Natural process

I stood on the plateau overlooking the valley below. Sun set, the world was coloured orange and gold, warmth fading slowly as the sun dropped slowly into the mountains with their backs hunched over the horizon. The air filled with the chirping of insects, and gentle song of birds. The dogs stood around me and wagged their tails in glee. The sound of water flowed quietly in the background.

It's been almost a year since I last stayed at the monastery. A little haven of peace, an undiscovered place of peace and bliss hidden away in the mountains of central Taiwan. As a lone stranger I wandered onto the monastery grounds almost three years ago. I was not sure what to expect, and only little more than the basic ideas about the Buddhist teachings and way of life. But almost immediately, I was mesmerised. By the beauty, the tranquility that nature had to offer, by the leaves that seemed to come alive in the wind, by the sounds of invisible creatures that lived in the dense forests surrounding us, by the mountains, sometimes draped in silky white mist, sometimes flush with green, which forever changed their colours and appearances.

The first time I visited, I only had enough clean clothes to last two days, three days max. In the end, I stayed over three weeks, and only left somewhat unwillingly to go back to the din and chaos of city life. I'd return in the course of the years, again and again. The place has become like a home, the people there like family, and the Hawaiian monk who resides there like a guide, a friend, and a father. Through him I learned about mindfulness, compassion, loving-kindness, and living with wisdom. Through him, the previously nervous and agitated me calmed down and took things as they came and went in meditative reflection. Though far from being an enlightened being, I am today a tiny step closer, and the peace and understanding of the everchanging nature of the world and things today has changed me, my world, and the world around me.

A few days ago my Buddhist master asked me a simple question. What would you do if you only had 6 months to live? I'd travel the world, I said, go to all sorts of places, see the world, because there is so much to see. And I'd write about it all, I'd share it with people stories and places that one could only imagine. Because after I'm gone, those words will be what is left of me.

It is perhaps an ideal answer, from an idealist not yet faced with the stark reality of having not much time left. We seem to live life believing we'd all die old, if we think about death at all that is. When death lurks nearby, waiting and praying, and may pounce on you at any time, the answer to the simple question may be much, much different.

This much I know from a friend, and from my mother.

Walk through Taipei

Strolled through the city, next to towering skyscrappers, the bright lights and flashing neons abuzz with life. It's been over two years since I last went to the Xinyi District. What used to be parking lots and grass fields now are construction sites and the skeletons of buildings near completion. How much has changed in the span of time!

Mum and brother left to Hokkaido this morning. I encouraged them to take a holiday together, to get away and spend time together. Though I never imagined somewhere even colder than the blustery winds and cold spell that is hitting Taipei now. But earlier in the afternoon I received a call, and brother said that they arrived safely, and have already enjoyed their first soak in the hot springs, an open-air one at that, and at the same time snow was falling. Must have been some sight and experience.

So I came home to an empty apartment. Though auntie A-Hua is living here, she has a 24hr shift today at the local hot spring hotel. I chatted with her over breakfast, and she lamented how much of a hard work her job is. It's not that she's always working, but she has to be there at least 24hr on call, ready to clean up after guests have used their bath facilities. She works one whole day, and gets one day off. Seems fair, but then again if you calculate the hours, one whole day means three working days for a normal 8hr/day job. And on days when it's really cold, people constantly stream in, even in the early hours. This is, after all, a city that doesn't really sleep. I listened with compassion, trying to imagine the hard work, but at the same time hoping that she would continue with her work, as it's given her financial independence and security. Later as I wandered through the streets, I came across at least two homeless people. The economic depression is really visible.

I came home just now, and closed the door. I sat down, and there was a silence, an emptiness. It's a big apartment, and sitting there in the living room, looking around, I realised how lonely it can get here. Especially if I just looked around, and see all these objects, belongings, pictures and reminders of me, brother, and of dad too. Is this what mum feels at the end of the day?

A moment

Once I stood on the bank, watched in silence with my dad who was equally silent. It was a clear day, with wind almost too shy to blow, and a calm bay that lay lazily beneath our feet. Into the distance spread a pristine stretch of blue, light at first, then gently fading into a darker shade further out to sea. Clumps of cotton-like clouds floated overhead, soft decor for the sky that fused into one with the water on the horizon. The mountain ridges, partly scarred and blemished rough, partly smooth, lush, and green with grass, soared above the water's surface. Far, far away, a lonely little island rested, unwavering, small and lost in the big, big ocean surrounding it.

We stood and admired the sky, the land and the sea. I imagined those sailors who came across this scene long, long ago, and was closer to understanding why they called it the "Beautiful Island". I broke the silence, and simply said, "How beautiful this is". My dad nodded in agreement.

As the car skirted the coast, I looked at that same sea, caught in that muddle between the present and the past, feeling estranged and yet somewhat familiar too. Barely six hours hours earlier, my plane had flown past these very shorelines. It is all the same sea, but at different times, under very different circumstances. Whereas the sea and this landscape is for me but a beautiful memory of shared and treasured moments in the past, for almost a year now dad watches these waters and the mountains day and night. This is where he would have most wanted to rest, we think.

I stood before dad's memorial, and put my palms before my chest in prayer. A monk chanted lowly, Buddhist music chimed, and the scent of incense filled my eyes and nostrils. A solemn moment, one I had tried to imagine over the past few weeks and months, and had finally come. I cannot describe that feeling then... that feeling which is a blend of longing, of sadness and loss, yet at the same time struck and awed by the feeling of serendipity, comfort and gratitude.

Somehow, despite being spread thinly over different countries, different continents, and in different realms of existence, our family had come together once again.