I called mum, who was just on the verge of going to the hospital.
It's an important day, 1 November. It's the day she gets to hear whether the latest treatment has helped. If not, then there has to be a new drug. But how many drugs are there left to try? How much more drugs can mum take...?
She sounded 'normal', and kept on telling me not to worry about her. Her appointment with her main physician is in the morning. I will go to bed, wake up in the morning, and a lot will have happened with mum... I will think of her, pray for her. I will imagine I am next to her, watching over her, holding her hand...
Can I fall asleep and sleep well tonight? It feels like it's been such a long time since I last slept, really slept without being tormented by nightmares and agonising thoughts and agitations...
Woke up early again, and lay in bed for a while. Calm, at least calmer, yet still my mind is troubled and disturbed, imbalanced and at times hurting.
I tuned into some podcast to listen to some recorded talks. About learning to live with loss, learning to live with death and pain, about the benefits of spreading love and kindness to those far away, to those suffering pain. Such wisdom is a safehaven when I am lost and alone in the troubled waters of the world I find myself in.
Turned on Skype, and found my brother and mum online. For the first time we had a three way chat. It was pleasant and I listened mostly as they talked about the baby and how they're doing. Mum also talked about her pains and illness, and it was good that my brother was there to listen to so frank a discussion.
Mum's friend commented on the picture of the bear I took yesterday and had posted on her Facebook page.
Later I learned that when she and her husband saw the picture, they were touched. Touched by my little gesture, touch by such a public display of affection, even from so far away. Mum's friend uttered the word "Hopeless..." to describe what she thought I must have felt. Indeed... The feeling can only be described as hopelessness. The hopelessness of a child so far away, who is worried about his mother and yet unable to do anything. I turned away to wipe away a tear.
The only support the child can offer, the only help the child can provide, if it is any help at any, is to listen, to smile and to show his mother how much he can with what little he can do...
My heart broke almost instantly when I read the message on Facebook.
A friend of my mum who paid her a visit earlier in the day wrote that mum's condition did not appear very good. "Contact her more, speak to her..." the message said. There was a picture too, and mum looked very tired. My heart was crying again, so overwhelmed by sadness, worry, hurt...
When I spoke to mum this morning she seemed alright. But mum did complain about her pains, and how it seems to be getting worse. Especially with the change in the weather. And she said the chemo treatment that the doctor gave her may not be working. She may have to switch to a new type of medicine. What, she did not know.
I'm losing it right now... Losing my composure, losing my tears... losing the collectedness and calm I found in m meditation.
I don't know who to turn to. My ex, my rock, my confidante, my source of comfort and support for so long left me... And my other friends... I don't feel I can just call them up and start ranting, crying about my problems. How terribly selfish that is to impose my burdens on their busy lives.
Another restless night, waking up at various times throughout with thoughts and longings floating in my head...
I got up, sat in meditation for a little while and felt somewhat better.
When the mind is settled and cleared, it fears less, it sees more. It
sees beyond suffering and worry, and lets go easier.
Afterwards, I switched on Skype to call mum, and for the first time I
saw she was online, so we video chatted. It was good to see her face, to
put her face to her voice, and to see the familiar setting of the
living room where just a week ago I was on that night before I left.
She talked about how she's been, what she's been up to, and I listened
attentively, smiling as she talked about her day. A few times, she
commented how great it is to see my face and how great it is to video
chat like this.
I showed her the teddy bear she bought me back in january this year, the
same one I hug to sleep every night... The same one I give my love and
affection to, and kiss every day in the hope that it, a symbol of mums's
love and care, can feel my love and care...
Then she mentioned about her pain, which she feels is getting worse
with the change of weather. As it gets colder, it seems like the
painkillers are losing their effect more quickly. My face saddened as I
heard this, and turned even more grey when she said she does not think
she can make it to Europe for Christmas.
My dream shattered... I was hoping to meet her there, and planned my
trip so I could spend time there with her. I was even planning to use my
own money yo surprise her with a ticket, to fly first class, in great
comfort, so she can arrive all rested and arrive in style...
I so wanted to see her hold her grandson, in the setting of the home he
was born in, the very same home I lived in for ten formative years of my
life... But she can't, she says. Just like the other day when we went traveling to the east of the country, every morning she has really
unbearable pain that she just wants to lie down and rest. It really
takes the fun out of traveling, really hinders her ability, the ability
she used to have, to just get up and go, to just go and do all the
things she wants to do whenever she's traveling. Now, it has become
such that the thought of a long flight, and of being away from the
comforts of her own home, is just too much...
Mum apologised for disappointing me, and I guess the disappointment
could be easily seen on my face... "Don't worry," I said, "It's ok if
you can't make it..." It did not matter so much, but a dream of mine, and a dream of hers, was just shattered...
I comforted her, told her to take a good nights sleep. Throughout our
conversation, I realised and felt again what it is to love and care
about someone, without wanting anything, without hoping for anything in
return. It is the purest form of love and care, uncomplicated and
genuine, heartfelt and real. And how fortunate I was to be able to give
that to my mum. How brave and strong i was to be capable to give that
even though I need it, am longing it myself...
She laughed when she saw the teddy bear with a note on her lap. A hand
written note from me, one I wrote while she was talking earlier.
I lie awake, tormented like never before by thoughts, nightmares and fears...
Two nights ago, I was in bed with my friend, holding him, hugging him. Now I am alone, while he is with someone else. I am holding onto my own thin body, trying to keep myself warm, trying to keep myself from crying... God only knows what he is doing, and why he is doing it...
I sense a deep, deep feeling of loss...
Losing my mother, losing my lover, losing my best friend...
Everything that matters dear to me I seem to be losing bit by bit.
And the pain, the hurt is indescribable.
I wish I could use a knife to cut myself, to cut away the feelings of pain, cut away the nightmares in my head, the sense of deep loss that is gnawing away at my sanity and my ability to think and function.
In the end what do I have left? What is this pain and suffering all worth? Is it a way to greater freedom, to finally letting go?
More than ever, I need someone to hold me, to assure me, to cradle me to sleep and tell me: "It'll all be over soon..."
First day back at school... I woke up relatively early, around six, and sat down to meditate, to calm my mind after a disturbed night of sleep. Before I knew it, it was already an hour and a half later, and the sky was brightening up. Went for a long walk in the forest, and admired the beautiful autumn foliage, already in its final stages. The colours are still dazzling, so bright, in varying shades of yellow and red, but you could tell that the brown and inevitable fall of the leaves are looming close.
At school, I sat and worked for a few hours. Progress is slow, and like every time I come back to my thesis, I must retrace where I left off and find the direction I want to go in. The echo of mum's voice reminded me on the phone earlier to persevere, to do what I must do. But it is so difficult to focus, so very difficult to find determination, to sit down and tell myself I can do this. And I must do this, for I have merely a month and a week or so left till the final, final deadline.
I had lunch with a friend, and like so often, we shared what we had brought with one another. We caught up on our lives over the past month. It was only in talking that I remembered and reminded myself how much has happened in this past month... meditation retreat, the struggles of looking inward and realisations that ensued... writing an exam... cutting off almost all contact with my friend, the source of support and comfort I've relied on for the past three years... heading home to see mum and accompany her through two very long and difficult weeks... and now back here. Back here again and starting my life again...
While having lunch, my supervisor walked in the room. He said nothing of my thesis, and asked me how mum was doing. Somehow he had learned that I went home again, and like always he was concerned. I did not answer, but the blank, the silence and contorted expression on my face must have told him what was going on. And he understood, and asked no more. He had such an expression of concern and gentle compassion. He always has been so patient and understanding with me, and I feel I've been dragging my feet and wasting his time.
I could almost burst out in tears... For some reason, I could almost just burst out crying in front of my professor. But I held back.
I arrived home, opened the door, turned on the light of my bedroom and saw the bed had been freshly made. The room was clean, much cleaner than I left it, and there was still the smell of fresh cleaning products in the air. On my bed were various teddies, and little notes. All from my friend.
Touched, I was, extremely touched, and grateful for all that my friend had done for me, despite my lack of contact with him in recent weeks. And walking around the house made I could see he (and later I learned, another friend of mine) put a lot of effort and spent a lot of time to prepare my home for my return. Fresh groceries, scrubbed oven, cleaned kitchen cupboard doors, floors that have been vacuumed and swiffered. After such a long and difficult few weeks away, I felt I could break down and cry seeing all that my friends have done for me... All for me... Do I deserve so much?
As I was unpacking my bags, the doorbell rang. I opened it, to be greeted by a bunch of colourful flowers. My friend appeared from behind the doorway. It has been such a long time since I last saw him... even longer than planned because of my unplanned and prolonged disappearance back to Asia.
We missed one another, that much is sure. He missed me dearly, and as we hugged, we did not let go for a long well. He smelled me, caressed my body, as I stroked his and sniffed the back of his neck... I could see there were tears in his eyes, and he watered again as we sat down to a quick dinner. It was mesmerising, overwhelming, and melted my resolve and all that hardness and determination I had to let go of my friend...
He stayed the night, I wanted him to, even though I was unsure what he felt. We lay next to one another, and for a long while just lay in one another's warm touch and embrace. And, as expected, like always whenever we lie next to one another, we got intimate. The touch, the smell, the warmth of our bodies together again was simply too much to resist. The physical intimacy was so intense, much more than I had imagined all those days and nights my mind wandered to him, to being with him, to sleeping with him... For those moments of passion, of kissing, of caressing and exploring each other's bodies, I felt there was nothing else... All my troubles, all my worries, all the tiredness, all the mental and physical fatigue faded into nothingness...
We fell asleep together, lying close, savouring the comfort and familiarity of being together, sleeping together...
But we are not together, and as wonderful as the night of bonding and intimacy was, there had, at least for me, developed a distance between us that is increasingly difficult to bridge. I care about him, I love him still, but more and more I find it hard to see how I can be a meaningful part in his life, and how he can be in my life without someone, or both of us, feeling hurt and torn.
It was difficult to hear that, as much as I would like that, it was simply difficult to believe that. Here he was lying next to me this night, but the next day, he will go off on a trip with the boy he has feelings for and cannot let go off. Many times, I told him to do what he feels is necessary to resolve his feelings, to free himself from being and feeling torn. I wished he could be free and happy, even if it is not with me, because after the month or so apart and not being in touch much, I feel I could let go of him. But why was he telling me he wants to be my boyfriend? Why was he telling me he loves me so much and wants to live up to the dream of mum to see me settled and have someone who will take care of me? It is just cruel, even if he meant it in the most sincere way... Cruel to say something that he knows fully well is a wish of my mother who is slowly, slowly leaving me...
His love and care for me is genuine, I feel. Yet, he seems to be pursuing something that makes me more and more determined to distance myself from him, so I do not have to be hurt again, so I do not have to hear him say that he loves me so much, and yet cannot let go of his feelings for another.
"I don't want any part of this..." I said to him outright. It simply is exhausting... exhausting after being with my mum for two weeks or so, and to come back to a situation that has not much changed compared to when I left, compared to even a few months or almost a year ago. I know it is exhausting for my friend, that he has cried a lot, and is so burdened by the fact he has feelings for two people. But it is for him to resolve, for him to find out where his heart lies, for I simply am just too tired of being caught in this web of hurt, guilt and seeing him cry... It is selfish, I know. It is selfish that I do not want to share his burden of deep feelings of guilt, sadness and fear of loss when it comes to dealing with his relationship woes. But I just feel I am a cause of his current hurt, and I can really do or say very little more than to step aside and let him deal with things as he sees fit.
I so wish I could help him, help him resolve his problems and worries. When I hold him, when I hug him, deep down I wish so much he could find happiness and peace, deep down I send him thoughts of peace and happiness, and hope so much he can receive it and benefit from it... The only other person I have ever done this to is my mum...
And, perhaps going about it the wrong way, I thought being away, minimising all contact with my friend would make him think clearer and realise what he needs in his life... But on the contrary, he has been hurt, and even angered, by my silence and refusal to pick up the phone when he calls. I thought not talking, not having to hear about my life and what I am going through would help him feel less responsible and more free to pursue his own life and go after his own happiness. But on the contrary, he seems to be still so stuck on me and unable to let me disappear from his life...
Back home, back to my life, from one insurmountable difficulty in my life to the next.
One thing at a time, one thing at a time...
And I choose to let this go, to let things be, whatever and however they will be...
I heard myself screaming down the phone again and again and again " Why are you hurting me so? Why are you hurting me so...?"
He was calling me, my friend, calling me from London (I don't know how i
knew, i just did). Calling to say hello, calling to ask how I'm doing. I
was silent, answering only what was necessary so as not to be rude. But
I was in no mood to talk. At least not to him.
He sounded cheerful, he was smiling, laughing even. He told me how much fun he was having, and he wasn't alone by himself.
It was at that point that I burst out in tears. I was so distraught, so
tormented by his voice. Why was he asking and being concerned about my well-being when he knew I was broken and longing for companionship? And
he had the nerve
"Why are you hurting me so...? Why...?" I cried and shouted down the telephone.
It was at that point I woke up from what I realised was a nightmare.
I looked around and found myself in my own bed, lying next to my friend who was fast asleep...
I shuddered and felt so alone lying next to him, knowing fully he has
the ability to hurt me again and again. Not by choice, not willingly,
because he cares about me, he genuinely does. But he has that ability, and I feel I'm putting myself in a position to be
hurt.
"He, is a patient with terminal liver
cancer. No matter how his family opposes
it, he resolved to stop chemotherapy. That day, he only left behind a letter and left.
He said, he owes his daughter a promise…”
“Dad, can you take me to
school and pick me up from school every day? Daddy, remember to come pick me up!”
“I often think, when a
patient’s life reaches the end, is it hope that is prolonged or is it
suffering? The last time we met, because of liver cancer, his life marked an
end. And his promise was only half realised…”
I hate having to lie, but at times, to avoid complications and trouble,
you "have" to (of course, it's always a matter of choice and
conscience). And I had to today when I entered the country.
"What is the purpose of your visit?" Visiting relatives, they live in
Surrey. This is true. What may be suspect is why I'm visiting for sixty
days, until the end of December, when I'm scheduled to leave the country
next.
But he didn't ask why or how, and I didn't say. In fact, I'm just
visiting my relatives for two days, and then I'm going back to my own
home...
"You live in the Netherlands?" Yes (well at least I used to, until three
years ago...) Living somewhere is kind of a 'fluid' concept, right? I
mean, i technically could go there whenever I want, as i have the key to
the house... And some of my mail still goes there. The mail might get
to me a month or so later, but still, it'll get to me.
"What kind of work do you do there?" I'm a student. This is true. Only,
I study here, in Canada, not "there" (well, technically, "there" in
Montreal...).
After asking what kind of food I have with me, the border agent compared
my passport picture with the guy standing in front of him. Perhaps the
guy looked a little dazed, a little red in the eyes from lack of sleep
and having watched too many movies. and his hair was unkempt, and to the
astute eye or nose, you could tell the guy was wearing one-day old
clothes, but it's the same guy, more or less, after 16 hours of tortuous
journeying across the globe.
Stamp here, scribble with red ink there, and he handed back my passport
and customs declaration. Relieved I was, and somewhat surprised it went
so smoothly. I was expecting a host of questions and being dragged to
aside for questioning or even a body search. But I was spared, and given
a friendly welcome instead.
Into Canada I stepped, and within ten minutes of landing I exited the
airport terminal, greeted the sun and a whole new day with my cart lade
with three big suitcases.
Just visiting this time... Visiting my little black and white cat,
visiting my university, visiting my long overdue thesis, visiting my two
bedroom apartment and all my life possessions.
We're all visitors in this world anyways, and now I officially am one according to the government of Canada.
I knew it would make me cry, and it did.
A short drama film about David, a boy with only a short time to live. The tumour inside him is growing bigger and bigger, and the doctor describes the size of it in terms of fruits...
First a kiwi, then a peach, then at the end of the movie, a grapefruit...
But important is not the size of his growing tumour, but his wish before he dies. He wants to have sex, to finally lose his virginity. But sex is not just like in the porn movies, his priest friend reminds him. Sex is best when there is love, where the love builds and develops.
David finds himself with a prostitute, but nothing happens. In the end, he realises that all he wants, all he wishes for is intimacy. It's not physical act or lust, it's the human touch, the very idea and very reality of lying next to another human being, of feeling the warmth of another body. The touch, a loving, intimate touch, is more meaningful than just sex.
What could be more reassuring, more comforting in the face of death to be touched, to be held and to be reassured that you are not alone...?
The plane just took off, now still climbing to cursing altitude, upwards and onwards to Canada.
Relatively smooth journey till now, though twice I've had to 'lie' when I was asked where I live. I can't say Canada, as I have no visa to enter the country since I left before receiving the new study permit. I'm not sure what will happen at the border, whether they'll interrogate me about what I'm doing and why I'm going Canada, but that will come when it comes...
Whatever happens, it was worth it just going to see mum again. Two and something weeks I stayed, 18 days in total, but it seemed and felt so much longer... Why...?
At various points, I found myself counting down to the day I leave, looking forward to getting on the plane and not looking back. It was that difficult...
Just because I don't see it, does not mean it does not happen. But it does, selfish or not, make it easier for me not to see things that hurt me, that drive me so towards frustration and even anger. It was that difficult...
So difficult I at times felt like bashing myself against the wall so I could wake up from a terrible nightmare. But imagine what it feels like for mum, who has to live with her pains and sores everyday, every moment of the day...
As I sat and waited for the plane, I wrote to my brother. An email, a kind of report of what happened over the past two weeks. It was in a way also a report for myself, to tell and remind myself that things are the way they are, and that I must be prepared. For anything, for everything...
Mum's condition is really deteriorating, and I'm afraid the chemo may not work. Unless some kind of miracle happens, the tumour will most likely get bigger and bigger, and spread elsewhere. And there will be more pain, more sores, more unbearable pain...
Sometimes, i just wish everything can end. I don't mean to whine and rant, but sometimes I wonder who can really know how I feel? Who can really know what I feel deep down inside? I don't want praise, and I don't need to be told what a wonderful child I am... I just want this to end. All of this travelling, all of this uncertainty, all of this seeing mum in pain and suffering to end. It's mentally and physically draining, and I'm not sure how much more I can take...
I have tried, this time around, and over the past two, three years to visit mum as often as i can to give her support, to give her encouragement. I have tried so hard, given my own time and life to be with her, to make her stronger and better. But I know deep down, the illness will win one day. It is a matter of time, and I must prepare myself, brace myself to face that by myself.
Despite all this complaining and whining, I still have to be grateful for the opportunity I have been given, however tiring it has been, to spend some time with mum and make some more memories together. This time around, I've managed to fulfil a dream of hers, to let her see first hand what it is that her donations does for less fortunate people. It was beautiful, simply beautiful...
Despite all my complaining, I have tried and tried everyday to bring mum happiness and peace, reassurance and encouragement. Is it enough? Is anything ever enough?
Even if it is not, it must be. Peace can ever be found if and when you make peace with the way things are, if and when you do not wish to change things but just take things as they are. I know before I wrote I just want things to end, but one day, everything will end, all this 'mess' I see or find myself trying to navigate through, will end when I just let things be. And I'm trying to do that, beginning to do that.
I did not cry when I left Taiwan today, I did not cry at the last moment when mum closed the front door. I would normally. But I did not. Perhaps it is a sign that I've learned to let go. To just be, to resist negative emotions, not to let sadness or years to take me over.
I gave mum a long, tight hug, deep inside wishing her happiness, peace and freedom from pain. I took her left hand and arm and stroked it gently touched it, held it in my hand. I'm sure mum felt that that, and how meaningful it was. And I can only wish and hope that my touch will soothe her pains and worries, and that the soothing will last long, long till after I am gone.
I looked back, to see the door close, and just a split second before day, saw mum wave and smile a little.
Farewell, my dear, brave mother... Be well. I will be well and take care of myself.
Final few hours at home (this time around). Close to midnight, lying on the floor next to mum's bed.
Last night together, but we didn't really spend much time together today. She met up with a couple of her close friends from university, and said she had a terribly good time laughing and connecting over lunch, afternoon snacks and dinner. I spent the day meeting up with my cousin, doing some last minute shopping and packing.
"Yes, life should be like that," I said, "Lots of laughing and being happy everyday." And she said herself, she did not feel much pain or aches today, at least not after she met up with her friends. And even staying out and chatting (gossiping!) for hours and hours, she did not feel sleepy or too tired. She said she would try to live everyday like today.
It's not quite the last night I expected, as a friend of mum's is sleeping over, and the whole evening they were still chit chatting. At one point, they were skyping with my brother and my nephew. Again, seeing her grandson brought so much joy and such beautiful smiles to mum's face, and seeing that, I was comforted.
Just before sleeping, mum took the effort to write a little personal card to my friend (the ex). She wanted to do it, to thank him for often caring so much and asking about her health and her condition. And in the note mum also thanked him for taking care of me. In one of my suitcases, there is a lovely gift for him that mum insisted on buying.
Three suitcase are packed, ready to be taken away and to fly home. In truth, only one of the three is actually mine, the other two contain mostly goodies and gifts that my uncle would like to give to his family, whom I'm going to see and stay with in Vancouver. I was at first surprised to see so much stuff, but I realised, even though they are just cookies and candies, they are an expression of a dad's love for his children, and a husband's love for his wife. As heavy and cumbersome as the suitcases may be, I am in a way honoured to be given the position of "couriering" that special expression love and connection across the ocean, deliver those goodies thousands of kilometres away and personally into their hands.
I fall asleep with the big teddy bear my friend once bought me, but for almost a year now has been keeping my mum company. Normally he sits on her bed, with his somewhat sad eyes and an expression as if he is searching for something. Perhaps it is a hug he is searching for, and tonight, he will be in my arms.
The few hours the teddy is in my arms I'll hold him tightly, close to my heart, squeeze him, kiss him, love him. Perhaps, and I can only dream of it, after I am gone, he will give mum the care and love I have given him on my last night at home.
It's a beautiful and graphic character composed of a knife (刀) cutting the heart (心)... conjure that image in your mind, and imagine how painful that must be.
忍...
One single character that describes and encompasses tolerance, endurance, resistance, bearing with pain and suffering, restraining yourself and your emotions.
忍...
However much it hurts, however unbearable the pain is, bear with it. Grit your teeth, close your eyes, watch the pain, let the pain seep through your senses, let the pain take over, grow and fade away...
I saw the man as I was about to step into the Japanese shinto temple. He sat quietly in the shade of a tree and with a brush painted what I later realised were little rocks and pebbles.
The rocks and pebbles were whitewashed first, and then with simple blue and red lines, he breathed into life a collection of cute little rabbits and cats. I was already very tempted to buy them, to give them as gifts, if not to friends. I looked more closely, and noticed then that all that was left of his left hand was a stump.
The man continued painting quietly, and when I picked up a little pebble, he said: "One for thirty [New Taiwan Dollars], three for a hundred".
Only thirty dollars (around one US dollar) I thought to myself. All the amount of time and effort the man spends on shifting through the river bank to find a decently sized and smooth pebbles to draw on, all the time and effort he spends on meticulously drawing the pebbles, and he sells them for the same amount of money as a can of coke...
I picked out a few cats, and then picked out a few rabbits. On the small table he displayed his painted pebbles, was a stack of photocopies with writing on them. Perhaps he saw me glance at the writing, he told me to take one. "I wrote this myself, and I want to share it with people."
It was a little essay, short and poetic, simple but meaningful. It was titled , and the basic message was that when you give, give wholeheartedly, give without wanting or expecting anything in return. Giving is in itself a reward, a joy and a free gift. Those who give will also receive, somehow, somewhere down the line. "It's the way of the universe, the way of the Dhamma," he said, with a kind smile and soft complexion.
I looked into his eyes and saw the reflection of a kind, gentle soul, a nobody not wanting to be anybody, yet through his quiet giving and acts of charity he was a noble and humble giver, an example to many.
As I was choosing painted cats and rabbits, he took out a little photo album from under his table. "I make living from these pebbles, but part of my money I donate." There were pictures of the man holding up bags of rice with families, with children. "I use some of the money I make here to help three families in need."
I browsed through the picture. One of the men was in a wheelchair, another looked very thin and sickly. Other than bags of rice, there were also pictures of the painter with noodles, bags of salt and vegetables.
And there was a picture of the man next to a river holding a bucket. In the next picture were fish. "I sometimes go to the market and buy animals to release." It's common to do that in Taiwan, and some temples encourage that as a means of generating merit and compassion.
I was touched by his message, and by his ability to work hard to make a living despite missing a hand. And not only that, he has this infectious and encouraging spirit of giving and charity above all else.
I bid him farewell, put my hands together and bowed gently out of respect. In the end, I walked away with a heavy bag containing ten painted pebbles and a light heart knowing I've helped a man, and many more people.
I enjoy talking strangers, especially in the countryside. It's something rarely done in big cities, where I've grown up and live. And if I had the opportunity, I wouldn't hesitate too much about moving to the countryside.
As I was buying food at a breakfast place, the owner began to engage in conversation, asking me where I'm from, what I do.
"Oh, Taipei! It's so busy there..." she commented, "I can't keep up with the pace of walking there. Why is everyone always in a hurry?"
I wonder that myself sometimes, and being in the city, I find myself also quickening my pace and losing patience easier.
It is never a conversation if the topic of whether I'm married or have a girlfriend is not mentioned. I smiled and said I'm single.
"How's that possible? You're so handsome!" she wasn't trying to hit on me. She was probably in her late forties. "You know, girls here are probably not as sophisticated as in the city, but they're simple and pure at heart."
I smiled at the description. I too look for a simple things in life, and kindness and genuineness in a person. I don't need to be impressed by the latest fashion or trends, gadgets or luxury. Just as long as there is love and kindness, mutual respect and trust, that is enough. People may look at me, look at my life till now and how I seem to be living the glamourously "high" life flying around so much, but really I'd be more settled when I'm settled and in one place, doing what I enjoy and being with someone I could open up to and be intimate with. Someone simple and pure at heart.
The elderly man limped with his cane with great effort to the opening of the narrow alleyway. He smiled, revealing the few crooked teeth he had, and waved us goodbye. I waved back and smiled. He said something in Taiwanese (or so it seemed), but his speech was slurred so I couldn't quite catch what he said. Even so, his gratitude needed no words. One bento box safely delivered, and many more to go...
Together with mum and a social worker, we shadowed a food delivery van for a good hour and a half around the eastern city of Hualien. Down narrow, windy lanes we navigated, into little communities of war veterans and aboriginals we ventured. Dogs sunbathing in the middle of the road and wandering stray cats lazily got out of the as we drove through isolated villages and run-down boroughs with slum-like and tiny housing units made of crumbling cement and brick.
The van in front of us would suddenly stop on the side, and the delivery lady would reach for the back of the van. There, stacks of bento boxes and bowls of soup are kept warm at a temperature of around 70C. The warmth of the food satisfies many hungry stomachs, and also warms the hearts of many elderly people who live by themselves and rarely have contact with the outside.
Every day, for lunch and dinner, over five hundred meals are delivered into the homes of elderly people in the region. Each bento box is special prepared to cater to specific needs. Some are vegetarian, others are made with special dietary requirements suitable for those with a variety of chronic illnesses, ranging from diabetes to cancer. Some simply have difficulty chewing or swallowing, so the food is blended or in liquid form. But each is meticulously prepared at a central kitchen and supervised by nutritionists.
Began over a decade ago, the "meal delivery service" of the Mennonite Christian Foundation targets hundreds of elderly people who live by themselves. For most, the children have moved away to other places for employment and their other half have already passed away. Many have financial difficulties, while others have physical impairments that prevent them from having a balanced and healthy diet. The programme not only aims to improve the diet of this often neglected segment of society, it also functions as a sort of "buddy" programme so that everyday (except Sundays, as the workers are Christians and don't work on Sabbath...) the elderly will have some kind of human contact and also have someone to regularly keep an eye on their well being.
The "meal delivery service" is partly subsidised by the government, but much of the funding comes from the generosity of the public, from people like my mum who would like to give what they can to help. "My husband is already gone, my children are away. I'm like a solitary elderly person," mum joked and explained to the social worker why their work appeals to her so.
Charity begins at home, as they say, and this kind really goes into the homes of the elderly and those in need to ensure that, whatever hardships they are facing, at the very least they do not have to worry about filling their stomachs. And for my mum, finally seeing and experiencing first hand what it is that the charity does, and how her little donations help contribute to making this world a better and warmer place, I can only imagine, brings her much joy and comfort. And it brings me much joy and satisfaction to know I have helped her achieve the wish of seeing one of her charities at work before she goes...
I peered into the doors of the homes of those we delivered food to. I only managed to see the faces of one or two beneficiaries of the programme, but behind every closed door, behind every cracked window of a run-down home, is a person, though old and aging, who needs as much support and care as everyone else, and who needs to be reminded that they have not been forgotten. As we ended our tour, my mum reminded me: "When you have the means, don't forget those less fortunate than you and those in need..."
I will always remember that, and try to live up to mum's example. Always, for as long as I live, even long after she is gone...
I was supposed to fly yesterday, but I postponed my flight by a few days.
Over the two years or so, mum often spoke of visiting the east coast of the island. In the city of Hualien is a Christian Mennonite charity which, among other things, delivers food daily to less elderly people in need who live in remote areas. Mum has regularly donated to this charity, and I remember one day she said to me she'd very much like to see what it is that they do. "I want to leave something behind when I leave..." she said.
So the other day I called te charity and made arrangements to go on a "food round" with them in the afternoon. "It's a wish from my mum's heart," I said to the gentleman on the other side of the phone. He understood what I meant, and said he'd do everything to accommodate us.
There are somethings I know mum will not do when I'm not around. Partly because she doesn't want to travel alone, partly because of her condition now and the reoccurring pains. And somethings, if not done, will probably never ever be done. How sad and unfortunate is that?
Now it seems, mum and I are going to do something together she's been wanting to do, but didnt have the opportunity to do yet.
"Take care," I said, "Take good care of yourself. Be happy, and live every single day to the fullest. That's what I tell my mum..." I gave him a pat on the shoulder. I would a hug, but it is simply too strange in the culture I grew up in, and in the situation I found myself in at that moment.
He was quiet, my uncle, quiet but visibly touched. "Every day lived is a day earned," he finally said. Since he was diagnosed with cancer, since he began treatment some eight months ago, I have written him twice. Little cards of encouragement and care, little boosts of confidence and life. As I've always believed, a few scribbles of ink on a piece of paper can say, can portray so much...
Last time I saw him in a picture my cousin sent to me, he was completely bald. But now, two months later, the hair, though still on the thin side, has more or less grown back. He looks "normal", but my aunt said he has lost considerable weight, and often has diarrhea. The doctor says he needs more treatment, as he is not completely "clean" of the cancer. But my uncle doesn't want to go through it again. "He feels it's too painful," my cousin told me.
I went to see him, and unlike before, this time I didn't bring much in terms of gifts. Having just come out of the monastery, I did take two books to give him. Both about the Dhamma (Buddha's teachings), and both contain some wisdom about dealing with illness, and death. They are a good read, and really help someone who is nearing the end of his life better prepare for the unknown and to better handle the inevitable fear and possible lingering regrets.
Most of my time while in the south of the country this time I spent with my uncle and my aunt. They have always been the ones with whom I stay whenever I visit that part of the country, and their home is like a second home for me. I remember playing with little plastic toy trains on their living room floor. I remember flipping through same old comic books in my older cousin's bedroom. And the room on the top floor is where I have memories of sleeping next to mum and dad every year around new year's time when the whole family gets together.
My uncle and aunt have seen me grow up and grow older, seen me me transform from that scrawny little kid to the evenly scrawnier and confused boy searching for his way in the world I am today. And I have watched them age, grow old and retire, grow white hair and shrink in size over the years. We have had hours and hours of talk about family and it was from my aunt, who is my dad's older sister and the oldest in the family, that I got to know more about my dad's childhood and the struggles of my parents to raise six children.
It is difficult to see them now, older, more fragile, and slowly becoming weakened and weakened by illness. Extremely difficult, and a few times, as I sat in their home, I had to hold back the tears.
"Take good care," I said again, as I turned around to wave goodbye again at my uncle. He stood by the front door of their home, slouching a little. In his eyes was a lost, forlorn look. I wish I could have said more, but was lost as to what more I could have said. Deep down inside, I wished that his health would remain stable,and that he can live happily, and be free from fear, free from remorse or agony about falling ill and dying. Perhaps this is the greatest gift I can offer him, and I gave that to him quietly, sincerely.
"I'll come see you whenever I come back..." I said as the car slowly pulled away.
I get that reaction a lot. If I don't say anything, nobody knows. And I never say it, unless people ask. And in many ways, I don't like being asked. Worst is when I'm being introduced by my relatives to strangers, because they like to add "...oh, and he lives abroad." As if I'm a trophy to be shown off, as if I add to the impression of being superior and more well off.
If unsaid, nobody can ever tell from the way I speak, the way I dress, and the way I behave, that I've lived most of my life outside of Taiwan.
I seem to be no different than the rest. Some may even say I'm more Taiwanese than most people, because I seem to know so much about local customs and traditions. Some probably think I'm a country-boy from the deep south, from farm country or from so remote mountain village, because of the way I speak. And in a way I am proud of that. So many years, the vast majority of my life, spent outside the country of my birth, and yet my cultural roots and identification with this little island are still so strong, and I hope will never be severed.
It's not that I dress or talk just to fit in. I just am the way I am, and I see no reason to change that when I'm in a different country (of course, social ettiquettes and how people interact with one another changes across borders, and I do adapt myself to those subtle differences.
But I've seen enough Taiwanese kids my age who (have) live(d) abroad, and who come here and simply stand out just by the way they are. And people who have lived abroad or who study abroad are treated differently, are often perceived as 'superior' beings somehow. They are looked at with envy, and are supposed to have it so much better than everyone else who has not studied or lived abroad. And I don't like that.
Perhaps it comes down to the mentally that the "grass is greener on the other side", and I live on the other side. But honestly, how different am I really from anyone else here, except that I live elsewhere?
I played with her, tickled her, made her laugh and jump around me. My cousin's daughter is three, and such a cute little girl. Happy, jumpy, smiley and free. As soon as she saw me, she stayed around me. Shy at first, she observed me a little, and as if she recognised who I was, she warmed up quickly, and soon we seem to have become best of friends.
Everytime I see her, she grows more active and cuter. Big beady eyes, short soft hair, dimples and laughter that can easily make you smile after a long day. I remember when she was still a little baby, I slept with her one night, and that night she woke up many times crying, wanting milk or her nappies changed.
Now, she bounced around my feet, pushed and played with the pram she used to sit in (which now belongs to her two month old baby brother!), and jumps up and down screaming she wants to be hugged. And at dinner, she wanted me to feed her, even though her parents were both right there.
When I lift her up, she burst out in laughter, swings her arms around freely when I throw her lightly into the air. She likes to play head-butting, how I love it when she uses her little fingers and little hand to touch my face, touch my cheeks and play with the rim of my glasses.
At one point I closed my eyes, held her close, gave her a sniff and dreamed that she was mine. My little girl, my little angel.... How I would protect her, cherish her and love her. How I would give her everything in te world, how I would care for her and nurture her so dearly... Maybe one day that day will come when I could hold my own child close, feel its warmth, listen to its cries and laughter, and give it unconditional, boundless love and affection... Maybe one day I would have someone next to me, with whom I could grow old together and raise a family. This wish, perhaps with age, perhaps with each day closer to the day I lose my mother, is growing stronger and more intense...
"You have to be nice to your brother," I told her at one point, "Play with him, and take care of him..." I spoke from experience, from being a younger brother who, growing up, so yearned for an older sibling who would take care of me, protect me and not hurt me. She looked at me and smiled and she nodded. I rubbed her head gently, and I hoped she understood.
At the door, I said "See you again soon," I said quietly as I waved goodbye.
She unexpectedly kissed me on the cheeks. I was surprised, but the kiss made me smile warmly.
For the first time since I arrived in Taiwan, I wept.
Warm, warm tears flowed and flowed and I could not stop them. Uncontrollably, the sadness, frustrations, hopes and prayers culminated in streams of tears that flooded my eyes and trickled down my cheeks.
It was embarrassing, and i tried so hard to restrain myself. How saddened, how heart-ached dad must feel to see me weep like that! But there being no one I can cry in front of now, and having nobody I can really turn to, I wept before my ancestors, against my attempts to put on a brave, brave face.
What caused this outburst of emotions? Pent up pain and hurt having to witness mum in pain and suffering. The helplessness, the feelings of being so torn and so unsure what more I could do. But there was also a feeling of completion to be the first to personally deliver pictures of my nephew, the first child of my generation, to the memorial plaque of my ancestors and my dad for them to see.
I was alright the whole day, even meeting my uncle who is undergoing chemotherapy, and seeing my aunt who has liver disease and who has a lot of problems walking due to an ever weakening knee. But the moment I knelt before my ancestors, the moment I "spoke" to them and told them my wishes and prayers, I broke down.
I began by presenting them with pictures of my nephew. Sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, I asked the ancestors to watch over the child, to protect him as he grows and develops, to guide him in his life and give him happiness and good health. It was a moving prayer, for I can imagine they must be so proud that for the first time in two decades, an immediate offspring of the family was born and that the family line will continue. I can just imagine ny grandparents, my dad, smiling an filled with such joy! I also asked the ancestors to safeguard the happiness and good health of my brother and his wife, and to give them the wisdom and patience in bringing up and educating the first child of this generation.
Already then, my eyes were moist from the sentiments of it all. As soon I moved onto prayers for my mum, the tears burst out.
Images of her in pain, echoes of her groans from great discomfort, the heartwrenching feeling seeing her suffer and suffer crossed my mind as I asked the ancestors and dad to watch over her. They would not let a member of the family suffer unnecessarily, right?
"Please protect mum," I prayed, "Please take away her pains, please may she be free from mental anguish and physical pain..." The tears streamed like a river, and I could barely see. In my mind, more images of mum lying there, writhing in pain, her face contorted in a posture that betrayed her great, great despair and fear of having fallen victim to this terrible and debilitating illness with no cure. "Please, may she be free from suffering and be happy..."
Desperate I must have looked, desperate I must have "sounded" in my prayers. But i was (and forever am) sincere and pure when I asked for the guardianship and blessings of the ancestors and my dad. What else can I do? Who else can I turn to for help, compassion and understanding but the very people- even though they are long gone- who are the reason why I exist today?
"Grandma, grandpa, dad... Please lift up mum's spirits, please give her courage and protection as she undergoes many more gruelling weeks of treatment..." In my mind, I saw mum sitting alone there, in the chemotherapy ward, with closed eyes and many tubes connected to her arm...
I stopped crying, for I had cried enough, and my ancestors had seen enough of me cry. I collected myself, wiped the tears dry with the short sleeve of my Tshirt, and rubbed my eyes. The sun was quickly setting, and the world was awash with a hint of majestic and melancholic orange. No one, no one but my ancestors, would know how I wept this afternoon.
Bowing humbly and respectfully, I slowly stood up and placed the incense before the memorial. For a few moments, I watched the lit end of the stick burn as a thin thread of white smoke escaped and delivered my messages to heavens above.
"Dad, hear my prayers... Hear my wishes..." I stood up and prepared to leave. A waft of incense filled my nostrils and I breathed in deep.
I could not understand what they were saying, and that fascinated me. It wasn't Mandarin, wasn't Taiwanese, even though there were Taiwanese words here and there that I could pick out. And it wasn't Hakka, the other major language that is spoken in Taiwan.
Three elderly ladies, dressed in "modern" day clothes, and radiating with such spirit and laughter. I wouldn't be surprise if they were over seventy, or more. They were joking around, laughing and smiling freely. Their skin complexion was more toned, and they seem to have aged naturally without the cover of cosmetics.
Then I noticed one of them had a marking on her lower lip. A dark, grayish blue marking etched into the skin. It wasn't a skin discolouration. Looking again made me realise it was the remnants of a tattoo of some sort.
They continued to chat, in a foreign language with strong sounds and pitches, melodic and flowing like a river. A language I could not understand, yet was fascinated by.
There are officially fourteen separate aboriginal tribes on this tiny little island, each with their own distinct culture and language. Most tribes live in the highlands or mountainous areas, often a result of forced relocation as the settlers long ago began to claim more fertile lands in the valleys and plains.
Where I was waiting for a bus is known to have a high concentration of Formosan aboriginals. And the distinct bluish gray markings have become more known by the movie hit Seediq Bale, about the fate of an entire aboriginal tribe during the Japanese colonisation period.
I looked at the elderly ladies with such fascination, and wondered about their lives, their names, where they lived and where they have come from. A part of me wondered whether their children, and their children's children still speak the language, and how much of the ancient ways have been passed down or erased by successive colonial experiences and the strong wave of sinicisation since the arrival of the Chinese nationalist regime.
I admire the lines on their faces, their naturalness, and how they have managed to survive and preserve their language and identities despite in the face of marginalization, suppression, and modernity. Nowadays, aboriginals have been integrated into mainstream society, many of them becoming talented and famous singers. Schools in aboriginal areas teach the children the culture and language of their ancestors. Protected areas have been established by the government to preserve the tribes' autonomy and cultural heritage, and a movement begun in the nineties saw many people reclaim their rights and aboriginal names. But still, much is unknown about their origins, about their history, even though many Taiwanese, me included, have aboriginal blood in them. And on the anniversary of the regime's centennial anniversary recently, a group of protesters voiced concern that aboriginals are becoming photo ops for tourist brochures, but meaningful protection of their rights and culture are sadly still lacking.
I looked at the elderly women. What will become of them and their tribe in the future?
Be patient with yourself, with the circumstances you cannot change, with the conditions of the world as they are now, right now.
Things are just the way they are, people are just the way they are. Your feelings and reactions are just the way they are.
Why get frustrated that things seem not to move forward? Why get angry
at a situation you cannot improve on, however much you would like to?
Why become so caught up wanting to free yourself from this 'mess' or
'trouble' you feel you are caught up in but cannot escape from?
You are only a prisoner of your own mind, only trapped in the world of
your mind's creation. If you imagine a way out, if you just step out, if
you want to be free, you will be free.
Being patient means not having expectations or disappointments, not
willing things to always go as your heart desires. Being patient means
being at ease with yourself and being at ease with where you find
yourself, whomever you are with.
Be patient and realise that all negative feelings will pass if you do
not let the feelings feed and surface. Anger, frustration, fear,
desire... They do not help anyone. Worse than that, this mental
imbalance, this negativity harms you and those around you.
And like all things, like all phenomenon, the feelings, good or bad,
will all disappear, or at least wane, if only you are patient and give
it time. Watch them come, watch them go, and watch and enjoy the moment
of relative calm and ease the mind experiences once negative feelings
have gone.
You cannot rush time, and you cannot change circumstances or people. You
can only accept them and deal with them with wisdom, patience and
compassion.
"It's not?" I was still insure, but deep down, it was the answer I
expected, because deep down, I think I knew the answer already. In a
way, I was simply looking for a confirmation, especially from someone
whose opinion I respect, whose life experiences and wisdom I hold in
high esteem.
"Nothing is worth it if it causes you much suffering." Life is
complicated enough as it is, with so much suffering. Why add on to that?
Why not simplify life and your emotional state of mind? The monk told
me about the parable of a man who went to see the Buddha. He had hot,
burning coal in his hand, and was obviously hurting, and he went to seek
advice.
"You know you are already suffering, but you still cling on, you still
let the coal burn and hurt you. Just let it go! Be wise and determined,
don't cling on and attach. Just let it go!"
And once more, I am even more determined to let go and to move on.
I love him But every day I'm learning All my lifeI've only been pretending Without me His world would go on turning A world that's full of happiness That I have never known I love him I love him I love him But only on my own
I shuddered and stirred from that state of half sleep. The shaking made
me think it was an earthquake, and I was filled almost immediately with
dread and fear. But fresh in my mind was the dream, so intense and so
seemingly real...
Moments before regaining consciousness, I saw myself in bed, lying there
sleeping, or falling asleep. Next to me was my friend, who had his
hands around me.
"Stop!" I called out, "stop shaking me!" I was in a foetal position,
legs curled, and body folded together as tightly as possible, with both
my arms folded before my chest. It was a defensive posture.
My friend had one hand down my chest, and it looked like he was
grabbing at something. But I protested, quietly at first, then louder
and more insistently.
"Stop, stop shaking me," I called out, but he would not stop. I can't
recall what kind of mood I was in, maybe playful, maybe serious, but my
body was being shaken uncontrollably, and I confined to protest. Was it
just playing, or was I really afraid and had no control over how my
friend was shaking me? I don't know. I only k know he continued to shake
me, and seemed deaf to my calls to stop.
Just as a doctor must study and train before he can go out and help
others, a practitioner, however well intentioned he may be to want to
help those around him, must train and deepen his understanding and
practice of the ways of the world before he can truly help others.
Sitting there and meditating may seem selfish, as you're focusing on
training your own mind and learning to see the world as it really is.
But before you train your mind, before you train and learn to master
your own emotions, how do you expect to be a support to others and to
help others who need comfort and compassion?
There was a story of a man trapped in a well crying out for help. A
passerby hears the cries and well intentioned though without thinking
he jumped into the well. Now two people are stuck in a well...
If you does not attempt to liberate yourself from suffering, how can you
liberate another from his or her pain and suffering? If you are not
able to step back and stop yourself becoming caught up in confusion and
chaos, how do you expect to free another from the same?
"It's unbearable," mum said, as her body writhed in the chair from the
discomfort and pain. I looked at her, the same helpless but
compassionate and frustrated look I give her every time I notice that
she is hurting, suffering.
How do I notice? From the muffled groans, from the way she raises her
arm above her head, from the way she begins to sweat and close her eyes
tightly (and I imagine tightly gritting her teeth). And at times, if I'm
in the next room, i notice she's in pain from the sound of pills
rattling against the canister.
I took her arm in my hand, and held it, stroked it softly. With every
stroke, deep down I send her love, send her compassion. And I imagine,
that the pain or whatever monster is causing my dear mum pain is tamed
or soothed. Of course, i dream that the monster living inside mum's body
can eventually be exorcised so it will soon go away, and hopefully
never return...
"Your hand is so warm," mum said. With that, I held onto mum's hand, and
our fingers locked. It felt awkward, because the last person I held
hands with was my ex, and holding hands has that associated feeling of
warmth and intimacy. But honestly, awkwardness disappears in the face of
pain and illness.
All that remains, all that matters, is being able to hold mum's hand and
knowing that for those few and rare moments, she does not feel so much
pain, she does not suffer so much.
All that matters is that the monster is temporarily tamed... and, hopefully, will one day go away.
