En route to YVR

Almost at the end of a 12hour flight, and slowly approaching the coast of Canada from the Pacific. It’s the first time for me to fly from Hong Kong to Vancouver, and on the way the plane actually flew over Taiwan. I was fast asleep at the time, exhausted from the day, and from walking around and planespotting at Hong Kong International Airport for almost two hours because I didn’t want to be sitting for too long before the long flight ahead.

It has been a turbulent flight, with here and there extremely bumpy bits along the way. Originally I booked myself an aisle seat, so I could stretch my legs easier, and get up to use the bathroom if I need to without needing to disturb anyone. But there was a family, a dad and his two small children, barely 8 years old, who were separated by some oversight during check-in, so I offered to switch seats with the dad. Besides having water spilled on me, and not being able to really sleep long or well enough, it has been an alright flight.

Once or twice, my mind drifted to mum, drifted to thoughts and dark images of death and pain... It felt relatively easy to leave home and to say goodbye to mum, but perhaps as the distance between us grows, the more difficult it becomes. Or, at least, it just feels that way. Maybe I have not completely let go yet, for part of me fears I may have to return to mum if the next test results are bleak. But really, the only thing I can do is to see how things turn out, and deal with situations as they arise. In the meantime, I must try to work as hard as I can to accomplish my goal of completing my thesis within the next two months.

Almost in Canada… the thought fills me with a sense of freshness and excitement, and a sense of joy of returning to a place where I feel at home. As planned, my friend has arranged to fly all the way to the West Coast in order to greet me at the airport, and we are spending a few days together to bond after so many weeks apart.

I look forward to seeing him again, and to spending time together, alone. Yet, at the same time, I’m a bit apprehensive too about staying around the Vancouver area for four days. Sure, I’m going to see my relatives, and do a bit of sightseeing, but to be honest, I really just want to be back home, back in my own little space in Montreal, especially having been ‘on the road’ for almost two months. I’m not sure how to describe that feeling, because it is not as if I’ve been living out of the suitcase while I was at home with mum. But sometimes after being away from home too long, it feels comfortable, safe just to be surrounded by familiar and personal items.

Almost in Canada again… it’s been two months since I left. Much snow has fallen, much change must have taken place. It will take some getting used to to return, but I  am glad I have come back.

At TPE

One by one, I called my relatives to bid them farewell. All of the conversations with the same blessings and well-wishes. I called mum last.

She sounded cheerful, and it was comforting to hear the cheerfulness in her voice. All all mothers, she told me to take care of myself, to eat well, dress warmly, and not to worry. "I will live my life well," she said. Shortly after I left, my brother and two of her friends called to ask her how she's doing. I am so grateful that there are so many people in her life who care about her wellbeing, and who keep in touch with her to encourage her and to give her emotional support.

I gave mum a hug before I boarded the taxi to the airport. I closed my eyes, and wished her well. And I let go. It was not as difficult as I had feared. I had cleaned the house a bit before I left. I bowed before her little shrine, and asked Buddha to watch over her. I stood before dad's portrait, and asked him to look after mum. And I left my big teddy bear on her bed, so that she will have company at night, and together with the pictures I had put up, so that she can surrounded by smiles, warmth and love as  soon as she gets up, and whenever she goes to bed.

Just before I closed the door of the taxi, I gave her another hug, and she was surprised. "Another hug?" she asked.

"Be happy! Live well!" I said. If my thoughts, my warmth and affection could travel, I hope she felt it through my hug. She did not have tears in her eyes, but I think deep down, she must be sad to see me go... But that sadness will pass, and that sadness I believe, can be overwhelmed the beautiful memories we have shared in the past two months.

As the taxi slowly drove away, I wound down the window and called out "Mum!" She turned to wave, and just before the taxi turned a corner, I watched her, head a little down walking back to our front door. Nobody is sure when we will meet again, and under what circumstances. But somehow, that uncertainty does not scare me as much now.

Soon I will take off... and my heart is for once, at least for now, calm and at ease.

At TPE

One by one, I called my relatives to bid them farewell. All of the conversations with the same blessings and well-wishes. I called mum last.

She sounded cheerful, and it was comforting to hear the cheerfulness in her voice. All all mothers, she told me to take care of myself, to eat well, dress warmly, and not to worry. "I will live my life well," she said. Shortly after I left, my brother and two of her friends called to ask her how she's doing. I am so grateful that there are so many people in her life who care about her wellbeing, and who keep in touch with her to encourage her and to give her emotional support.

I gave mum a hug before I boarded the taxi to the airport. I closed my eyes, and wished her well. And I let go. It was not as difficult as I had feared. I had cleaned the house a bit before I left. I bowed before her little shrine, and asked Buddha to watch over her. I stood before dad's portrait, and asked him to look after mum. And I left my big teddy bear on her bed, so that she will have company at night, and together with the pictures I had put up, so that she can surrounded by smiles, warmth and love as  soon as she gets up, and whenever she goes to bed.

Just before I closed the door of the taxi, I gave her another hug, and she was surprised. "Another hug?" she asked.

"Be happy! Live well!" I said. If my thoughts, my warmth and affection could travel, I hope she felt it through my hug. She did not have tears in her eyes, but I think deep down, she must be sad to see me go... But that sadness will pass, and that sadness I believe, can be overwhelmed the beautiful memories we have shared in the past two months.

As the taxi slowly drove away, I wound down the window and called out "Mum!" She turned to wave, and just before the taxi turned a corner, I watched her, head a little down walking back to our front door. Nobody is sure when we will meet again, and under what circumstances. But somehow, that uncertainty does not scare me as much now.

Soon I will take off... and my heart is for once, at least for now, calm and at ease.

Day before departure

There is an ancient poem called the "Song of the Parting Son" (遊子吟). 
The poem describes a mother sitting and sowing the clothes of her son, who is about to leave home.
Thread by thread, she sows, but her heart is full of worry, because she is uncertain when the son will return home again. The poem ends with a rhetorical question: the gratitude of the child is like the meager blade of grass that is merely a few inches tall... can that blade of grass ever repay the glorious sunshine of many Springs?

慈母手中線， 

遊子身上衣。 

臨行密密縫，  

意恐遲遲歸。 

誰言寸草心，

報得三春暉  

(translation mine)

A loving mother with thread in hand,
[Sewing] On the clothes of a parting son;
Intimately, intimately [she] sows before [his] departure,
[In her] Heart fearing a long, long overdue return.
Who says the love of only inches of grass,
Can ever reciprocate the splendor of sunshine, Spring after Spring?

This afternoon, that very scene seemed to be replaying in our very living room. For some time, mum has noticed there is a hole on the inner seam of my winter coat. As I was packing my suitcase, she got out a needle and thread, and started to sow my coat. I watched her sit by the window, head down, fully concentrated, and carefully pulling the thin thread in and out, in and out as she nimbly mended my coat. It was a touching scene. 

When she finished sowing, I put on the coat, and felt the warmth and affection of a caring mother. The coat is no longer just a coat that I put on to brave the cold. It now has a special meaning, as if it were blessed. Indeed, how could any child  ever repay the amount of time, energy and worry of a mother?

Tucking mum into bed tonight might be the last time for a long time to come... it might even be the very last time I am sitting by her side, and watching her close her eyes to sleep. This time tomorrow, I will no longer be around. The sadness of leaving has not caught up yet, but I know and fear it will come soon enough...

Two months have already passed since I arrived her, hoping to make a difference, hoping to give mum emotional support and encouragement while she is going through a very difficult time in her life. I've been told by various people that I've done more than enough, that I've done more than most people would. It is rare, they say, for a son who lives abroad to want to spend so much time with his own mother-- especially someone who can easily just go off and enjoy his own life far, far away... More than once, complete strangers on the street have complimented me on how I treat my mum praised how wonderful our relationship appears to be.

I can only say I try... I try, because it is the only thing that we as human beings do best when we do not know what fate or life has in store for us. 

I try to make the most of the time together with mum, even if there are moments of frustration and grumpiness, especially being in a confined space together for a long time. I try to make her feel comforted, loved and cared for. Try, with my words of encouragement, with my pats on the back, with little gifts and surprises, with those little notes and photographs that I leave around the house. In the latest attempt at surprising mum and trying to inject a boost of confidence and refreshment in life,  I put up various pictures in her room. There are pictures of nature, of many places around the world mum has visited, and also beautiful pictures of moments of mum smiling, laughing and looking very happy, looking as if there were not a worry in the world. "See, it is possible to have fun, to enjoy life!" I said, as I pointed to her in the pictures and relived memories together. One picture is of mum standing next to a big tall tree, and she put her hand on the tree trunk, because the tree had a huge tumour. I remember clearly she said to me that day that even trees have tumours, and they still grow to be old and strong.

I may not be here tomorrow this time, but there are many memories that will linger. And there are many things that I have done and many things I have left behind that will fill the void after my suitcase, my wintercoat, and my physical presence has left...

letting go...

“You’ve really done a lot for all of us,” mum said as she looked into my eyes. She lay in bed in her pajamas and was getting ready to sleep. I was by her bedside and stroked her back a little to wish her goodnight.

There are many things a child can do to show love and affection toward the parents, and one of them is to provide care and support when they are old and frail. Growing up in a culture infused with the Confucian philosophy of ‘filial piety’, a child is expected to tend to the needs of the parents in old age, is expected to provide and house the parents till they leave this world. All this grounded in the idea that the nurture and love of a parent toward a child during childhood and adolescence (and beyond) is like a debt that can never be repaid in kind, so the least a child can do is try to care as much as possible for the parents while they are alive.

But times have changed, societies have modernised, and values and beliefs have radically been simplified, or even forgotten. Personally, though, being loving and caring for my parents is something I always strive to do, and unfortunately, sometimes I feel I have not really done enough, especially in the case of my dad who passed away all too soon, and all too suddenly.

Do I have a chance to make it all better in the case of my mum? That is a question that has been on my mind for the last couple of years, and with her seemingly ailing health, the question continues to cast a shadow over my life.

There is a reason why in the last two, three years I’ve flown back and forth between where I live (be that the Netherlands or Canada) and Taiwan. I want to make the most of my available time to be there for my mother, to give her a boost of confidence and human contact during those days she needs it most—especially days when she is undergoing chemo therapy, and when she is at her weakest, physically and mentally. Whether it’s making her bed every morning or warming her bed with the electric blanket at night before she retires, whether it’s sweeping the hairs off of the floor so she does not feel upset seeing her hair loss, whether it’s making a meal for her, making sure that she gets enough nutrients and can quickly recover from her chemo treatment, or whether it’s accompanying her to the park to do exercises and to get a breath of fresh air—they’re all little things that make her feel cared for, make her feel loved. Even strangers on the street have complimented me on how caring and loving I am toward her, which seems to surprise people pleasantly.

I may not be the perfect son, for I can be impatient and at times clumsy. But my care and my love toward my mum is genuine, and it moves people, moves even me, to tears. I never regret anything I have done, for I do it all willingly, and I could never say I’m sacrificing my own future or happiness to make my mum feel cared for and loved.

But there comes a point when I have to face reality, and let fate take its course. There comes a point when I have to just trust myself, trust that I have done enough, and make peace with what I have done to be there for my mum, to support my mum emotionally and physically when she needs it most. I must learn to trust that I will continue to do so, whatever condition she is in, and wherever I may find myself.

And in the meantime, I must be ready to let go, and not regret my decision to go and (re)start my own life abroad, away from her. Staying put and staying constantly at her side will do nobody any good, as I have been told by many outsiders, and even by mum herself. The more I stay around, the more she will feel like I’m waiting for her to ‘pass on’, so that I could finally begin my life. The longer I stay around, the more I will feel there are many opportunities or chances that I am missing, and the more I will feel resentment and regret, at myself, and at life itself. Nothing will make mum feel more at ease, more ready to leave this world in peace when that moment comes, than to see that I am making something of my life, making something out of the years of study and time and efforts that I have invested into my studies.

Nobody knows what the future will bring, or when people will come or go. What I do know is that I have been there for my mum, and I have fully given myself to make sure she feels love and cared for. “You’ve really done a lot for all of us…” Those words are a reminder to me that it is time to let go, time to go and do my own things. Whatever will happen will happen, even if things happen in ways or at moments when you least expect them to.

I hope I will leave here with mum’s words in mind, and find peace in leaving. Find peace in leaving, and in knowing that I have really done the best I could under the circumstances. And, most importantly, find peace of heart and peace of mind in knowing that mum feels I have done the best I could, and treasures it all too.

Night before departure

"This is life..."

The second last night before I leave on a jet plane. I sat next to mum's bed as she lay covered in bed, the white teddy she bought me sitting right next to her pillow. Almost every night, I would sit by her bedside and talk with her till she is about to fall asleep. "It's already been two months," mum said, "The days have passed by so quickly..."

In the last few days, I noticed that some of the things she says reveal her sadness about my departure. I feel the same way too, and maybe that's why I'm sensitive to those sentiments too. And it feels more difficult to hear that coming from her. It is not that she is trying to make me stay, for really she does want me to go and do my own things, but how can a mother not miss her child when (s)he is not around?

"This is life..." I said quietly, "If you live with worry and fear, days will pass by [feeling] as if they were [as long as] years. But living happily, living with laughter, the days pass by so quickly." Like so many times before, I tried to encourage her, to comfort her, and to help her get back to life on her own.
Again, she said that I've done many things for her in the last two months, and thanked me, to which I could only reply with a smile. What is there to thank? I thought. I am doing the best I can, and doing what I feel I should do as a son for as long as I can. When I am gone, I can do no more. However difficult it will be to leave upcoming Friday, if anything should happen, she will know that I care, that I love her deeply...

On her bedside table is a book entitled "Living a Healthy Life", which I was happy to see her reading while she soaked her feet. The book is written by a doctor who had terminal cancer, but decided to change his outlook on life. Instead of fear and thinking about death, live a balanced life, he recommends. Live a life of exercise, of sunshine, a life of smiles and peaceful thoughts, a life of being with nature. His illness is now under control, and he encourages other patients not to view cancer as a death sentence, for it need not be. Mum has many such books, as well as many books about Buddhism and the teachings of Dharma. They will offer her invaluable solace and mental support.

"Go out, go to the mountains when you are feeling up to it. Go see our relatives and friends and laugh a lot," I said. Earlier in the day, I took her to go see flowers at the Taipei International Flora Expo, and we had a great time together, walking among the different sorts of plants and breathing in the fresh scent of exotic flowers and trees. Every day should be like this. Seeing the world with new, excited eyes, feeling interested and alive at all the amazing things there are to admire in the world.

I may not be physically here with her in two days time, and it may take some getting used to. But really, I have done all I could to make her feel loved and cared for. Most of all, I have often strove to make her feel like that all her efforts and hardships bringing me up has been worth it.

There is a special bond between my mother and I, one that can withstand the test of distance and time...

Footbath

They say a child's deep 'love', 'devotion' and 'care' for one's parent (in Chinese, simply: 孝心, or "filial heart") can move heaven and earth, and make even the deities cry from being touched. Well, I never realised it can also be used as a bargaining tool too!

I have been eying this foot tub made from the rare Formosan Hinoki for quiet some time already, and ever since I heard about the wonders of foot baths and how it can improve health I've been wanting to buy it for my mum clandestinely. The tub itself is around half a metre in diametre, and you can easily soak up to your knee in it. Mum and I saw it at a store a month or so ago, and I urged her to buy it. But it was kind of expensive, costing NT$5800 (around US$200). Part of the reason is because the Formosan Hinoki is now a protected national treasure, so it can no longer be cut down. It has a pungent scent that lingers in the wood, even after having been cut down for a long, long time. The scent can ward off insects, and they say even bad spirits. During the Japanese colonial period, the Japanese prized the Formosan Hinoki so much that they shipped a lot of the wood back to Japan to build wooden gates of national shrines and temples.

I walked into the store tonight, and looked at the tub with great interest. I didn't really say much, just touched it and smelt it numerous times. "So this is the price...?" I asked, and went on to explain how I wanted to buy it for my mum after hearing the health benefits of foot baths.

The storekeeper was touched. He cut the price down, initially by a few hundred (New Taiwan) dollars, but the longer I stood holding the tub and looking at it, the more he was willing to cut the price. In the end, I walked away happily with a great saving, and rushed home to give it to mum.

According to the lunar calendar, today is actually my real birthday, the one that my mum remembers and feels is more important than 21 February. Rushing home, I surprised mum with the gift, and joked that it was a gift from me to her on her birth-day (...day of giving birth!). Soon afterward, mum was reading a book while happily soaking her feet.

The scent of Hinoki filled our home, warming our hearts...

Radioactive

"Are you going to glow in the dark...?" I joked. Even in circumstances when things appear bleak, one should never loose the ability to joke, to make fun of things, to see the lighter side of life. It makes things easier, even if joking and laughing is sometimes difficult.

The nurse injected a syringe-amount of Gallium 67 into mum's veins, as she explained the medical procedure. The dosage is not so much that it is lethal, in fact, it is even lower than the amount that is used in other countries. You need to wait around 48hours till the chemical spread around the body, and then you can take a scan, which will reveal parts of the body infected with cancerous cells. Though not lethal, it is best to keep away from pregnant women and young children, the nurse reminded us. I pointed to my belly, "Well, at least I'm not in danger!"

One appointment after another today. The day began already at eight, when we went in for a bone scan. That scan also requires the patient to inject some trace chemicals into the body. You must wait three hours till the medicine comes into effect and before you can take the scan. The scan itself takes only twenty minutes or so, and all the time, the patient is strapped to an MRI-like machinery while photographic images of the bones are taken. Mum actually fell asleep during the entire procedure.

Immediately after that, mum had an appointment with her main physician, and we had to wait till two before it was her turn. We bought some lunch, and sat in the park next to the hospital, watching the fishies swim around in the pond, and listening to the birds call. I looked around, at the people, relatives, doctors and patients rushing to and fro, and was reminded of events a few years ago...

"Remember before when you were staying here for treatment, I would bring you breakfast, lunch and dinner every day?" I said. That was already three years ago. Life too seemed difficult and desperate then. The circumstances we faced were at the time excrutiatingly painful, and it felt at times like it was all so hopeless...

But look at how far we have come? Of course, today's circumstances are difficult too, if not more difficult and more dire than before. But, as with everything in life, one day when you look back at events, moments and places in the past, it appears so insignificant, like a long, distant memory. Mum smiled at the memory....

As he analysed mum's file on the computer, the main physician had some good news. I'm not sure whether he was saying it to comfort her, but perhaps for the first time since the discovery of the spreading in the spinal column he told mum frankly that things are not as bad as it seems. There is always a danger of spinal collapse and eventual paralysis if there is no surgery, but immediate surgery is not necessary, especially if introvenous chemo therapy is available. And after two months of waiting, the National Health Insurance (NIH) finally approved mum to receive a better chemo treatment, which is supposed to be more effective and only target cancerous cells in the body, thus have less side effects. If  she had to pay for it herself, it would be over NT$70,000 (approx. US$2,000, which is around twice  the average monthly salary here...) per session, and each complete treatment consists of at least eight sessions.

For a while, mum fretted over the costs of the expensive treatment. Yet with the coverage of the NIH, all she paid today was NT$100 (approx. US$3.5) for the consultation fee, and the rest of the medical expenses is footed by the national insurance. Say what you will about this country, about the government, but once again, situations like this once again make me feel so grateful and so proud to be from a country that cares about the wellbeing of its people, and has the financial and medical means and knowhow to provide advanced health care to all who need it.

We made our way out of the hospital with a light spirit, and it was beautiful to see mum smile and even whistle a little later in the day. But before we left the hospital building, I turned to say I wanted to go somewhere. Mum was puzzled, and she followed me down to the basement. "Where are you going?" she asked.

"You'll see..." I replied, as I made my way into the oncology ward. I may not be here the next time when she does the chemo therapy, but the nurses who serve so many patients day in, day out will be, and they always seem to maintain the ability to smile, to be cheerful, despite what they have to see and experience every day. Importantly, they have the ability to cheer mum up, make her feel at ease and taken care of.

I entered the ward quietly, and immediately saw one of the nurses mum knows well. "Thank you..." I said, "Thank you so much for taking care of mum..." There are moments in life when your own gratitude can move you to tears, and this was one of them for me. Such heart-felt and deep, deep gratitude that words alone cannot express or capture.

The nurse and her colleagues just laughed and smiled.

"When you go back..."

I woke mum up, after she took a little nap. Woke her up to go into the hospital again, for the second time today to conduct her bone scans.

She stirred slowly. I lay down next to her, and our cheeks briefly touch. She petted my head, and softly said, "When you go back, there will be many days when I will miss you a lot..."

My eyes teared, and I closed them tightly to escape the tears from flowing. She petted my head again. "When you are here, you look after a lot of things. I'll have to manage when you leave. Your future is more important, and you need to do your own things..."

My eyes were closed still, my heart heavy with emotions. It is all so very hard....

Sitting

It was so quiet I could hear her breathing, and the occasional sound of her throat when she swallows. We sat close to one anther, cross-legged in the lotus position, and meditated before our little altar in the living room. It's become a kind of nightly ritual between mum and I, something we both do together before retiring to bed.

All the noises and troubles of the day seem to disappear, at least temporarily. All the sights and sounds of hospital wards, of sickly patients, of needles and injections vanish, at least for a few moments while we sit and watch our minds. Of course, occasionally disturbing thoughts appear, fears, worries and imaginations arise. But the point is remind yourself again and again that these thoughts and feelings will come and go, come and go, so there is no point to be entangled in them.

It is a special bond to share, I was told before by the monk in the mountains. A mother and child being able to meditate quietly and share that peace of mind and stillness of the heart between; it's rare. To be able to reflect and talk about teachings of the Dharma, to talk freely and frankly about life, death and suffering, and walk down the Middle Path together; it's a gift that not many family members share . And I am so fortunate to have that.

Every time, at the end of the meditation session, which can last up to an hour, we bow and end the sitting. We always look at one another, with a sort of satisfied and content look on each other's faces.

I'm going to miss this, and so much more, when I am gone...

At the courthouse

"Say again? You don't have much more what?" asked the public notary, as she flipped through the pieces of paper on her desk.

"Don't have much more [time] to live," mum said quietly. When I heard that, I was puzzled again where she got that idea from. I don't think any one ever said that to her in so many words.

"But you look so well! You look healthy!" the notary exclaimed.

Mum looked at me and smiled. I smiled back and shook my head, mouthing to say "There you go again, thinking and imaging the worst..."

We sat for a while together with the public notary, who read through copies of mum's handwritten will carefully. She was a friendly and chatty lady, who was very supportive and understanding. Mum explained her condition, and why she was interested to get all this done 'just in case', like so many people we have come across, the notary could not believe that mum is ill or think that there is anything wrong with her.

Of course, deep down inside, the cancer seems to be spreading, and this morning was the beginning of a series of tests to see how advanced her illness is. The coming few days will be filled with more visits to the hospital, more testing, more waiting...

But from the outside, at least on most days, mum still radiates a sense of vitality that looks and feels just as normal as any other person on the street. I often remind mum of that, and tell her not to think or imagine things are so terrible, because really, I have seen cancer patients who are much worse off... And mum is no where near like that. Like often before, I patted her on the back, encouraged her, comforted her, and told her not to think or worry too much (though, admittedly, I do the same thing...) "Just live happily everyday and take every day as it comes..."

We walked out of the courthouse, and mum had a smile on her face. "Another thing on my mind that has now been done," she said. Together, we went to the bank, and placed copies of the will in a safety deposit box. Inside the box, there were pieces of jewelry. Nothing really fancy or valuable, but they are family heirlooms that have passed on from generation to generation. It was fascinating to hear little stories and anecdotes, and to hold before me rings and amulets that my grandparents (and perhaps even people before them) have personally worn and touched.

I slowly placed the deposit box back where it belonged, and closed the little door with a 'click'. My fingers lingered a few seconds on the door, my finger tips touching the coded number of the deposit box.

In my mind, I thought of the next time I open this box, for mum may very well no longer be around....

If I should die...

It's not a matter of "if" but "when".

Because there will be one day when I will leave this world. How,  whether in a tranquil or tragic way, I do not know. Whether alone, or surrounded by the people closest and dearest to me, I cannot know yet (and may never know...) But I will leave, and I hope with a light, clean and clear mind.

My memories will die and disappear with me, and memories of me will gradually, gradually fade and one day be forever forgotten. I want my remains to return to nature, to return to the world it once came from. Perhaps all that will be left of me are these words and pictures from my life-- to be shared, and perhaps also, to inspire. And I ask for nothing more.

I do not want people to mourn or to grief when I die, for dying is the most natural event in a person's life. Only it occurs at the very end of it. It's like the grand finale, and I hope I will have lived my life so people can smile and feel warmed at the end of the show, and think "That was a good one!"

I am writing this now before it's too late, because most of us think or believe or persuade ourselves that we'll live on and on. Most of us live telling ourselves there is always tomorrow, always the next hour, or the next minute. But I've learned early on that there is aging, there is illness and there is death in life, just as there can be life in death.

I don't want people to mourn my passing, because really it is the ultimate liberation from this world, in which we are constantly at the whim of our emotions, of fears, of loss and desires. Even so, it is also a world that can be so touching, filled with love and beauty, if only we care to open our eyes and hearts to see all of that. And I do hope that in my life I have been able to make this world, or at least make the worlds of those around me, a little more loving, a little more beautiful.

I have made mistakes in my life, I have been wrong and unkind, cruel and angry. I know I have wronged people, spoken harsh words and had ill feelings and thoughts toward people, for which I regret and ask for forgiveness...

Forgive me for my moments of ignorance, for the times I have deluded myself and become lost is my own ego and selfishness. Please forgive me for having ill wishes and negative intentions toward anyone or any being...

I have hopefully lived a full life, and lived a 'good' life by filling it with kindness and love. I know deep down inside, a lot of the things I have experienced as a child may be difficult to forget, difficult to let go of. But I have tried, and hopefully succeeded, in soothing violence and abuse with forgiveness and an open heart. What did not kill me made me stronger, made me the person I was.

I have encountered many a beautiful people in my life, some of those merely for a few seconds, some of them for years, and one or two for a lifetime. Whether friend or family, I want to thank them from the depths of my heart, for enriching my life with hope, positiveness and support...

Forever I shall be grateful to my parents, who gave me the gift of life, who gave me means to make something of my life. They showed me, in different ways, what it means to love and give unconditionally. I am forever grateful for the sacrifices they have made to give me the foundation of a life free from worry, free from shortage and full of opportunities. They taught me respect and virtue, held me when I first took a step, held me whenever I cried and supported me no matter what I did or what I wanted to do.

Dad, I have always remembered  how we used to fall asleep together at night, and all those (tall) tales you would tell me before you fell asleep first... And I have never forgotten how I held you and whispered to you quietly as you peacefully passed away in my hands.

Mum, I will never forget how we meditated together as mother and son... Of all the places we have visited together, of all the beautiful moments we have shared, that brief hour canoeing on the blue, blue Lake Louise will forever be etched in my memories... Thank you for loving me, caring about me like no one ever will, even till the very last breath you took...

I hope I have not been a difficult child and caused you too much headache and heartache, and that you will be proud of me and what I have done in my life. I hope I have been a good son, and fulfilled my 'duties' to be filial, to be loving and caring and to be there for them when you needed  me the most.

To my lovers, I want to thank you for loving me, and allowing me to love you in return, in different ways, to different degrees. I know I was a complicated person, with mood swings and a tendency to be down and take life too seriously, but through your love and your warmth and support, you have made me so much more beautiful and confident.

In particular, I want to thank one person, my first true love. We began as friends, but that the bond between us grew and grew, and eventually blossomed to love, despite all odds and complications. Thank you for forever caring so much, for loving me so much, for making me smile and laugh and cry in ways I never imagined possible. Thank you for your patience, for being understanding, for your hugs and for the wonderful, passionate moments lying next to one another. You taught me to believe in myself, to love myself my by repeatedly telling me how beautiful I am, something for a long time I refused to believe. You allowed me to love, to give and to be intimate with one person in ways I could never dream of. You have always been the one and only special, special friend whom I cherish and love and think of even when we were apart...

To my friends... thank you for being there for me, for listening, for your words of encouragement, for little gestures that made my life easier, happier, and more fulfilling. Thank you for being my friend, even if we grew together and eventually drifted apart. I hope I have been a good friend, someone who you could count on, someone you would think of when you needed help and support. In the time we spent together, on the journeys we took together, you held a mirror before me and reflected who I am, and taught me what better person I could be.


To the cats whom I have rescued from shelters... You rescued me in a way by providing me with company and love with your headbutting and purring (even if you just wanted food...). I know I may have not been the perfect 'boss', and that I have often left you on your own, sometimes for weeks or for months... But you made days and nights alone not feel so alone, and you allowed me to express and feel such furry feelings of warmth and love that softened my heart even more.



To all the homeless people and those in need I have encountered, either from afar or a few steps away... thank you for arousing in me feelings of compassion and care for a stranger, even if on the street I just walked on by and seemingly did not notice you. I did notice you, even if it were only from the corner of my eye. And it often hurt to see a fellow human being, even if I did not know your name, even if I were never to see you again, suffer and live in conditions nobody should have to endure. You reminded me again and again how fortunate I have always been, and how a little offering of food or money can bring to my heart such simple and fulfilling joy and warmth. You reminded me so often how a little giving, how a little act of charity, can make me smile and smile.

To the the Buddha, the Bhikkhus and Bhikkhunis I have encountered, I offer you my deepest gratitude and reverence for your teachings. Ever since my encounter with Buddhism, you have offered me invaluable refuge and understanding of the true nature of the world, and the true nature of the mind. Through you, and through my meditation practice, I have been able to see 'through' life to realise death, to understand beauty by understanding ugliness. The Buddhist precepts have been my moral compass, which I hope I have lived by and through my life been an inspiration to others. The teachings of the Buddha have allowed me to appreciate how  everyone in the world is subject to the same suffering, mental anguish and physical pain.  I have been fortunate to understand that everything changes, and nothing belongs to me, and realising this has made it easier for me to let go, to lighten my burdens and to strive to do the best I can in life with what I have. It is my hope that in all I have said, in all I have done, I have been a good practitioner, a lived my life with wisdom, compassion and love for all beings. And I hope through my life, through my practice, I have been a lamp upon myself, and to others.

 When I should die, I want to leave this world a few well wishes and hopes...

... if I have ever had any ill-will or ill-feeling toward any person or being may I be forgiven. I ask for forgiveness of my trespasses, in body, speech or mind, against another person or being, as I forgive those who trespass against me. May we meet again, in this life or another, in this existence or another, with a clean conscience and clean slate. May we always greet one another with peace and loving kindness.

...may all beings be happy, truly happy, and truly free. May all beings, small or large, animate or inanimate, be free from pain, free from suffering, free from mental anguish and physical hurt. May all beings be well.

[This is entry will be continuously updated: last updated 03 January 2013]

Turning 27

I do not have any particular wish on my birthday. Not even long life, despite mum asking me to eat long noodles for dinner today (a symbol of long life...)

I do not need much in my life at this moment in my life. I have my health, I can walk, I can see, I can think. I can do whatever I want with what I have, and I can go anywhere I want whenever I want. Being alive and healthy is a gift, a precious one I value more and more every day, and every time I see someone weakened and pained by illness, or taken away by death...

I have a family, a mother who loves me deeply, who cares about me, accepts me for who I am, and worries about me, even when I tell her not to. I have a brother, a sister-in-law, and a whole bunch of relatives who will always welcome me into their homes. And I have a father, who though already departed, still smiles down at me whenever I look up at the sky.

And I have great friends, a loving cat waiting patiently for my return (and another cat elsewhere...). And for the first time in a long, long time (or perhaps, ever...), a loving and caring partner who makes me feel loved, makes me feel special and warm inside.

I may not have a job or a clue what I want to do with my life. But I know somehow, and sometime soon, I will eventually find my way in the world.

I have also the teachings of the Buddha, which allows me to see 'through' life, to see 'through' the ways of the world and all its discontents, providing me with the ability to live more peacefully and be more at ease, with the world, and with myself.

I do not wish for much on this day... just that I hope the world, and all its beings may be well, happy, and free from suffering.