Ever since I returned to Taiwan ten days ago, there has not been a day of sunshine. Until this morning.
As usual, I got up around six in the morning, and prepared food and fruits for my dad to 'eat'. It is an ancient tradition that is repeated twice a day, once in the morning, and once in the evening. We do not believe the dead leaves home as soon as he is dead, but usually stays around for sometime, until the spirit of the dead realises that it has to move on to the next realm of existence.
Usually I prepare rice with three dishes, one type of meat, and two kinds of vegetables. For the vegetables, one has to be the Chinese leek (韭菜, 'ku-tsai'), because in Taiwanese the word is a homonymn of the word for 'ever-lasting', As Taiwanese people and culture adore all sorts of symbolism and imageries, the name and lush green leaves of the leek is supposed to symbolically represent the everlasting togetherness of the deceased with the relatives. It happens to be also one of my favourite vegetables.
As I offered the food to dad's shrine, a beam of golden sun ray came through the window, and another, and another, until within moments the whole house was filled with refreshing sun light. The sky looked clearer, brighter, a far, far cry from the dull, gray and depressing days of mist and rain and storms before. When mum woke up, I proposed to take her up to the mountains.
Moments later, I rode the motorbike down the winding road up the Yangming Mountains ( 陽明山). Famed for its dozens of dead volcanoes that give source to various lakes of hot springs, this mountain range forms part of a national park that is merely around ten minutes away from my house. The mountains tower over a thousand meters, and form a tall column of green, sometimes white during the winter months, that leads all the way to the blue, blue Pacific.
We used to go up the mountains every weekend as a family, and take long baths that can clear away all sorts of worries and supposedly prevent and cure all sorts of diseases. This morning, it was just my mum and me.
The smell of sulphur lingered in the morning mist the closer we got close to a valley of hot springs. Down below, I used to clamber on the rocks and buy fresh eggs that would become hardboiled within minutes of putting it in the lake. Yellow vapour spews smoke and dust into the air, and often falls down as refreshing rain, making the area lush with life and plants.
We walked past a few vendors selling fresh mountain vegetables and fruits, the likes of which I have never seen before, let alone can name. The old ladies tending the stalls were so kind and friendly, the kind of genuine friendliness that I can only feel in Taiwan, and that always make me me feel all warm inside. Instantly, two dishes of stir fried wild vegetables were served, to be washed down with hot vegetarian sesame oil soup. For desert, I bought a piping hot sweet potato that was purple in colour, and so sweet and soft in flavour.
One old lady asked for my dad, and was sad to hear his passing. She used to call dad her 'brother', while dad would greet her as 'older sister'. They knew each other well, for my parents would often go up the mountain buy fresh organic vegetables from this lady. She had whitening hair, but a bright smile and soft voice that was calming. "We come and we go," she said, "All we can do is wish him well, and send him loving-kindness." I thought of dad, and how he must have rode the same road as I did, how he must have stood in the same place and chatted to the same old lady as I was doing then...
Throughout the day, more relatives came over and pay respects to dad's shrine at home. As a tradition, people give 'white evelops' with money to the remaining family members. I think it comes from the days when people were really poor, and every little bit of money helps to pay for the funeral arrangements, which can be rather costly (and therefore lucrative) business here. In return, those who visit get a towel (巾), which in Taiwanese has the same sound as 'root' ( 根 / 'gin'). The gift of the towel is supposed to symbolise the cutting off of the 'root of sadness', in the hope that the mourning will soon be over, and that better days will come. Of course, a towel is also always handy to wipe away tears.
Later in the afternoon, we received a phone call. A long awaited phone. From the hospital. After almost a week, there is finally a bed free for my mum to go in and receive her chemotherapy injection treatment. Hastily, her things were packed in a little suitcase with wheels, and we soon we arrived at the ward for cancer patients.
On the bed were linen bearing the same markings as the ones that were on dad's bed not so long ago. He passed away in a building two stones throw away. And now my mum is going in for treatment. She was optimistic, and was not in the slightest way worried or scared. At least, if she was, she was not showing it.
I smiled and joked as we rode the lift to the ward, thinking that I must not be sad or worried for that would make her feel even more so. But deep down inside, I knew the coming few days would be a critical phase of a new infusion treatment, which targets only the cancerous cells, and leaves all other healthy cells intact. So effectively this means there will (hopefully be) less of the usual side-effects of hair loss and tiredness. But the treatment is really expensive, and can lead to higher blood pressure levels, so mum must remain in hospital for a number of days.
I will visit, and bring her fresh food and fruits.
And bring her good wishes and my blessings too.
As usual, I got up around six in the morning, and prepared food and fruits for my dad to 'eat'. It is an ancient tradition that is repeated twice a day, once in the morning, and once in the evening. We do not believe the dead leaves home as soon as he is dead, but usually stays around for sometime, until the spirit of the dead realises that it has to move on to the next realm of existence.
Usually I prepare rice with three dishes, one type of meat, and two kinds of vegetables. For the vegetables, one has to be the Chinese leek (韭菜, 'ku-tsai'), because in Taiwanese the word is a homonymn of the word for 'ever-lasting', As Taiwanese people and culture adore all sorts of symbolism and imageries, the name and lush green leaves of the leek is supposed to symbolically represent the everlasting togetherness of the deceased with the relatives. It happens to be also one of my favourite vegetables.
As I offered the food to dad's shrine, a beam of golden sun ray came through the window, and another, and another, until within moments the whole house was filled with refreshing sun light. The sky looked clearer, brighter, a far, far cry from the dull, gray and depressing days of mist and rain and storms before. When mum woke up, I proposed to take her up to the mountains.
Moments later, I rode the motorbike down the winding road up the Yangming Mountains ( 陽明山). Famed for its dozens of dead volcanoes that give source to various lakes of hot springs, this mountain range forms part of a national park that is merely around ten minutes away from my house. The mountains tower over a thousand meters, and form a tall column of green, sometimes white during the winter months, that leads all the way to the blue, blue Pacific.
We used to go up the mountains every weekend as a family, and take long baths that can clear away all sorts of worries and supposedly prevent and cure all sorts of diseases. This morning, it was just my mum and me.
The smell of sulphur lingered in the morning mist the closer we got close to a valley of hot springs. Down below, I used to clamber on the rocks and buy fresh eggs that would become hardboiled within minutes of putting it in the lake. Yellow vapour spews smoke and dust into the air, and often falls down as refreshing rain, making the area lush with life and plants.
We walked past a few vendors selling fresh mountain vegetables and fruits, the likes of which I have never seen before, let alone can name. The old ladies tending the stalls were so kind and friendly, the kind of genuine friendliness that I can only feel in Taiwan, and that always make me me feel all warm inside. Instantly, two dishes of stir fried wild vegetables were served, to be washed down with hot vegetarian sesame oil soup. For desert, I bought a piping hot sweet potato that was purple in colour, and so sweet and soft in flavour.
One old lady asked for my dad, and was sad to hear his passing. She used to call dad her 'brother', while dad would greet her as 'older sister'. They knew each other well, for my parents would often go up the mountain buy fresh organic vegetables from this lady. She had whitening hair, but a bright smile and soft voice that was calming. "We come and we go," she said, "All we can do is wish him well, and send him loving-kindness." I thought of dad, and how he must have rode the same road as I did, how he must have stood in the same place and chatted to the same old lady as I was doing then...
Throughout the day, more relatives came over and pay respects to dad's shrine at home. As a tradition, people give 'white evelops' with money to the remaining family members. I think it comes from the days when people were really poor, and every little bit of money helps to pay for the funeral arrangements, which can be rather costly (and therefore lucrative) business here. In return, those who visit get a towel (巾), which in Taiwanese has the same sound as 'root' ( 根 / 'gin'). The gift of the towel is supposed to symbolise the cutting off of the 'root of sadness', in the hope that the mourning will soon be over, and that better days will come. Of course, a towel is also always handy to wipe away tears.
Later in the afternoon, we received a phone call. A long awaited phone. From the hospital. After almost a week, there is finally a bed free for my mum to go in and receive her chemotherapy injection treatment. Hastily, her things were packed in a little suitcase with wheels, and we soon we arrived at the ward for cancer patients.
On the bed were linen bearing the same markings as the ones that were on dad's bed not so long ago. He passed away in a building two stones throw away. And now my mum is going in for treatment. She was optimistic, and was not in the slightest way worried or scared. At least, if she was, she was not showing it.
I smiled and joked as we rode the lift to the ward, thinking that I must not be sad or worried for that would make her feel even more so. But deep down inside, I knew the coming few days would be a critical phase of a new infusion treatment, which targets only the cancerous cells, and leaves all other healthy cells intact. So effectively this means there will (hopefully be) less of the usual side-effects of hair loss and tiredness. But the treatment is really expensive, and can lead to higher blood pressure levels, so mum must remain in hospital for a number of days.
I will visit, and bring her fresh food and fruits.
And bring her good wishes and my blessings too.
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