Let's talk about the Weather

                       Taitung, Taiwan (2018)

The weather hasn't been able to make up its mind lately. 

This morning, it was so chilly when I woke up that for a while, I thought I was in wintry Japan. Where the first thing I needed to do when I got out of the safe, thick blanket was to grab the fleece jacket to seek refuge. Where I had to run to switch on the diesel heater in the room switched off the night before to prevent the body from inhaling diesel fumes all night long -- memories of the stay in a century-old Japanese home in Tokushima where the heating system was not as advanced as the modern Japanese home. Where I dreaded bathing times as those were the opportune time for the cold to squeeze its way through the pores of my skin. But no, this is Singapore and all I needed to do was to grab a sweater and all will be fine. 

And just the other day, sleep eluded me as I lay on the bed because the night was sizzling hot. In the naturally-ventilated room where I slept with an overhead fan above me, I wondered what else I could do to keep myself cool and lull the mind to sleep beside meditating, which obviously wasn't working as I ought not to be thinking of anything else other than focusing on my breaths. It felt cognitively similar though to those freezing nights in my room atop a hill in Kyoto a few months back where I tried to figure out how to keep myself warm in order to have a fitful sleep. The only way I could think of then to keep my face warm -- the last remaining part of my body left uncovered after wearing a scarf around the stiff neck and gloves to rein in the frozen fingers -- was to cover the face with the thick blanket. As I figured out how to angle the thick blanket on my face such that I wouldn't suffocate in my sleep and would live to see another day, I wondered how my elderly air bnb hosts survive the Japanese wintry nights all these years. 

Perhaps it is the travel-deprived mind on overdrive. 

The changing weathers have their way of bringing back in truckloads memories of one's life. It's probably true that the non-existence of the four seasons in our sunny island means we don't get to feel as strongly a range of emotions associated with the arrival and departure of seasons. But who's to say we are deprived of the richness of experiences here as we enjoy the cool respite of the day as the birds chirp alongside us, outside the window?

I know for sure I will enjoy it while it lasts. 

 

"Liberation Through Constraint"

In America, wearing face masks has become a political issue. President Donald Trump has refused to mandate the wearing of masks for he wants Americans to have "a certain freedom".

Indeed the face mask constraints. On my cheat days, I reach for the more comfortable but wasteful surgical mask, leaving the restrictive but environmentally-friendly reusable cloth mask in my drawer, with some guilt. 

Yet the face mask also liberates.

In my commutes on the public transport these days, I find myself absolutely enjoying every minute having a face mask on. I can now smile whole-heartedly to myself without worrying if I look like a Pollyanna as I listened to that heartwarming podcast. I can also tear unabashedly with no cares in the world when I am moved by those heartstrings-tugging lines in my book. No one knows and there's absolutely no need to restrain myself -- what a joy that is (try it if you haven't already done so)!

And that, I thought, sums up for me what it means for liberation to happen when there is constraint.

This concept of "liberation through constraint" first crept up on me during the circuit breaker when like many who suddenly find themselves having that bit more time on their hands, I took a dive and plunge into the world of learning a new skill -- writing flash fiction.

Flash fiction is the name for the shortest of the short story where a whole new world can be created using 1500 or just 10 words, however one likes it to be. My masterclass teacher joyfully proffered this quote over Zoom, as she raved about this art form which she adored. Though short, she said, the length constraint is actually a liberation, for it gives one the permission to let go of what the story doesn’t need, while at the same time not sacrificing richness of  descriptions and details. British writer Davkd Gaffney once said when there are fewer unnecessary words to wade through, there is "more room to think, more room for the original idea to resonate". It shouldn't be too alien a concept for me since the short-and-sweet principle applies too when writing picture book stories. Yet the quote still sounds very oxymoron -- for how does the act of restraining oneself leads to liberation?

During these past few months where everyone tries their utmost best to adjust to the new norms, that quote becomes more illuminating. 

The constraints imposed on us during the near two-months long circuit breaker and during this Phase 2 have forced us to reinvent ourselves in ways we haven't previously thought we could. It tears apart what we know so well and forces us to break through the frames we are so used to functioning within. In the process, that liberates our being and our soul.

This was expressed so well by a qipao tailor, Ms Josephine Teo, who offers bespoke tailoring services and recently featured in The Straits Times. Because she needed to stop all in-person consultations (which bespoke services thrives on) during the circuit breaker, she attempted to do 'virtual fittings', guiding her clients over video calls to take measurements of themselves and discussed preferences of intricate details that will go into the making of their cheongsams virtually. She described it a "breakthrough" in her trade when she realised her deftness and expertise in her trade has made it possible to get a cheongsam done even without meeting customers. A local art gallery Ode to Art came up with the idea of offering a digital concierge service that provides personal consultations to collectors using online tools such as Zoom to ensure some online sales. 

During my last trip to Japan, I ventured into a bonsai shop tucked in the midst of the Arashiyama bamboo forest and chanced upon the quote in the picture above. May we, like the bonsai, continue to express our dynamism as we find our place in these new norms. 

What the pandemic bequeaths us

Source: Open source Internet

My sister and I share a love for Mandopop songs since young, such as those from Taiwanese rock band May Day, singers Cheer Chen and Rene Liu. From time to time, she would enthusiastically invite me to 'chase idols' (loosely translated from Mandarin) and attend their concerts together. But each time, I declined the sisterly offers. For I am one to shy away from suffocating crowds and have vowed to her that I will never pay to jostle with people of passion on a weekend just to sing along with my idols, however loved they are in my hearts. "Let me know," I once declared brazenly, "the day when they will hold a private concert just for me. I will watch that concert with you then".

In the present pandemic times when the world has upended and many things once unthinkable now become possible, that has happened. During the past few weeks, musicians and singers from all over the world who knew that music has the power to heal, generously held live-streamed concerts on FaceBook. I can now watch a concert from the comforts of my home, and for free. Two weeks ago, my sister and I enjoyed our private concert with Rene Liu for 2 hours on Facebook Live together, my sister in her home and me in mine, our hearts brimming with gratitude for a dream that came true.

We are living in a world with a veneer that looks vastly different from the pre-covid times.

It's almost surreal that so much can happen within a span of three to four months. Amidst the tremendous suffering, deaths and anguish that the pandemic has caused alongside the ugly (xenophobia, racism, and mud-slinging of the political types), there are the silver linings too.

For one, with lockdowns happening in so many countries and industries grinding to a halt, the natural ecosystem can finally heal itself. Pollution all over the world has plunged big time. The Yamuna River that flows across several states in India has never seen bluer skies and clearer waters ever before.

Yamuna River in Delhi (pre-covid and post-covid times)
Source: Gulfnews.com 

In Thailand with tourist numbers to their famed beaches collapsing, wildlife is claiming back what was once their space. A beach in Phanga Nga district saw newly-hatched babies of the rare leatherback sea turtles for the first time after two decades.

Nests of the rare leatherback turtles discovered in a beach in Thailand
Source: channelnewsasia.com 

On the last day before school closed in early April for the one-month long circuit breaker, the mood in class was low as many were not looking forward to school closure. It prompted me to start a topic of discussion with my thirteen-year-olds.

"Is there anything that we can thank Covid-19 for?"

As the question went onto the whiteboard, many gave quizzical looks. "Why should we thank Covid-19?" they asked.

For sure, it doesn't mean the pandemic is a good thing. We would never have wanted so much sufferings and deaths in this world and it would have been better if it hasn't happened.

Yet it is with covid-19 that the world was compelled to collectively hit the pause button. This breather forced upon us allowed us to reflect and rethink the typical ways of doing things, especially those that have been harming the health of the planet and that of the individual. 

It is in such times of crisis that we learn to "suffer well", Emily Esfahani Smith puts it, in her New York Times article. By choosing to focus on the good that comes out of these troubling times, Smith describes, we cultivate resilience as we learn to recognise meaning and hope.

In a perverse way, there is something to thank covid-19 for. For the simple fact that it gives the world the chance to stand united against a common enemy. We can only hope that this remembrance of the power of synergy stays even when the virus is long gone.

World Health Organisation Director-General Dr Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesusm said in a speech captured in a video shared across numerous social media platforms: "Covid-19 is taking away so much from us. But it's also giving us something special -- the opportunity to come together as one humanity to work together, to learn together, to grow together."

Like the ubiquitous bright pink bougainvilleas that dotted many parts of Singapore, wells of kindness sprout out and manifest itself in different forms all over the island during this pandemic. I learnt there are two young hawkers going by the moniker "Beng Who Cooks" who started cooking for free at their stall at Hong Lim Market and Food Centre. No explanations are needed when you need their food. There are my colleagues who are similarly grappling with how to engage their students in the virtual space in the next 1 month but who spent valuable time teaching me, the techno-dinosaur, how to get a handle on Zoom the video-conferencing tool, the Student Learning Space and a whole host of other technology tools which I have never heard of before the pandemic happened. Like the bougainvilleas which bloom even more aggressively the hotter the weather is, goodwill swells when the going gets tough.

These days with everyone on the street wearing the same look (that of a half-bandaged face), I see less, having little non-verbal cues such as facial expressions to rely on. It takes a tad longer time now to understand another and forces me to slow down in my interactions with people. Yet it is also in slowing down that I am compelled to look at the other in the eye, and notice that pair of kind, smiling eyes framed by creased folds of skins peeking from above the face-mask. I hope I did an equally fine job smiling back with my eyes.

When life is pared down to the minimal, we notice more. Like that lively eye-catching green in the bushes stretching this side of the road compared to the next road during a walk outside my house -- why haven't I noticed that before?

My students may look back 10 years down the road and remember those extraordinary times when they cannot go to school. I hope they will also remember then that the confines of home bear no limit on the human touch as their teachers fumble to find the ideal methods to reach out and touch base with them, in the way that we know how. 

Keep well everyone, and let us continue to learn to smile with our eyes. 

A Journey Round the Room

Home-dried mulberry leaves (photo credit: Choong Mi Mi) 

These days, I find myself thinking a lot about the wind.

The rustling of leaves on the trees makes for a great chill-out moment. Like angels dancing, leaves and flowers fluttering on branches present a cheerful sight, for that often means a rousing breeze has come its way. A walk down the street then becomes a cherished one especially when the sun decides to cooperate as it withholds its might -- one wishes the walk will never end as we dwell in the calmness of the soft caress. As fallen leaves dance with the wind on the tarmac roads, the human spirit does a pirouette with them.

In these frantic and anxiety-inducing times when everything is about Covid-19 on the news and I woke up to read on my Facebook feed proclaiming the virus situation to be the World War of this generation, I seek refuge in the wind. From the comforts of my room. 

It's time to go back to the simple. While we take all the necessary precautions we need to keep the virus at bay, it helps to remember that we already have in our arsenal, tools gifted by nature in our fight against the virus -- the wind (and the sun). 

The wind would have cherished its starring role in these Covid-19 times. For it is now that it can raise itself from its underrated rank to the attention it deserves. We see reminders all the time, on newspapers, TV and on the LED informational screens at lift lobbies and in lifts, that we need to keep the windows of enclosed spaces open for ventilation. We need to allow the wind in to do its work. 

That means we can now legitimately ask Grab drivers to wind down the car windows and they will say yes readily with no disgruntled looks cast. As we traverse down the expressway with no glass pane in the way, suddenly, the world gets closer. You feel the wind massaging your face,  sometimes gently, other times packing a punch, but always reassuring and welcoming. You hear the vehicles' engines clearly with all its fits and starts. The world is functioning, not perfectly but it is doing its best. And we do our part to send out positive thoughts and energy to keep the world marching in its beat.

The universe has its way of reminding us to simplify our lives. During this period when our schedules are pared down to the minimum, when we say yes to social commitments only after mentally-calculating the probability of catching the virus, we find that we can afford to go slower. And in doing so, therein lies the opportunity to take a journey within ourselves and alongside everything else which we failed to notice during the humdrum of busy everyday lives. In our rooms, in our neighbourhoods. 

There is great joy in relishing simple pleasures of life and discovering epiphany moments when we adopt a travel mindset wherever we are. That was exactly what a young Frenchman Xavier de Maistre did in the spring of 1790 when he locked himself at home and decided to study the wonders of what lay closest to him and wrote about it in his book titled "A Journey Round my Room". 

A few afternoons ago, I journeyed round a friend 's room. I learnt that refreshing mulberry tea can be had with just home-dried mulberry leaves immersed in hot boiling water. I explored the different ways of cutting wide open a mango, taking into consideration aesthetics and minimizing of wastage. Why haven't I discovered earlier the joy of drying mulberry leaves and mango-carving?

With a travel mindset, we notice the greatness too right in our neighbourhood. In a bus ride around where I live, I witnessed a scene which will not look out of place in Japan. I had boarded a bus where the driver decided it was his responsibility to ensure everyone onboard enjoyed a pleasant journey. At every juncture when the vehicle pulled into the bus bay, he made it a point to announce where it was that the bus had stopped. And after dropping off the alighting passengers and closing the bus doors, he blurted out "Moving off!". All these, he did shyly, with a tone not too loud but enough to be heard as one sat in the bus. You know he doesn't really do this often; perhaps he is making an effort to, in these high-strung times. Such human decency lifts spirits, and I am sure I am not the only one being lifted, for there are passengers smiling, whether it is out of bemusement or heartened gratitude. 

The truth is, we have not been locked away during these cautious times. Instead we have been "granted the privilege of being able to travel round a range of unfamiliar, sometimes daunting but essentially wondrous inner continents" (Book of Life newsletter).

Now, how's another simmering cup of mulberry leaves tea?

Pause, breathe

"Why is your paddle up!?" THE thoroughly sun-burnt kayaking coach shouted. "And why are you NOT holding on to your teammate's paddle!?"

Sitting in the cockpit of my kayak under the merciless hot sun, I cursed myself silently. I must have asked myself countless times why I signed myself up for this 1 Star Kayaking award course alongside my students. For that meant I signed up for the slinging and scolding usually reserved for students and not an accompanying teacher. I should have just opt to stay put on the safe shores where I watched my students being shouted at by THE coach instead. Out in the open seas, THE coach was not going to listen to my explanation why I did certain things the way I did. All he wanted was for me to execute the steps to the best of my ability. Yet overwhelmed by the many steps to follow in order to execute the rafted "X" rescue operations when someone's kayak capsize, I began to wonder if it is easier to let the kayak capsize than to perform the final, yet seemingly impossible task of flipping the heavy, water-logged capsized kayak over.

These memories of my kayaking experience came back recently as the certificate for the course that I took late last year arrived, laid quietly on my table in the staffroom.  

In many ways, being out in the open sea is akin to navigating the mud pool of the present frenzy of the coronavirus times.

No one likes to capsize, for no one wants to be immersed in a dark, deep sea. No one wants to catch an unknown virus which scientists are still scrambling to learn what it truly is like. In the murky sea where one plunges into to perform the capsize action, one struggles to stay afloat by kicking upwards frantically despite being reminded to stay calm and count to three before emerging from under the capsized kayak to above the sea. In the uncertain Novel Covid-2019 times, it seems easier to hog face masks and hand sanitisers than to collect yourself and listen to the rational voice within you that all will be well. 

In another world where THE coach cares to listen, I may have been able to explain my learning difficulty better -- that I have visual-spatial difficulties and was totally lost when expected to perform the series of actions demonstrated earlier in an orientation different from what was shown. I might have been able to express my need for instructions to be repeated and in a slower fashion. 

Yet in frantic times just like being out in the sea, everyone's cooperation is highly valued and a contrarian voice or action is not welcome. For during times of heightened alertness, there is little time and resources left to address anything else that will slow down an entire group's moving forward. There is little bandwidth left to soothe a slowgoing individual's soul, nor time to explain the whys behind an action. In Nike's words, you just do it. 

In school, the hectic day now starts with taking one's temperature, recording it and making sure all other students take their temperature. Normal school routines have changed and both teachers and students do their best to cope with them. Scrambles involve learning to cope with cancelled school programmes and pre-arranged learning journeys and deciding how to make up for it with new learning points that don't compromise the learning for students. Scrambles also involve trying to make sense of how conventional school-wide programmes typically celebrated in the hall are now held in the confines of each classroom.  

And sometimes in these hectic times, we forgot that we need to breathe and slow down even more consciously, more important than ever before. We sometimes forgot to stay quiet and listen. We forgot that when we do not react too quickly, we earn the chance to reflect and make more rational decisions.

Yet pause we must. For it is through that momentary breath when we halt that we find the time to rotate the kaleidoscope. And when the kaleidoscopic mind is shifted momentarily out of its usual position, we notice the changing patterns of light made by the reflections of the pieces of coloured glass and mirrors. And we recognize the differing views and contrary thoughts.

That said, would I dare to ask THE coach to pause and repeat if ever there is a next time? 

Maybe not. 

Own Your Story

 

When I was a journalist eons ago, a wave of excitement came whenever I was assigned to cover a human-interest story. A human-interest story is a feature story where the primary focus is on the person and has the objective to move, with his/her story. The draw of the human-interest story hence, lies in its ability to capture the human experience. 

The privilege to hear personal stories from such up close and personal angles never fails to produce that sense of thrill which brings great relish each time. No matter who the newsmaker is, be it a prominent personality used to making media rounds or the man-in-the-street, it is a privilege bestowed upon me -- one which I learnt never to take for granted. For it is a licence you have been given, in that brief encounter of fifteen minutes or a few hours, to weave in and out of someone else's life and recount experiences lived. 

That sense of thrill would continue post-interview, brewing as I settled into the backseat of the taxi which I would slip into, long after the newsmaker left, as I made my way back to the newsroom to log in the story. As I peered out the window, the outside views passed nonchalantly as I took time to let the final brew simmer. The aroma would get intoxicating when the mind successfully came up with the opening paragraph to capture the essence of the interview -- an opening which I hoped frame the story well enough to do justice to the newsmaker's story and draw readers into the rest of my writing. This opening paragraph can take the form of a quote or an anecdote shared by the news maker or an observation  made during the interview.

Fast forward to the present and the journalist in me takes over from time to time. This happens usually after being up close and personal alongside a riveting experience or after a chat with someone whose being touches my core. I find myself immersed in the story and brewing the thickly-layered drink once more. 

It takes time to get to a story. But the ingredients to it are always simple and straightforward -- one just needs to ask questions and show a genuine willingness to listen. 

Where I presently work, stories abound as students lead lives one least imagines in sophisticated Singapore. Stories which are melodramatic enough to be made into long-running drama serials, and which sometimes leaves you gasping for breath to catch up. Yet these stories often go untold. 

A fellow colleague who teaches drama hopes to help students distill their life experiences of suffering and trauma into stories that inspire. In the mirror-clad room where one learns what vulnerability means, she gently encourages her students, who are used to their life stories not being of interest, to write scripts about their personal struggles.

A student asks, "What if I cry while writing?"

The teacher assures, "Then cry. And continue writing because that's where the most powerful stories come from, and it may change someone's life." The student smiles. 

Sometimes a story comes when you least expect it. During my trip last December to Nara Park, Japan, I visited the century-old park --  home to more than a thousand freely-roaming deer, temples and other beautiful historical sites -- and met a volunteer guide, Kuzuwa-san. Kuzuwa-san volunteers with the YMCA and makes it a point to spend each weekend bringing tourists around the park, providing free English translation service. I found him at a table he was manning at the corner of the Nara tourism centre.

Throughout the walk, Kuzuwa-san regaled with stories of old and modern Japan, interspersed with economic, historical, geographical and cultural explanations which came about as a result of him poring over tons of research he does during weekends when he isn't bringing tourists around and translating.

My interest shifted away from the deer. What drives Kuzuwa-san, week after week, to devote precious weekend time to bringing tourists around the park and providing free translation services? Even when there are tourists who abuse the service and have him bring them around as a photographer rather than a translator? 

His reasons for doing it seems simple and almost stereotypical at the outset. Yes, he is proud of his hometown and wants to share his country's beauty with the rest of the world? And yes, it is a good chance for him to practise his English-speaking skills too. 

And the story came. 

Kuzuwa-san's full-time job had previously taken him to different parts of the world and many times, he has received kindness. He sees his current outreach to people across different nationalities his way of paying it forward, a way to thank the many nameless but no doubt significant people who lent a hand to him in those foreign lands.

And what a beautiful story that was. 

This Chinese New Year, I indulged in a weekend of immersive storytelling, entering theatres to tick off the list of movies I have been wanting to watch but never got down to. One particular movie stood out. The film adaptation of Louisa May Alcott's classic, Little Women,  features the four March sisters set in a time of Civil War where they had to grow up fast even though they were young. Director Greta Gerwig's tagline for the movie is "Own your story". How apt that was for if Louisa May Alcott didn't base her writing loosely on her life, there would not be this evergreen classic  which touches on themes relevant even to our modern day lives. 

Never underestimate the power of our own stories. 

Be Free Where You Are

THE feet know it best.

They will be the first to detect signs of restraint and the lack of freedom when cooped up within closed in shoes, especially when they comes with bunions like mine. A bunion is a bony bump formed on the part of the foot where the big toe is. In my case, I was born with them. Feet with bunions long to be free. So out goes those elegant tight, narrow shoes and heels. Not even a comfortable pair of closed in shoes made of stretchable materials does the trick. Just a few hours in them and THE feet will make their protests heard. You hear their calls to get out of their confined state into the embrace of freedom.

In a parallel universe, I would want to wear my Vibram Five-fingers running shoes wherever I go. Where my toes on each foot can return to my ancestors' days, with every muscle strongly stretching out and feeling the ground solidly. I would pair them even with formal work-wear! 

But before I come to possess that unshackled-by-societal-norms type of bravery, I have to contend with running to my socially-accepted open-toed sandals during the weekend. 

I shuddered to think what would have become of me had I existed in the time of foot-binding in Tang dynasty China where small feet were a hallmark of elegance. Freedom is no less important for THE feet.

So too is that for the 20 month-old-nephew. The day he learnt to walk marked his first taste of mobility; the appetizer freedom which came alongside indeed whets his appetite further. Any efforts to restrain him using the baby carrier only serves to provide fertile training ground for developing a wily mind as he thinks of various ways to get out of his confined state.

"Want to go into the pram?" His grandma asked lovingly, noticing his wriggling uncomfortably inside the baby carrier that held him to her. He nodded, not yet grasping speech but understanding very well the ways of the world -- and the sympathy of adults around him. 

Once he is released from his cloistered state, he wriggles out of grandma's feeble attempts to place him into the pram and out he goes onto the ground. Sprinting away along the shopping mall's corridor stretch like an Olympian sprinter, albeit a less steadier one, he leaves Grandma panting to catch up with him. 

Freedom, once tasted, will forever be cherished. 

Space on a page, or white space, as the world of educational therapy likes to call it, is important too for individuals with learning difficulties such as dyslexia or visual processing difficulties. They often experience something called visual crowding when letters and words crowd on a page, making the act of reading laborious. To help them overcome this problem, ensuring there is sufficient space between letters, between words and between lines and having bigger margins help greatly. 

The page too needs to breathe. 

Space hence, from time immemorial, is the cherished small prize which leads up to the ultimate gigantic grand trophy called freedom which when embraced in one's arms, reaches beyond the height of the average Joe. 

The sense of unshackled space often provides that awe-struck element which silences me as I sit in a train during my travels. The sight of vast horizons of grasslands interspersed with shimmering rivers and the generous dosage of blue sky outside the window is often surreal. After all, where I come from, I am more accustomed to seeing sandwiches of storeys generously stacked up over the years. 

I used to think that a generous dosage of physical space is the necessary corollary for a vast enough headspace to think, and to imagine. Yet it seems that is not necessarily so. 

At my last stop at Tokushima Prefecture in Japan, my Japanese air bnb host, Sachi, lamented about the crammed Japanese education system which leaves children with little time to play and explore the wonders of nature that abound all around them. Located on the eastern side of the island of Shikoku, Tokushima Prefecture has beautiful natural scenery in abundance. It seems blasphemous not to have the time to play in such a grandiose space. Looking at how Sachi consciously carves out space and time for her 3 children to grow to be the creative beings they are capable of, it seems physical space is not enough to guarantee headspace. Freeing up space in one's head takes effort.  

The antidote to a lack of (mental) space could jolly well be a generous amount of time. With the luxury of time, many things seem possible.

You discover thoughtfulness and kindness at all the little corners when time can afford to take a slow walk. The cashier at the convenience store noticed the drizzle outside and asked if I would need the plastic tag attached to the umbrella I just bought removed so that I could use it immediately.

On my first day of arrival at Tokushima Prefecture, I brought my luggage to Sachi for her help to hack away the lock to my luggage, for I have performed an impressively clever feat of locking up the only key I brought for the lock in the luggage. Her attention focused on just the rock and hammer in her hands, and the lock on my luggage -- even when her well-stacked unwashed plates were beckoning to her at the sink and 3 children were waiting for dinner. 

We often discover what we can do when we give ourselves enough time.

Mohammad Abdillah, 25, a former graduate of Northlight School (for students who failed their PSLE) where I currently teach, and now a motion graphics artist at a local advertising agency sums it up well. He once said that what liberates him and allows him to gain hope and confidence in life was when he realizes he was capable of learning -- he just takes more time. He said, "One thing I've realise from life is that it's ok to take your time, as long as you don't give up."

I came too to discover over the years that solo travelling is possible even for someone like me who possesses limited visual spatial skills (I can get lost even within a shopping mall or a HDB estate). As long as I am willing to give myself sufficient time. Time to get lost and forgive myself even when I missed that bend. Time to think and consider the next best course of action when I took the wrong bus. Time to gather myself and find my centre when feeling overwhelmed in a crowded train station where the sight of the city folks rushing and their harried footsteps could have the effect of immediately jolting up one's heartbeat rate. 

In Swedish physicist and author Bodil Jonsson's book "Ten Thoughts about Time: A Philosophical Enquiry", she distinguishes between the concepts of clock-time and lived-time. Clock-time is the objective timekeeping we all live by and lived-time is one's perceived sense of time. She writes of how when we become more conscious of our lived-time, and realizes that the clock-time is not all-important, we will start to discover how to make use of our limited timespan in this world meaningfully. In other words, when you believe you have time, you get more out of life. 

Indeed when you give yourself the luxury of time, you find that even though you can't really read a map perfectly,  you can still figure out the general direction to a destination by using common sense and chatting up strangers along the way.

When you choose to believe you have time, you stop to make conversations -- one using google translate, the other using an electronic translation dictionary. You find time to be immersed in a sing-song journey with one another as hand gestures are indulged in and efforts are made to correct words lost in translation. 

And then, you discover stories of passions and bravery. Of how a middle-aged chap switched from being an engineer of trains to an engineer of wagasa, or Japanese oil-paper umbrellas because he wants to play a part in keeping this age-old Japanese tradition alive. You listen to the honest sharings of a young married couple in their early 20s, whose desire to set up a café at a well-chosen zone with high tourist traffic stems not so much from entrepreneurial passion but from the need to eke out a living.  

These days, I smelt the faint scent of jasmine flowers in my neighbourhood which I never do before, this time of the year. I'd like to see that as a small victory, that I managed to slow down my lived-time and create a headspace that is uncloistered and freer at the start of a new decade. 

Let's hope it sustains. 

Finding Our Way Home, the Japanese Way

The keys rests, in a simple pen-drawn square, marking its home.

That was the first arresting image that Japan gifted me on my first day of arrival at the small room in my first air bnb accommodation.

In the second air bnb I stayed in, I took away the aesthetic lesson of gifting a vase a coaster to lean on. A few minutes after I stepped away from the dining table where I tossed on it my breakfast consisting of an egg sandwich and a plum onigiri grabbed the night before from 7-11, I returned to find that my air bnb host had artfully arranged them neatly on an elegant plate placed on a tray.

These were easy enough gestures. Yet once you took home (pun intended) the concept of gifting every object its home, the image of a vase lying barren on a wooden table without a coaster simply looks forlorn.

That is what Japan does to you.

The Japanese appears to be made up of an island of individuals who has a strong concept of home. Every object has its rightful place; thou shall never see the act of gifting an object a home an act of indulgence. Japanese lifestyle celebrity Marie Kondo, who found fame by helping people straighten up their homes (and lives as she believes), advocates it is important to have a place for everything.

Such a belief in the concept of home demands orderliness for sure, which the Japanese are well-known for. But more than that, it shows a deep respect of all things, both animate and inanimate. The Japanese has a steep tradition in viewing the everyday things of life from the perspective of relationships among people. Conferring a respect for the objects in our lives shows a respect for the users of the objects. 

I didn’t realise, but such respect for even the most mundane things has rubbed off on me.

The first sign of transformation made its grand entrance at potluck meals during the Christmas festive period. I fervently made sure every dish that arrived at the table made their way from makeshift shelters of oil-stained paper bags and plastic containers to proper ceramic plates. The usual practical me would have left them as they are, believing that that is the rightful way of doing things. 1 fewer plate to wash = water and time saved.

Sayonara, my practical Singaporean habit.

I took things a tad too far when at my nephew’s birthday party, I emptied out the contents of each McDonald meal packed in paper bags and passed them out on plates and bowls to the tweens. If they do find me weird, they were respectful enough not to roll their eyes at one other.

Enough said, I needed to know what drives this strong sense of home in the Japanese. The universe somehow always has a knack for knowing what I need and blesses me with the necessary.

Two weeks after I returned from my Japan trip, I chanced upon a book aptly titled “I Want to Go Home”. Written by Wesley Leon Aroozoo, a lecturer from LASALLE College of the Arts and a filmmaker. The book adds to the jigsaw pieces, helping me better understand the Japanese’s need to ensure everything is in its place.

“I Want to Go Home” documented the author's journey meeting Mr Takamatsu who lost his wife to the tsunami during the Great East Japan earthquake on the 11th of March, 2011. “I want to go home” was the last text message that Mr Takamatsu's wife, Yuko sent him on her cell phone that fateful day. Mr Takamatsu knows Yuko is no longer alive, yet the desire to find her body and brings her back home never dimmed throughout the years. And so he learnt to dive. Since then, he has been diving every week in the sea to look for Yuko. “I felt like I could meet her one day as long as I kept diving,” he said. “I just want to bring her home.” In the course of his dives, he returned lost objects found on the sea floors to their rightful homes and owners (if they bear names). Driven initially by the desire to bring his beloved wife home from the vast ocean, Mr Takamatsu has found another purpose in life.

I chanced upon the Internet the concept of uchi-soto which apparently permeates all aspects of Japanese life, and which possibly further explains the need to find a home for all things loved. Uchi means the inside or home, and is associated with things being clean, safe and pure that they need to appreciate. On the other hand, soto refers to the outside and that is associated with things that are unfamiliar and even impure but which they need to honour.

A new friend I made recently wrote this on her IG status profile: “I want to learn to struggle in this world; yet still know my way home.”

On this New Year’s Day, may everyone finds your way home, where you belong.