyes shut we cradle here under a full moon, emotions flowing like a rustling river.

One rainy day in July

I am writing today to process all the emotions that entailed our church wedding ceremony which took place a month after our civil signing.

I took a day off work today to process this - indeed, big life milestones truly take up space. 

My relationship with s-p-a-c-e is still something I'm constantly evaluating.

Often times I thrive on the lack of space in my life for events that truly matter - events that I feel like I will wish I made space for on my death bed.

Big emotions don't really sit well with me as they are mountainous to tackle. Even where I have space (over weekends, holidays etc), I find myself filling these moments up with stress-inducing to-do lists so that I can comfortably live on and on in the way I know how - like a shell of a human being. 

I digress.

On one rainy day in July, we tied the knot in the eyes of God, in a church in my lovely hometown I grew up in, with the people who knew me in my childhood. 

The ceremony went swimmingly.

Apart from a few hiccups, like poor visibility of the panoramic view from the wedding venue due to the rain, it was a nice, lovely, day. 

I've always said that I've never desired a pompous wedding. I had no desires for a poofy white dress nor did I feel comfortable with a hundred spectators witnessing a moment that feels all too intimate and all too dear. 

I did succumb however to organising this event, partially for the sake of my religion, partially for the sake of my parents, and partially for the sake of future me - lest I should regret one random day in my life ahead for having no balls to "celebrate" this milestone.

A part of me knows deep down inside that saying vows in a church before God was important, I admit.

I did also voluntarily attend Holy Confession a week before the wedding, to clear my conscience of all my iniquities before entering into this new phase of life. 

I will also admit that the day itself was somewhat lovely.

Saying I "had fun" is a bit of a stretch, but I did absorb the many joyous smiles of the people around me. 

I've always complained that it feels totally alien to be surrounded by friends of my parents I have not spoken to in 10 years, but bae is quick to remind me that I will one day find myself in their shoes, wishing to be invited to the wedding of my little niece whom I simply adore (even if by then she may have not remembered our precious little moments together).

I try to see different perspectives and expand my worldview beyond that of my values, knowing deep down with certainty that if I were to live in alignment with my values, we would be tying the knot in Hawaii by the beach, just him and I surrounded by no more than 15 people.

The notion of "marriage" is still confusing to me. The treatment of society towards us after we married is, to my mind, confusing and dumbfounding.

We've been together for 7 whole years and we were quite honestly never taken quite so seriously until we walked out of those church halls.

It always felt like a chicken and egg situation to me - if no one ever took us seriously, how could I have taken us seriously, but it turns out, I was counting on my own strength to take a leap in the absence of anyone really taking us seriously in order to reach here - a place where it is given that we would be taken seriously. 

Surely marriage does not hold this unfettered power over every human that lives and breathes. At least to me, love is love. You don't have to marry to prove an undying love for someone.

Yet in this place we find ourselves, it does feel "complete".

It feels like I am his and he is mine. 

What a strange, societal construct we have partaken in. 

Happy marriage, love. 

And so it was

17 June 2023

We wake up earlier than usual and put on our pre-planned outfits.

In the car we go and off we go.

It is frankly, just like any other day. 

I look over at you behind the wheel. Music plays, the kind that only you and I appreciate.

The weather is fine, our families get in touch, they’re running early and we are on time (for once).

We reach our destination and everyone looks happy (for once). Maybe I had just imagined they weren’t happy before, or maybe they were just shit at expressing it.

The beautiful couples around us remind me we aren’t alone. Each day that we live, others live too.

There is one other couple like us, diverse, interracial, and quite frankly to my eyes, blooming.

The lady wears a slinky white satin dress, she’s pretty fit; and the male looks pretty formidable, if I’m being honest.

Then again so are we ;)

In 2 hours we sign papers (I did not read any terms and conditions for once).

I wasn’t afraid. All my fear had been processed in the excruciating 2 years leading up to this day.

The fear of forever, the fear of disapproval, the fear of choosing me over the (conventional) masses, the fear of making history by inviting diversity perpetually into my bloodline for generations to come.

We leave for lunch at a western brunch-type cafe (which is just the place for me, I must add), though getting a booking at this place of choice took weeks of annoying planning. 

Everyone eats, laughs, listens and is there to support us.

It feels unusual to be loved and supported (as usual), but that is how it is.

We take a million pictures, my Gen-Z brother directs the shots, we get the shots, then we disperse.

We come home and you head straight to bed. Clearly I am a pre-processor and you are a post-processor.

I lounge around at home in my beautiful white dress (which actually wasn’t my first choice of dress, but was ultimately the dress I picked after succumbing to the inevitability of imperfection). Weirdly, I refuse to change out of it as I process feelings of joy, satisfaction and pride.

After reluctantly dragging myself into the shower, and then out of it, we hold hands and go for donuts and bubble tea.

The day is ordinary and everything I had wanted it to be.

I love you, madly, and 7 years in, we find ourselves here.

And so that was that, and this is us.

A single day with a million emotions, but a humongous leap of faith is what it took to get myself here.

A triumph I had hoped; and so it was. 

My brother and me

My piano has always been a source of refuge to me. That, and my brother. My brother is autistic you see, and his heart is purer than finest gold. He sits on his bed with his pair of heavy glasses from having read too much, and I share his space and his energy - an energy where nothing is expected of me and I exist in the moment as me, Sarah, his big sister, with a petite stature and unwieldy mind.

I've always liked C major. I play it a lot on the piano. Quite ironic, given the unwieldy mind, but C major, in it all its simplicity strikes me as a chord that is easy, effortless, but beautiful. I create melodies with C major - they are not technically challenging but when I play them, I am reminded how beautiful the world is even with minimal effort.

I live day to day with impulsivity. I am rubbish at planning because to me, nothing beats the wind in your hair, or a glance into a cloudy blue sky on a windy day. The best things in life aren't planned, they just exist, which is why I love my brother so dearly. 

He reminds me that it is okay to just exist. 

It is okay to be a human made for another world, with a reading hobby that totally makes him - it makes the facts in his head and the history-cyclopedia within him shine through in all its radiance. 

The melodies I play are simple, but they always feel multi-layered. In my adolescent years, I played when I was in tears, when I was in love, when sleep did not come easy, when I was heartbroken, when I was alone, when no one was there to be with me.

It was a foreign concept to me that a performer would play a concerto and respond in glee to applause and standing ovations because to me, I identified as a piano player, not as a piano performer. 

The piano housed my tears, it carried me through my darkest times, it absorbed my emotions; and with the tunes I played on it, it laughed and it bled with me. Music was so ingrained in me I would be playing at 2am when my parents were asleep, with my foot on the una corda pedal so as not to wake them. 

I cherished my piano so much I would often play it away from fanfare.

It is a shame that society rewards not the depth and passion of a piano player (as opposed to a piano performer), or autism spectrums when they are and could be so very special. 

Very few things in life move me like these and this post is a tribute to all of those people, lives and beings who live unrecognised in their own, simple world; those who make the world beautiful simply by existing. 

This post is a tribute to my brother - for all the comfort you bring, for all the lives you touch, for the little piece of heaven you have brought into our family.  

Even so

Nothing's that simple, even so, love yourself.

You are the sum of your successes and failures; and beneath all that, a wealth of baggage, history, plot twists, halted journeys, lengthened ordeals, faulty compasses and intrusive self-talk, percolate. 

To find a twinkle in a diamond, you dig well into the dirt. 

Great things take time and nobody owes you anything. Not your boss, not your parents, not your partner.

We take what we've been given and with all our heart and all our might, we run the marathon with it. 

We push through blocks, peel through our onions, fight through our tangled fibres and these shall go on, and on, and on. 

Light and darkness co-exist.

You can accept your anxiety as a part of your story and smile as you wade through the storm.

Storms can be weathered, you are safe.

Storms don't kill you, even as your muscles shake and your core erupts like corrosive magma. 

You can choose to feel joy - in the beauty of the earth, the love of a father, the kindness of souls, the longevity of friendships and the generosity of a giving partner. 

This path, it's a chugging train with masses aboard rather than a liberating joy ride.

Even so, love yourself. 

I could not step into Arndale

I could not step into Arndale. 

That was my reality. 

I would always make my way there, but I could never step in.

My journey would be cut short and hit an abrupt halt. That was that. 

Strangely, last night was different.

I had just finished my dinner (Mancunian for lunch) as I left my group of travellers and made my way to Princess Street.

I was off to embark on my one year of Masters, and was feeling surprisingly optimistic about applying for jobs throughout the course of my study year. 

I took off to Princess Street as my next destination, but saw Arndale in the peripheral distance. 

As I had at least a hundred times before, I went in that direction.

I wore a Rolex watch on my wrist and black Louboutins on my feet. 

I found myself scurrying up the stairs with my heart palpitating and my Louboutins taking me as far as I could go.

I entered Arndale through those side stairs and walked by a Christmas dress gleaming in gold, with ornate and elaborate designs. 

I rushed on inside, breathless and ecstatic. 

Then I woke up. As I had at least a hundred times before. 

This time I am one step closer, I tell myself, as the same dull ache envelops the atria. 

Look up, buttercup

Life doesn't prepare you for your 30s.

It's that time of your life where you're playing the Game or you've resigned to being outside of the Game, peering into its circle and judging everyone within it.

Nobody tells you how isolating it is, whether you're the former, or the latter. 

The Game includes marriage, investments, children, a booming career, if you're lucky, awards, recognition and pride, travel, a shiny social media account, and the list goes on.

Being outside the Game involves countless failed dates, that house you bought which you actually really hate, being held back from a promotion, envious comparisons across social media and the judgement of your peers for their life choices to feel better about your pace - you judge others from every angle - from how ugly their spouses are, to how small the square ft of their purchased homes. 

You look to your friends for guidance, validation and comfort, but your closest friends are really just devoted to their families, caring for spouses or children - they're not really playing the Game with you and if they are, it's touch and go - you touch on things briefly and then you go on your own way and live your respective lives, never to speak of it again. 

Your family is the greatest support you have, coming at you from the purest of intentions, but with a perspective of 30 years past, where problems of today aren't quite the same as problems faced then. You try your hardest to make them happy, to appease them while assuring them, as you balance on yourself the load of the Game alongside the load they unintentionally pile on your shoulders from the weight of their opinions.

Don't get me wrong, I am grateful to be where I am, in and out of the Game, steering whilst being steered, accelerating through a menial to-do list whilst abruptly hitting the brakes on many major others, but it is a mountain of emotion to navigate.

This is where the sense of Self emerges - this is where you call on it for support. You are capable, you know your deepest heart's desires, and you are everything you need to be -  you're the Queen on these checkered tiles, you're the bright yellow gem on level 100. 

My 20s were more turbulent, yes this is true, but the lows were lower and the highs were higher.

In this place I am coursing through a path of commitment conundrums, anxious adulting, phony pleasantries and wild expectations; all the while being a person who never lived guided nor principled by any of those things.

Look up, buttercup. Look beyond the empty prized possessions and keep your eyes fixed on the strength of your intuition. 

The philosophy of flight

If anyone was curious to analyse the philosophy of flight, they'd only need look in my life.

I was the queen of flight.

The flight felt like freedom to me, or was it masked at such?

The milestones of the 30s approach with a slither but I was always running. 

In my dreams I was driving without brakes or I was robbed by a violent robber. One time in my dreams I was actually kidnapped in a hut by a man wielding a weapon. 

Is life really such a fright, robbing me of my state of being; or was I simply programmed to skate through cold, sharp ice on bare feet, utterly unequipped? 

With much work and inner healing, I've gotten to the point in my life where I am walking forward, but with weights hooked around my wobbly ankles. 

I am trudging; a milestone recluse, if you will.

I'm shedding traumas; I'm creating new moodboards. 

For the longest time I pictured my life as a surfer living at a surfer lodge with a tanned, burly boyfriend whilst we traverse the Aegean sea. 

I have not surfed ever in my life, so why do thoughts like these visit my consciousness?

How can I expain these pictures of liberation when my reality is nothing like it?

My imagination can be painted in 30 different permutations, all of which offer different flavours for cherries atop the cake. 

The curse of the INFP or simply a life of failed manifestation?

Where do we go from here? How do we get to the sky, or will I trust the Anchor to write the pages to my life?

Are we out of the woods yet?

It appears we aren't - out of the woods.

It is a time of waiting and yearning, a time during which I am counting on patience to take me through each day. 

Patience, luck, fate and all the rest of it. I am counting on them all. I am self-trained in the aspects of impulsivity and trudging through uncertainty, but I am not a patient person by any means and the feeling of unsettledness burgeons within, like roots of a mangrove tree sprawled beneath earth. 

The lines between matters within and beyond my locus of control remain blurred.

On the one hand, I am steering but for the most part, I am being steered - story of my life, since at least 2009. 

The responsibilities I am shouldering feel like they're taking at least 5 different permutations as I adapt through changing strategies, aiming for a singular goal.

Through it all I am counting on the will of the Almighty, to close this deal and take me places I have dreamed to go - which got me questioning - where am I really meant to be, what am I meant to embark on, who am I meant to follow, which steps are right and which steps are wrong, and how do I get to living my true purpose?

We aren't out of the woods yet, this moist, dingy, camper vanless segment of the woods. It is unassuringly cold here but I am keeping my vision fixed on the bright, crescent moon as my guide and my comfort. 

Night ends and day comes again and so the story goes. 

The Girl on the Tube

It was circa 2014. 

I was a giddy law graduate having moved from Manchester to London. 

I was squandering my family's fortune by living a busy and extravagant life. I was never (ever) at home, except when I was caught up with bar school prep pulling all-nighters and such. 

I was out out, then awake in my study working through the night, then out out, then cross-examining my witnesses at school, then out out again. 

The word for it is "giddy". It was a giddy, fanciful life. It was not without adversities of course. Bar school was tough for an introvert like me. It didn't help that I had a tough, feline-like, straightforward and vicious advocacy tutor. Her words cut through feelings like a knife slicing through bread. Her name was Catherine. Catherine made my teammate cry once. She called my other teammate "the most self-conscious barrister she had ever met". 

I never quite gave in to Catherine's jabs for one of my strengths is the ability to hold in all emotions, although until today I live with the self-limiting belief that I am not particularly talented at cross-examination (quite unlike Johnny's Camille Vasquez thank you very much). I was always "well-prepared" however, which was Catherine's way of saying something nice when she had nothing else to say. 

I don't believe I was truly well-prepared, not with the lifestyle I led. Maybe if I was really well-prepared I'd actually have appeared talented. 

I studied with the best, with the OxBridge (Oxford, Cambridge) fellows with all the connections and all the past internships at the European Court of Justice all the way in Luxembourg. 

Look at me sounding all bitter about connections and power - it was my family's fortune that got me to where I am too, my family's hard-earned fortune. I really was a small town lass from a tiny oil town, with a history of roots in the Netherlands (believe it or not), where my family lived for a brief period amongst the Dutch looking to make money from oil too. Yet there I was studying with the best. One of my groupmates was a comedian, but he did his bachelors in Cambridge so you could only imagine what a talented breed he was at advocacy. He drew a crowd in at a snap of his fingers. 

I digress.

The point of this post is about the Girl on the Tube. 

One fine night in London, when I was returning home to my humble flat in Holborn, I chanced upon a girl on a tube. She was wearing a black and red tutu-like ensemble, almost certainly punk-rock inspired. She was of Asian descent. She looked to be in her early thirties and she looked like she was just getting off work. She looked like she belonged exactly where she was, in that tube, heading to her destination. Her mannerisms were nonchalant, almost like this was part of her daily routine. 

I wondered about her life, how she got to London, what she did for work, what led her here and how she made it. Her nonchalance was alluring, almost as though it took no effort at all for her to fit right in. Into London, this place I had romanticised and fantasised building a life in for (just) as long as I live. 

A part of me knew of course, that this giddy, fanciful life would in a year, come to an end. I was a foreigner, a small town lass, petite, with a soft-spoken high-pitched voice which projected as far as a paper plane. My only talent in law really was that I was "well-prepared". 

The imminence of a cut-off date made it easier to live fancifully. Only naturally, I wanted to experience all of London. I wanted to lick London like the edges of an envelope. It was mine for now before my envelope would be sent off. It was mine to hold, to caress and to enjoy, before I would need to leave to where I came from - a place I did not know too well at all by virtue of having left at a young age. 

Girl on the Tube got off the tube while I was still on the tube, never to be seen again. Even the way she got off the Tube was soul-stirring. She didn't need a map, she didn't need to double check which stop it was. She got off the tube in the way a person would get off every day of their life. With the click of her black boots, she was off, off to live her life as I was to live mine. 

I forgot all about her, as we do our dreams, when realities eventually impinge upon our fantasies.

I've been told a lot to get out of my head, to see that the grass is not actually greener. I've been told to wake up and forget the aspirations that come all too naturally, so naturally like it does one's intuition. I'm learning to forgive all my dream-breakers in this life because they are so jaded they felt the need to rain on my parade. 

In honesty, my jaded subconscious mind erased the Girl on the Tube from my memory. I had forgotten all about her.

Until recently. 

It's a beautiful life

Life as it is, not as it could be

The light in this cafe is dim as I trawl through pages and pages of my agreement. I sit here as I have done many a time throughout university, watching the sun go down whilst attempting to ingest thick, thick textbooks on the law. It helps to look outdoors at nature, comforting almost. 

The Icelanders have a phrase for this action I've come to embrace as second nature - gluggavedur - the act of sitting by a window looking outdoors at adverse weather conditions and feeling safe, cosy and sheltered.

Nordic cultures intrigue me, yet my way of living is intense, fuel-driven and neglectful of life’s pleasures.

I also really love Sigur Ros, just to throw in something else Icelandic but I digress.

It has been an extremely busy time, one transaction closing after the other, after the other. 

I have barely had the chance to gasp for air, apart from my 1 day a weekend where I can feel complete and utter freedom and bliss, minus of course the night before and after the 1 day spent dreaming, drafting, or doing some other law-related action in my (apparently perturbed) sub-conscious mind. 

The culture in Asia is so work-heavy, almost masochistic even, driven by a fear of never being good enough. I believe it is deeply embedded within our upbringing since children, where scoring 80 (an A) still invited questions from tiger parents about why it wasn't quite a 90 (or above). 

We are so eager to please, so driven to improve ourselves, so punishing of ourselves that when we fail, our self-worth that which we tie so firmly to achievement falls back into shambles. 

I am giving myself time and the patience to unlearn these self-limiting beliefs and to make room in my life for the act of simply being. 

To savour life as it simply is, rather than for all it could be. 

I am thankful at all that I can picture an alternative, a life of speedy carefree decisions, beautiful imperfections, joyful curiosities and the freedom to be. 

The truth of the matter is, culture and (grumpy, cross) people hinge heavily on how we operate, but they do not dictate us, how we respond, our level of resilience and of our joy.

At the end of the day, we steer our own ships to safety. There are no rules to this but if you are rooting for yourself to victory, then with your heart on your sails, victory shall be yours, howsoever you dream it to be.  

How I feel about marriage

I was never one of those girls who dreamt of the white poofy dress and a happily ever after.  In fact I don't think I ever swooned over a Disney prince. I loved Pocahontas, before she ran off with that white man. To me she was awesome just as she was, jumping off cliffs, exploring nature and being free. 

At one point in my life, the white dress became a symbol I didn't quite identify with. It almost felt like how certain people view the cheongsam - you look hot in it, but it's so tight you cannot run in it, you almost need to tread daintily but to others, you look gentle, demure and 'ideal'.

Marriage to me feels like a societal construct that we were born into and led to believe was the "happily ever after" for all who were "lucky" enough to find love. 

At one point in my life, I did want to marry. It was a horrible relationship, though, yet I was innocent to believe we would marry. In fact I didn't overthink marriage then. Back in my early twenties, people didn't overthink anything. I partied hard, got hit on by drunk men, refused them and came home to my university sweetheart whom I had set in my mind I would marry. 

I don't think I even really loved the fella that much and that was evident about two years later when we both fell for other people, except my next love turned into a tragedy and his next love led to marriage (just my luck of course). 

At this point, people would be all like "oh poor sarah jane" and "lucky him" but ha! That would be on the assumption of course that marriage means happy ever after, which I don't think is the case, personally. 

Perhaps my heart's been trampled on, yea, or perhaps I changed and evolved. 

I'm in my thirties, I am a lawyer and every lawyer I know practices a level of caution in any decision they make. I once met a lawyer who painstakingly overthought what to order for lunch. He couldn't decide between the rice, or the salad, or the meat, and then decided on the salad, but overthought which salad he would get. 

It's evident as ever when I work on my legal agreements that I look out for 'red flags', even the potentials, those risks that never would occur in a million years, and yet I go looking for them and seek to draft in relevant protections to cushion my client's position against such risk.

Marriage is a minefield of risk. 

Even more so when I was raised in a stupendously religious environment. Marriage is till death (I do believe so, too) and all the more reason why you should choose wisely. 

A portion of society believes that tying the knot will elevate your status, and a portion (my portion, culturally) believe that you need to marry before you live together, or be frowned upon for impropriety. 

This isn't a thought piece to defend any of my uncultured actions, nor to justify my passive inaction in approaching this social construct many believe to be the next best thing for me. 

This is just me penning down my thoughts, so that I can understand myself better and grow as I go. 

The desire to marry does not come naturally to me for I am happy as ever as I am, as we are. I cannot remember a time we were not happy, which says a lot about our relationship. 

I want our joys to prolong and I do not see a compelling reason for a change of status to "solidify" what we are, since we are solid even without it. 

Even so, as one of two that makes a couple, I am aware that this next best thing is something both revel in, and something that if one of two desires, takes two hands to clap. 

Whilst I may be happy just as we are, there is no certainty he would continue to be without us taking this step into what seems to me a mere societal construct.

And so it seems to me that the only way for us to proceed next is to dip our toes in this together.

I'd be excited not for marriage, but for the family that comes in time. 

Family hasn't been the strongest of my life's nouns and I'd be keen to learn just how great it can be. 

Right now I have this moment

Right now I have this moment.

The sun is setting, as it casts a veil of yellow upon a nearby skyscraper. I am seated by the fountains. Boba escapes the straw into my lips. 

There is so much of life that takes away from the moment. Worries and fears, deadlines and stressors. Oh what we humans do to live our best lives.

My best life is now - in the moment.

My best life is yesterday at 11:03pm, at the sweet gentle whiff of my chamomile and bergamot scented candle.

My best life is on Wednesday, as I will be running past the runner I always see in the park on Wednesdays, wearing the jersey “never not running”. I will chuckle at it, and it will be my best life.

There is nothing in the world that can take this from me, the small moments I choose as my best life.

There have been times I’ve walked home from work close to midnight, taking the route pass the fountain show, walking triumphantly to the beat of the Disney / Hans Zimmer-like music.

My friend from Singapore thinks it’s lame, the singing fountain show. But I truly don’t. It is simply me, being fascinated as usual by vivid colour and sound, living my best life.

I am always intrigued, always attuned to the small, ubiquitous delights that lay before me. They are little pockets of time in a multi-faceted universe, yet to me, they are profoundly abundant.

This is, the story of a daisy

Through all the years they never quite got it right. 

I lived like an alien in a world of chaos. I was born a small, little daisy, flailing in the wind. I was delicate, angelic and I grew naturally right there in the fields.

Often times, there were storms. I lived amidst them. 

I was always growing, though, and I was always flourishing. 

Many many years ago, I wrote about waving my white flag, so that the peace would hold forever. 

I lived, hardily, through my own fears, worries, external life pressures and circumstances. 

The storm never really ceased. Often, I felt like I was being electrocuted, with large volts of electric power convulsing through me (this is a terrible analogy, I always called it "pressure cooker" but that does not apply to a daisy).

So we shall go with volts. 

A part of this daisy felt proud that it emerged victorious through storms. Indeed, I credit a lot of my life accomplishments to all that I learnt and built as an independent, strong and resilient little daisy. 

In fact, I am a tower. A little daisy tower. 

The storms varied - sometimes there were typhoons and sometimes there were floods. They were mostly not my storms, and mostly those of others which I lived through, as though a collateral of consequence. 

Often, I forgot about the typhoons, or the deafening thunderstorm. I shut them from my memories because of the white flag I waved. Where white flags were waved, problems went away. 

To this day, the storms don't recede. As we all get older, storms naturally get longer and nastier (tell me this is true, that storms grow colder, as we age). 

My little tower that I built though sturdy and woundedly beautiful began to show cracks; not in the outer wall lining, but right at the centre - my daisy core, my seed.

At age 31 I demanded for a greenhouse in the storm. 

I asked for the volts to be taken from me, for the pressure cooker to cease its furnacing simmer.

Through all the years they never got it right.

They still do not, actually.

The difference is that now, I, the little daisy, have grown so strong that I will build my own greenhouse from the bricks they are providing me in heed to my demands. 

I understand that they are of earth, and I am of outer space (still an alien, an alien type of daisy) and humans of the earth have their own storms to weather. 

I forgive them and I know, I will flourish again. 🌼

Twenty twenty two

Happy new year, it's 2022!

2021 was a struggle for many people - at least, according to social media, since human beings don't really talk to each other anymore. I feel like I saw a lot of posts talking about "struggles appearing like a neverending chain."

2021 was not easy for me either. I was always anxious. I was an anxious walking stick. Wherever I went I left a stench of anxiety behind. My farts and sneezes probably had anxiety in them. 

2021 saw some good highlights. I cured my backache completely - now I only deal with normal old person backache and I can safely say that the extremely painful previous backache that I suffered for the past 2 years was CLEARLY not "normal old person backache". You can give it whatever name you desire, the acupuncturist said it was "distorted Qi Flow", the therapist called it "emotional repression", the back specialist called it "disc degeneration", the physiotherapist called it "stubborn muscle stiffness", the osteopath called it "stuck tension". Whatever it was, it healed when I cried more often. Laughter is the best medicine they say, well that's just a weak old statement derived from the theory of forced positivity! Evidently!

I am so busy daily I have no time to cry. I cry only when it really REALLY gets overwhelming (or ironically, at slow sappy movies, or maybe not so ironic, because if you are so busy daily, you have no time to watch movies). If I schedule in my diary a time slot for "crying", would my bosses think I've gone totally bonkers? Not according to my back, that's what!

2021 saw some other life events too, which I'm not ready to talk about. Events which saw me oscillating between ecstasy and fear, calm and panic. 2022 so far has been spent dealing with the aftermath of such events and 2022 feels like it will be a long year, but I am not choosing to believe that it will, because such events are within my control and I will live them according to my own terms.

All in all, I believe I emerged in 2021 putting myself first. You can't expect others to accept you the way that you are (flaws and all), if you don't first accept yourself (flaws and all). Once you accept yourself, you don't really need others to accept you. It's an ironic statement and one in which I am channeling and manifesting in my life each and everyday. 

The season of me

The water flows down the valley into a stream. There is a glimmer in the waters from where the light hits, the kind that seasoned artists capture in their paintings. A young deer stoops to drink from the stream. It is picture perfect, scenic and calm.

A woman walks through the meadow carrying a basket of strawberries. Her hair is in two plaits, and the hem of her dress billows with the wind. The meadow smells of freshly-cut grass, with a whiff of forest oak from yonder. 

She looks up to the sky, eyes fixated at the shapes and patterns forming in the clouds. Her toddler brother runs gaily around her humming the tune of a nursery rhyme. She reaches over to carry him in a swoop and her strawberries fall to the ground and tumble through the grass. They laugh at the encounter, that of love, closeness and siblinghood. 

Fresh bread is baking in the oven at grandmother's, as grandmother removes her apron and sits in her rocking chair to read a book. The curls around her temple frame her face softly, as she brushes a strand from an eye and tucks it beneath her sturdy butterfly clip. Frank Sinatra plays in the background through a 1990 store-bought record player. 

It is a simple, uneventful day, the kind you trade for grandeur - ones with stupendous hikes, profit-making sales or record-breaking medals - but it stands on its own like fuchsia peeking through a world of swanky, patent black. It is the sort of day you imagine yourself twirling to the sound of music, your thoughts quiet and your body warm and whole. 

For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time for war, and a time for peace. 

My joy storage

The pursuit of joy is elusive. I know where to find it when I go looking:

- Laughter, jokes, humourous cynicism

- Being in the presence of a person who is unapologetically themselves

- Creating art, music and sentences that reflect what really goes on inside

- Large shady trees, crashing waves

- Baroque architecture, courtyards, fireplaces

- Anything vast like staring at a mountain up close, or looking into the bright blue sky

These are a few of my joyous things. 

The thing is I go looking. 

Is joy innate? Is 'going looking' a form of escapism, flight, even desperation?

Do you face the wave of terrible emotion in a pursuit to feel joy thereafter? 

Do you brave the wave of fear to feel the joy of accomplishment?

Is joy a matter of perception, prone to conscious tweaking, or does it fall freely onto you like the wind when the weather is fair? 

Is the weather fair?

If joy is embedded within me somewhere, where in this body do I tap to unleash the joyful chorus to my clamorous bridges? 

Where in the anatomy of the brain is my joy storage? 

Breathe

The deep seas chart the horizon. Look ahead, how vast, beautiful, unknown. Would you dive in deep, breathing at the 3rd stroke? 

The crisp air fills these lungs, like ice to the heat. Won't you take the saving breath as you go on your way, coursing through the waves? 

Off tangent the forces steer you, off course the load compels you. Your pain is real and so are theirs. It scratches your elbow and crushes their toe. 

The battles break with swords clinking and the sirens wail with pacemakers beeping. In this bucket of tears I see you clearly, just as you are. I'll meet you in the cloakroom where we'll shed our coats.

We'll dance through the night and drink through the day. We'll hug from the bone and love from the soul.

Come with your empty cup and we'll fight the tide with our buoyant lungs and our fiery zeal.

Won't you take the saving breath as you go on your way, coursing through the waves? 

Captive

Clock strikes 12am. Kettle shrieks, time for a cup of tea.

The pictures on the wall tell a story about times past, filled with wide smiles, idealistic dreams and carefree living.

And the story goes as follows: What a life this is, spending 31 years of his living forgetting pasts and unloading baggage. A tinge of idealism still lay within, despite the long line of dream-breaking realists he would meet over coffee and banter, queueing up in his life excitedly to meet him, stinking like litter. 

When he were lucky enough to bring up Finnis-like principles with angels and geniuses who entertained them, surreptitiously, his spirit would somersault. 

Knowing smiles of arrogance would follow. That is the thing with idealism. It sticks like glue. Idealists know they are right, this is true (so are their beliefs). 

He spent his free time connecting with loved ones - caring for them, believing in them, learning from them, growing with them; adamant, that everyone's favourite accessory (that also known as friendship) would bring to spring in his drab garden little seedlings of meaning. 

In his pursuits he was earnest, bright and benevolent. In the covers, he was, however, heavyweight, coarse and brittle, like shards of porcelain china, all of which did not of course dress well with the swanky accessories.

It was not clear to him at all, if he was captivated by the shimmer of their necklaces, or blinded captive by their wrist bracelets.