disturbed

I suddenly woke up at a little after two in the morning. On the ground was a fresh sprinkling of snow, yellow in the glow of the street lamps. I tried reaching mum numerous times in the course of the evening, yet she could not be found. I tried again, and much to my relief she was home.

She went to get a massage, she said, after complaining of severe pains in her arm that made her feel so restless and uncomfortable. The latest treatment left her feeling tired and drained, I could hear it in her voice. More so than previous treatments, I'm not sure.

I went back to sleep, but it was a restless night of flipping and turning, and I could swear I felt sores and discomfort in my arm for no apparent reason.

Test

This will be the first time Im publishing through my new iPhone. Kind of difficult to type on such a small keyboard, but I'll have to get used to it!!!

Talk

Lying in bed last night, we discussed about travel plans, namely the possibility to go see my boyfriend's family when he visits them in a couple of weeks time. As much as I really would like to visit him in the surroundings of his upbringing, and to get to know his parents better, I am somehow so weary of travelling. Just thinking of booking tickets, of packing my bags and being away from home for even just a few days or so makes me feel tired... I was even thinking of planning surprise visit and just show up at his doorstep one day. But that seems like an improbably fantasy...



There was a time when I could just pack my bags and be on my way to the next adventure the next morning. There was a time when travelling, flying, exploring the world filled with such enthusiasm and joy. But the back and forth between here and home (in Taiwan), and the ever-constant worry about mum's wellbeing, has really sapped the enthusiasm and joy of travelling from me. And whenever I hear my boyfriend speak of how he would like to go here or there, and do this or that with me, I find it hard to share in the enthusiasm and excitement, which makes me feel bad towards him.



I think part of the reason is because I really am not sure how long I have till the next time I pack my bags to go home and be with mum. With her unstable health condition, and the possibility of a major surgery looming, I could only just have weeks, or at most a month or two before I am on my way again, before I am separated from the comforts and familiarities of my own home indefinitely. That prospect scares me, disturbs my subconsciousness at night when I sleep, however much I try to tell myself not to think or worry too much about the future.

One day retreat

A father watching his twenty-something year old daughter sleep soundly and is reminded of her face as a little girl so small... someone talking a shortcut through the park, and is struck by the sight of a little squirrel nibling peacefully on a piece of bread as cars all around sped past... a mother moved by the interaction a mother with her  mentally impaired daughter on a bus... someone driving and racing to make the class and for many moments her mind was so confused and clouded by haste and worry... and a girl walking toward the class, her mind filled with thoughts and wellwishes for the people suffering in the aftermath of the devastating earthquake in Japan...

So many scenes, sights and sounds of the world, all brought together by twenty strangers who had woken up on a Saturday morning to sit in a little hall. As you made your way here, what left an impression on your mind, the teaching asked, and how did you deal with that impression? Were you moved to tears, anxious, amazed or annoyed? Did you get caught up in those feelings, and let them spin your mind and drown your mind with agitation and frustration? Or did you let watch the feelings, watch them as they came or went?

For the six or so hours we were together, it felt like a great union of bodies and minds at one place. The day-retreat centred on the theme of "Equanimity", the Buddhist concept that whatever happens in and around you, you should maintain a calm and unmoved state of mind. If happiness arises, realise that there is happiness, enjoy the happiness, but do not dwell in it, do not cling onto it. If sadness arises, or if you are confronted with situations that is mentally and physically tormenting, see that sadness, that pain, that suffering, and do not linger in it, do not despair in it. All things, all feelings will pass, and emotions are always moving (e-"motion"), always changing. Being equanimous, or at ease, requires great restraint, requires the ability to see through things, see through feelings and the understanding that the world is never stable, and nothing is really "yours" or "mine".

Through a mix of sitting meditation and walking meditation and talks, the morning went and too soon, or so it felt, the session was over. I opened my eyes, after having closed them in meditation for a long while, and adjusted to the room. What an experience it was, even if at times I was afflicted with memories, feelings of shame, guilt, anxiety and worry. What an experience it was to close your eyes, and to watch the mind, watch what looks like a faint flame that blows in the direction of the winds, yet never fades.

This is the practice... to be able to face and be blown over by great storms or gentle breezes, and yet not stir...

Reminder

A few years ago, I set my (future) self a number of goals online, and every six months or so, I would get a reminder. One of these goals is "to love and be loved in return". Many times, when I get this reminder, I would just dismiss it, and be left forlorn in hope.

Yet, as I opened my inbox today and saw the reminder, for the first time, I smiled.

I have accomplished this goal today, and I can only be grateful for being able to love, and be loved in return...

Insult...

I don't know what possessed me. It was such a wonderful day working with a colleague and my boyfriend, and we decided to round it off with a nice meal at an Indian restaurant. The food was delicious, conversation and laughters flowed.

And at the end of the meal, I dropped a comment making fun of both their belly sizes. My boyfriend's face immediately turned, and we did not speak for a long while. Luckily it was already the end of the meal, so the awkward silence at the restaurant did not last too long We said goodnight and parted quietly. I ran to make sure I made it to his apartment before he did, and I waited for his return. In the snow, I wrote "SORRY".

Again, I don't know what possessed me to blurt out a comment that hurt his self-esteem. Did I say it with malice, with the intention to hurt? Or did I just blurt out something without thinking of the consequences?  I fidgeted with my fingers, and felt so terribly ashamed how I injured him so badly emotionally. It felt oppressive, and the mood reminded me of the tumultuous days back in November-December last year when the future of our relationship felt under jeopardy. He had every right to be upset, to be angry, to be deeply disappointed in me. I could not but apologise and say how sorry I felt for hurting him so... Karma comes back to haunt you, and my stomach felt so very upset as if the food could throw up at any moment...

He could have scolded me, called me names, hurt me back. But he did not. Instead, he was numb, perhaps numbed by how much the hurt and insult was, especially coming from someone you would think could only give you joy and love, and do you no harm. Perhaps he felt betrayed, angry, frustrated why he was with somebody who would make fun of his body image...

Clandestinely I grabbed a pen and wrote on my hand "I'm sorry I hurt you"... "Hurt", in the present sense of the word, but also in the past tense too, because this is not the first time. In the two year or so of us knowing one another, and being together, I have on occasion blurted out remarks about his appearance. Am I just downright mean and someone who likes to preach compassion and love, yet can so easily throw insults around, and right in someone's face?

He could have thrown me out, said he did not want to see me, or said things to make me feel like scum, but he did not. Instead, we watched an episode of our current most-watched series, and as the episode went on, we inched closer and closer together. I stayed the night, and fell asleep with his scent tickling my nose, and the warmth of his body against mine...

Not all is forgotten, and I slept poorly the whole night. Quietly I left, and on leaving I left a little note for my boyfriend. No matter how many times I say or write the words "sorry", it does not justify what I made him feel. And that enough is punishment for my being mean and malicious... or simply being so  utterly dumb and inconsiderate for speaking without thinking .

Snowstorm

It is as if the weather was sad that I have not yet experienced 'real' Winter this year, so a few days after my return dumped some 40cm of snow as if in my honour. The sun is now out, and the city is covered with white. It may be a nuisance walking down the streets-- a dirty and at times dangerous affair to trudge through the sludge and puddles (not to mention to avoid getting splashed by speeding traffic). But there is a certain beauty to be enjoyed when everything is covered in snow. At least, I am often told, this feeling of excitement and being mesmerised by snow, will last for a short while until you are just so sick and tired of the cold and having to shovel snow from your doorsteps.

The jetlag is slowly subsiding, even though in the evenings my head is sometimes heavy with tiredness. Almost a week since my return to Montreal, I am slowly picking up the pieces of where I left off over two months ago. I've been doing some work at the office, in a way to help myself adjust to a 'normal' working day with some not-so-demanding office chores before I dive right into the mentally-straining task of finishing my  long-overdue thesis. A number of nights I have spent with my friend, and to appear and behave in front of our mutual friends officially as a couple fills my heart with a certain sense of belonging, and contentment that I have long longed for. And mum's health condition has been relatively stable, and she sounds cheerful when I  call her in the morning and evening.

So at the moment, life seems to be going relatively well on most levels... except the housing situation with my roommate. Perhaps it is being away for so long and wanting to have my own private space, but after  coming home  last week I feel more and more that I need to live alone.

It has been already six months since my roommate moved in, even though in the beginning we both agreed it would only be a temporary solution. Granted I was away for a while, so there was no real problem of her staying at my place and taking care of things, but now that I am home again, I am feeling more and more frustrated about her constant presence. Her personal items are scattered all over the place, and though she may not be a malicious person, she has this tendency to stalk other people's online profiles and gossip about what other people are doing, which I frankly do not enjoy listening to, especially after coming home at the end of the day. It has gotten to a point where I kind of dread going home and having to interact with her, and having to exchange small talk and pleasantries just for the sake of it-- when in reality I just want to unwind and not talk.

In a way I feel bad for her. Already close to forty, but she still has no stable income or stable life to speak of. Part of it comes down to the fact that she is somewhat of a difficult person to get along with. At the same time, she also has a very high opinion of herself, so does not want to just get any odd job, even if it is to pay the bills. So she stays on, and in a way is living off of me, because I don't charge her anything at all for rent. As often happens, my soft spot for other people's misfortunes becomes a weakness that over time is exploited.

Last night, I put it out there, for really it has reached a point where, though not yet unbearable, I feel I should just be frank before things get too uncomfortable, at least for my sake. I said I need my own space, and reminded her that it has already been six months, and that it's time she found an alternative solution. She started tearing, as often happens when she becomes upset, but I was unwaivering. Have I not been patient and generous enough, especially when nobody would have gone to the extremes of letting her into their homes for so long? I really don't think I need to feel any guilt or remorse for asking her to leave, especially as she is just a friend, and not really someone I feel that close to. As much as I care about her wellbeing, there comes a point when you have to say enough is enough.

She said she understood, and agreed to try to look for something within the month. I was relieved to have spoken to her in a calm and rational manner, and I fell asleep with relative ease. So the countdown to the day she moves out has begun.

How I look forward to the day when I, and my little cat, can walk around freely again in my own apartment without having to think about whether I am disturbing anyone.

Results

I woke up at various times during the night, at midnight, at three in the morning, and then six in the morning. I was woken up by dreams. Not terrible ones, but ones that seem to be telling, and that revolve around people in my life.

At six, I decided to get up and start the day, first with a period of meditation. I think I needed it, just before calling mum.

Her voice was 'normal' sounding as she recounted her day at the hospital. She waited over eight hours today to see the neurosurgeon, who was fully booked with appointments because he is going abroad for a conference soon. The latest whole body scan for tumour revealed that the situation is not as bad as we imagined (though, that does not mean it's good either...). The most critical place where the cancer is growing is indeed in section C-7 of the spinal column. The tumour  growing inside the column has taken over half of the space inside, and as a result pressing on the nerves, which causes the periodic numbness and pain in mum's left arm.

On the whole, the neurosurgeon recommends surgery, as it will (most likely) get rid of the tumour once and for all (if successful), and will prolong her life for at least some period of time. No surgery will mean eventual collapse of the spinal column, and definite paralysis-- a prospect that mum is very worried about. She will have to take another MRI scan soon to determine the risks of the surgery, and then it will be decision time. It will be a difficult decision, and I told her she should consider it and weigh the decision against everything... quality of life, length of life, and whether she really wants to go through the risks to live that much longer, even though "that much" is always going to be a mystery. Once again, in the face of death and life-changing illness, you are forced to confront life, and make the most of it...

Mum sounded reassured, and she did say that she was feeling somewhat lighter as she went home from the appointment. At least the good news is that the cancer has not spread all over the body and is at the moment localised. But the growth in the spinal column is a very sensitive area, and the risks, as well as time required for recovery, in the case of eventual surgery are great.

Mum sounded reassured, and to be honest that is the most important thing I care about at this point. Whatever she decides, whatever happens in the future, I will be there somehow to support her and show that I care.

Results?

I was so tired this evening that even as I was eating dinner, and watching an episode of the Simpsons online, my eyes were closing. I tried as much as I could to stay awake, but the longest I could drag it out before I dragged myself to bed was a little after quarter past eight at night...

Earlier, the noise of my roommate returning home, arranging her groceries and cooking did not really wake me, or keep me awake. But suddenly, close to midnight I woke up, and had difficulty falling asleep again.  I think something else within my body woke me up, like an automatic alarm set to wake up before some important event.

The long awaited results from mum's complete body scan will be revealed today. It was supposed to be Monday, but she postponed the appointment till today because she was doing chemo on that day. I called her just now, feeling a bit apprehensive as the ring tone sounded over the speakers of the computer. I was wondering to myself what to say, how to react to the news, even though I was not sure what kind of news it would be...

Somehow, there is a nascent fear that the results will reveal something very negative. I guess my primary worry is mum's response to the results, especially now that I am gone. If I were there, at least I could physically support her, console her, and make her feel at ease somehow, for it is very easy to descend into depression and wallow in the pains of inacceptance and disbelief, especially something as important as these results are revealed.

Mum was still waiting for her turn when I called. so she sounded 'normal'.

 But I wonder how she will feel after she walks out of that appointment room, and walks home alone... The best I could offer were two words "good luck" (加油), even though it sounded out of place. The results, whatever they will be, are the results. "Good luck" will not change them and make them any better. It all depends on how you respond to the results, and whether you will let the results influence the way you feel and think.

Back again

For the first time in over two months, I lay down on my own bed last night, and fell asleep as if it were a dream... There is something so comforting sleeping in your own bed. It may be the scent of the duvet that you are so used to, the softness of the pillow, or the company of the soft toys you are so used to hugging... There seems to be no greater joy than sleeping in the comfort of your own bed.

The first full day back in Montreal it has been. I feel tired still from the travelling, and the back of my head is aching for some reason. It has been aching for a number of days already since I returned, at times, the aching intensifies to the extent that I cannot concentrate properly. At other times, it seems to be completely non-existent. Even so, I really  am happy to be back,  and to be surrounded by the friends and personal belongings I am familiar with. And despite being away for so long, even my cat is warming up to me quickly, purring and lying her back as I play with her.

Last night, a few of my closest friends threw a small get-together on my behalf, and we sat around a table, eating, drinking and re-bonding over stories and  anecdotes from one another's lives which we missed while I was away. At work today, I reconnected with my colleagues, many of whom missed my presence, and were glad to see me back. I remember one vivid moment this afternoon when I broke out in laughter from joy... joy of being part of the carefree banter, merrymaking and  frivolous gossiping that goes on at the office.

 All these people I thought of at times while I was away, and now back again, I appreciate them even more seeing them all again. Through their letters, brief conversations on the phone and greeting cards, they offered their invaluable compassion and care for my wellbeing while I was away and going through difficult times. Now that I am back, they offer their support and kind words of understanding and encouragement for what I am going through. "It is never easy to be away from a parent who is unwell," one person said, "But try to make the most of your time." I feel truly blessed to have this kind of support.

Even if at get-togethers I am  mostly the person who stands at the side, and someone who quietly listens to and smiles at what other people are saying, it feels good to belong, and to know that I am thought of and welcomed with open arms.

En route to YUL

I caught a last glimpse of the plane that would fly in the opposite direction towards Taipei, whereas I was sitting in a plane about to take off and fly eastward toward Montreal. Sometimes situations and circumstances in life make you wonder whether things can  merely be dismissed as coincidences, or are coincidences trying to make you think and smile at symbolism of it all.

A few hours of sleep later, I woke up to the dark sky outside my little window dawning on the horizon. A faint sliver of orange at first, the day eventually triumphed over the darkness, revealing a vast cold, snow-covered land beneath that is enchantingly beautiful and boundless.

In the final dozens of minutes before landing in Montreal, I’m in a strange pensive mood. It has been a long, long trip home, and finally I am almost there, almost in my own home, almost back to the place I left in a hurry, and with apprehension and fear, some two months ago. Much of the fear and apprehensive has subsided now, at least at this moment. But the tiredness from the travels, as well as worries at the back of my mind about mum’s latest treatment, has sapped a lot of the initial enthousiasm of return out of me.

 Slowly, slowly, I must pick up my life, and gradually work on my life, or at least try to bring an end to all the things I began or make a start to the things I planned to do.

Clear skies ahead, and we’re due for a smooth, gradual descent.

Really letting go...

It's close to 4.30 in the morning in Vancouver. The last three nights I have arrived back here, still unaccustomed to the 'time travel' (jetlag) has tuned my body to automatically wake up around this time of the day (night?). It takes some twisting and turning before I can fall back to sleep again. It does not help that, despite the relative calm with which I left Taiwan, I find my mind drifting back to mum...

The feelings of longing grow more and more as the moment of receiving her test results approaches (which is in around 12 hours time...) I'm not sure what the doctor will tell her, and what the latest complete bone scan and tumour scan will reveal about the state of her condition, and frankly, how long she has left. But my main concern is that she will most likely be alone when she is receiving that news. And straight after receiving the news, she has a chemo therapy session planned, and this time with a new drug she has never used, which potentially may have unexpected or never before experienced side-effects.

So, at times in my  drifting state of consciousness, whether during the day or asleep at night, I encounter nagging thoughts of whether it was a wise decision to come back, even though I seemed to be so certain before. Being at times lost in thought, and not really enthusiastic about going out and doing things, has also caused so strain between my friend and I. I feel bad that he flew all the way to greet me, and with the intention of cheering me up, and making happy memories together, and perhaps I cannot fully appreciate what he is trying to do for me, for us. Though, really, at times it is difficult to really fully enjoy the moment when my mind drifts and wanders, and clouds over with dark thoughts about mum's wellbeing.

I remember mum saying to me one night, just before sleeping... she looked at me, and softly said:

“You’ve really done a lot for all of us.” I guess I know it deep inside, because people has said that to me, because the things I do for her move people to tears, and most important of all, she said it herself. But being too hard on myself, it takes time to really believe it.

Personally, being there for my parents is something of an ongoing personal 'mission' I strive to accomplish. And at times, unfortunately, 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 ailing health, the question continues to cast a shadow over my life and life decisions.

Looking back, 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, every little bit helps, it feels like. 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. 

But there comes a point when I have to face reality, and let fate take its course. Call it a gamble, a leap of faith in the world and the way of things. 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. I must tell myself that sometimes, a phone call or a letter is enough, and the most I can do, even if it does not feel like it. 

And in the meantime, I must be ready to let go, must remind myself to let go, even when I am so far away, 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 gradually, and with mum’s words in mind, I will be able to find peace in leaving, find peace in my waking moments when I think of her, and find peace in my sleeping moments, when I dream of her. I hope gradually, I will find peace in leaving, and in knowing that I have really done the best I could under the circumstances. 

And, most importantly, mum knows and feels I have done the best I could, and treasures it deeply.

  

Tears

As I couldn’t sleep, I got out of bed, and started to meditate. The sky was just dawning, and there was the soft breathing of my friend sleeping in the background.

For various moments, there was nothing (much) in my mind but my own in-and-out breath. All of a sudden, out of nowhere flashed a memory of my mum and I, and then came a flood of memories of the past two months we spent together.

A stream of tears unexpectedly flowed, and dropped with a  muffled sound against the pillow I was sitting on.  I could not explain the emotions, or why I suddenly started crying, for the very first time since I got on the plane and left for Canada.

The trigger was not sad memories or worries, even though they lingered in the background. The main triggers were actually scenes and images of happy moments, of smiles, of beautiful moments mum and I shared together. such moving, touching moments together, that no one except us experienced, that no one else will ever be able to feel or appreciate the extent of.

Happiness can make you cry, I realise again. 

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.

Emptying nest

"Take care of yourself," I said over the phone, as brother was heading to the airport, "If there is anything you need help with, just let me know." I was not there to see him off this morning. I had done that two days earlier, at the monastery, as he, mum and the new relatives were leaving to go home. I patted him on the shoulder, and we were both unsure when we would see one another again. Under pleasant circumstances, I hoped, and maybe he thought the same.

Perhaps in his mind, there too was a momentary thought, or fear, that the next time we see one another might suddenly and unexpectedly be in Taiwan... at a hospital... because of mum... What a dark, brooding, and useless thought. I shook my head to shake off the thought.

I arrived home this afternoon, because mum had said that she was feeling nauseous, and had been vomiting and having diarrhea the whole day yesterday. She told me to stay at the monastery, but I decided to go home earlier, partly because I was a bit worried what she may have caught, and partly I wanted to spend more time with her before I leave in six days' time.

I came home, and the house looked emptier. Brother and sister-in-law's suitcases have gone. The bridal suite is now just a spare room, one I had not entered for around a month. It feels quieter too, with just mum and I. Mum looked relieved as she cleaned the house up a bit. It's not that she's rejoicing their departure. But really, a month or so with four people in a small apartment can be a little too much.

I cleaned up a bit too, and started packing my bags a little. The house looks emptier now, feels quieter too. Imagine what it would like when I leave...

Relief

The moon is bright and round tonight, the first full moon after the lunar new year. It is a festival in Taiwan, a night on which children carry lanterns, and families gather around and eat glutinous rice balls filled with creamy sesame or peanut paste.

It was a glorious day, with beautiful weather and the feel of early summer. Butterflies fluttered around playfully, while some flowers were already in bloom, filling the air with a fresh, natural scent. Together with my family, I headed into the mountains to pay a visit to the monastery. We sat around to have lunch, and mum looked at ease to be in the beautiful surroundings, and to be in the presence of the monk we all revere.

At one point, we were left alone, and there was just the monk, my mum and I sitting at the table. We had just had a philosophical conversation about worries and about letting go when that day of leaving (ie death) eventually comes. “So what’s the main worry on your mum,” I prodded, knowing very well what that main worry was, “My marriage?” Like all Asian parents, the marriage of a child is perhaps the most important thing in the world… marriage (after receiving a proper (and preferably PhD level) education, then having children, and having a respectable career).

My mum turned to the monk, and said very frankly that this was indeed the last thing on her mind. “But I know there are things I cannot change, and I will not force anything. As long as he is happy, that’s what matters.”

The monk simply nodded, and I looked at my mum. She had a quiet expression on her face, neither sad, nor happy. In the most open and candid way I have ever heard her speak, even though we have touched on the topic so many times before in the past, mum added:  “I guess orientation is a natural thing, and it cannot be changed.”

“He’s already grown up, and has his own life to lead. He knows what’s best for him, so why worry?” the monk said, rhetorically. Many things in life we worry and fret about, even though we are so utterly powerless to change circumstances and the way people are.

“His friend was here, and he seems to be a good person,” mum said, to my surprise. So all this time, she knew what was going on between my friend and me. I guess while he was visiting and staying over at our family home, we never really made a scene of things, but we did not go purposely out of our way to hide evidence of our affection either. And all these stuffed toys mum has seen lying around the house, she knows they are from my friend, and she knows I hug a big teddy bear to sleep every night. Just a few days ago, she was right next to me when I opened a Valentine’s Day package from my friend, and as I opened it, heart-shaped cut-outs fell out. “I feel I cannot stand in the way of his happiness, if he says he is happy.”

I put a hand on mum’s knee and petted it as we looked at one another briefly in the eyes.  There was a feeling of relief riveting through me, and a feeling of joy, and I could not wait to recount to my boyfriend the conversation that had just taken place today. I felt as if this was the seal of approval I have been waiting for for a long time. It was like a blessing, if not, then at least recognition of who I am as a person, and that I no longer have to hide ‘myself’ from her. Of course it does not change anything in the strong mother-son relationship we have, and does not change how we feel toward one another, I think the conversation this afternoon, especially in the presence of the monk whom we both respect the opinion and wise counsel of, reassured both my mum and I, and lifted a heavy burden off of our shoulders.

For such a long, long time, I tried to avoid the topic directly, and would only bring it up tacitly, out of fear of provoking mum, disappointing her, and adding to her worries, and thus aggravating her illness. I felt so fortunate to have such an accepting and strong mother. As the monk later said, all this time, she was probably just waiting for me to bring up the topic and to start the conversation.

But now I know. My mum loves me, she cares about me deeply, and she just wants me to be happy, for she is my mother.

New family

With brother's impending departure, mum, brother and I made our way to the city of Taichung in central Taiwan to bid farewell to our new family members(-in-law). I had met all of them at the wedding a few weeks ago, but this was the first time that my whole family was getting together after the wedding.

The first impression I got of the new family was that they are a really genuine and down-to-earth bunch of people. When I met them last, which was just after the lunar new year, I was touched by the fact that they already accepted me as part of the family. To my surprise, I was given red envelops by my new aunties and uncles (in-law)-- a tradition reserved for only the closest of kins and relatives. "Come to Taichung anytime you want. This is also your home now," I was told when I left last time.

And indeed, we were all greeted with the same heart-warming welcome today as soon as we arrived, and taken to fancy restaurants to 'celebrate' our arrival. We sat and ate, and bonded over plentiful food and drinks, over lunch and dinner, merely a couple of hours later, when lunch was only  half digested.

The afternoon I sat with mum and the new relatives, mostly listening to them exchange stories of the children growing up, and life experiences. Really, they are such simple folk, unpretentious, kind-hearted, straightforward people who speak their mind, and whose ideas and trains of thought are very compatible with that of mum's. That's one reason why they all get along so well. Another reason is the fact that we are all connected by the Buddhist monk who we all adore and worship, and somewhere along the line our paths may have crossed before. Speaking of six degrees of separation, I only found out today that I had in fact met a number of the relatives on a number of occasions, when I first started going to the monastery in the mountains around five years ago. Sometimes fate and the way people are connected or united works in mysterious ways...

"Come visit and stay over anytime you want," brother's mother-in-law told my mum. We spoke somewhat about mum's condition, and in many ways the new relatives were very empathic and caring. She coincidentally works in the health department, and may be able to arrange for a special treatment for my mum.

It is a joy to see mum bond so well with the new relatives, and wonderful to see that my brother has married into a family that is so intimate and so caring for one another. In fact, over the past year, my mum has been in touch with the mother-in-law, and they have also seen one another a couple of times, and both are fond of one another. Earlier this evening, as we all wandered through the park to walk off dinner, I saw my brother hand in hand with my sister-in-law, while brother's mother-in-law walked before them holding mum's arm.

"Don't worry about your mum," I was told, as the day drew to an end, "You just go and finish what you have to do. We will try to take care of  your mum..."

With that I felt a weight lifted, a worry in my heart subside, and felt like I was one step closer to letting go.