Following My Bliss – Friday 27 June

I like early starts and today was no exception, 6.30am on my day off and in spite of the gloomy skies, I felt like Miss Merry Sunshine from the moment I awoke. Alan was just about ready to leave for work, I kissed him goodbye, pinched his bottom and grabbed my usual extra-large cup of coffee.

Hand washing some clothes was the first task I had to embark upon. I love the fragrance of clothes that have been washed in Lux Pure Soap Flakes and always hand wash my favourite somewhat faded t-shirts from Colaba, Mumbai in these luxurious bubbles. There is something very reassuring about wearing those t-shirts. I think it’s because they smell of India… and Lux. Mum and Nadia would add … “And you have Shah Rukh on the front!” Well, maybe that too.

I started to fill the buckets and enjoyed the warm sudsy water as I mixed in the soap. Turning the t-shirts inside out, I caught a glimpse of Shah Rukh. That set my monkey mind in another direction … it was off-peak internet time … and there was a new episode of Shah Rukh’s Kya Aap Pachvi Pass Se Tez Hain? (Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader?) ready for downloading.

As many of you know I have fantasies – and no, I don’t mean of Shah Rukh, but of the day I will be able to speak Hindi fluently, but to date I still only understand a very bare minimum. Not too long ago, I discovered this wonderful site online www. srkpagali.net which provides Shah Rukh Khan devotees with high quality AVI videos of his movies, interviews, advertisements, TV shows etc, with subtitles. I sighed and gave in to my addiction … no … can’t wash yet … must download. You see, I know my weakness, and I will only end up downloading during the peak period if I did all the chores first. What to do yaar, I am like this only, nah? Shah Rukh-jaan … mein ari hu.

Pleasure comes in many forms. Most women like massages and a visit to a spa; a lady I used to know when I worked at Citibank used to treat herself by having her eyelashes dyed and her acrylic nails French-tipped regularly. Recently, I heard that a friend of a friend is currently finding much satisfaction in fine dining. With my 46th birthday just around the corner it got me thinking – what is my idea of indulgence? What do I have a weakness for?

One of my greatest pleasures is our home of ‘hippie opulence’. I must thank Vicky, one of Donny’s friends, again for providing our home with that allusion. The first thing I do just about every morning is light the tea-lights and sticks of incense in my kitchen and pay respects to the little Buddha on my counter. I love the way the trailing patterns of rising smoke infuses our home with its sweet earthy fragrance as I sip my morning coffee in the deep morning silence. Often I sit on our Indian style floor mattress which is swathed in a black and gold embroidered mirror-work Rajasthani counterpane. Reclining on the matching bolsters, I cannot help but breathe in the smells of India that it still clings on to.

Speaking of hippies made me think of The Beatles and thinking of them made me think of the sitar – told you I have a monkey mind. I remember the first time I tried to attentively listen to Ravi Shankar. We were in Dharamsala in a shop selling beautiful handmade items from the Tibetan Children’s Village. Ravi Shankar was playing a raga in the background – I listened and wanted so desperately to understand what all the accolades for this man were about. And of course, I was extremely disappointed. You see then, I was listening with western classical music training in mind. I was completely unaware of the magic, a sitar in the hands of this absolute master would someday evoke in me – that rhythms and vibrations in a raga could be a spiritual discipline in my path to awareness or that a thumri which is a sensual romantic semi-classical style, would become a favourite. That I would sit at my computer writing my blog entries listening to his beautiful daughter’s music. I don’t mean Norah Jones – but Anoushka Shankar. It is mesmerising the way her music gently caressing the air around me.

Alan and I remember the air in India, it is at times other-worldly. The red glow that so commonly is depicted in photographs and films of an Indian sunrise is real. I have stared directly into that red for several seconds as the sun begins to illuminate the morning, on more than a few occasions as we journeyed through the sub-continent. Surag namaskar, my salutations to the sun for there is something about that red and all its related hues – that just transports me onto another plane. Everyone knows my weakness for colour. I have no qualms at combing red, pink and orange together with azure and emerald green. Our journeys had gifted me with the unbridled desire to indulge in rang … colours of India without caution or trepidation.

Trepidation … that word always reminds me of the first time we flew in to Mumbai – all the guidebooks mentioned the terrible traffic jams, the fumes, the busyness, the slums and the beggars at traffic-signals. I was convinced that I would loath the place and reluctantly agreed to go only because the flight was a freebie and Alan said we would stay three days – I have never been more wrong about anything in my life and have to laugh at my foolishness. Amchi Mumbai - without question, going there is like returning home.

bbsigh …

Think I’ll go make myself another coffee, put on Anoushka’s Rise CD and light another stick of Nag Champa. There’s an article on the Baadshah I’ve been saving for a rainy day like today. I am following my bliss – everything that reminds me of India is my life’s great indulgence.

I smile ... Happy Continuation Day, Maya.

Meander Entry

Alan and I approached last weekend with mixed feelings.

You see, about a month ago, Donovan told me that he was intending to invite his friends around for a cocktail party on Saturday 21 June. Having grown up in an environment where costume parties are a norm, Donny loves encouraging his crazy and artistically inventive posse to dress up to a theme whenever an opportunity presents itself. He decided this time it would be The Mad Hatters Boston Tea and Cocktail Party, as I love watching people arrive in their ingenious and often bizarre creations I was looking forward to this portion of the evening.

But Donny's parties also mean music like Miles Davies’ 'Agharta' & John Coltrane’s 'Ascension'. Some parents fear the distorted sounds of loud electric guitars and the heavy pulsation of programmed drumming. Other parents put up with the repetitious rapping of senseless 'In da Club' like compositions. Donny’s parents dread his free jazz collection. There was no way I was going to be able to sit in bed reading The Significance and Benefits of Six Syllable Mantra Recitation with Miles and John soaking in through the walls. Not even the thought of lovely warm flannel pyjamas and Alan next to me poring over The Lonely Planet's Guide to Vietnam could tempt me – I needed to … flee. Check out why http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YpPraEdnKjY

But where would the Travelling Children go? Alan and I are not night birds in any shape or form. Even in our 20s we never understood the pleasure of getting dressed up to go out for a drink at places that come alive with music, mood lighting and mounting intoxication at sundown. Night clubs were and remain even more a never-to-attempt-again hazard. We checked all the movie houses and found nothing we seriously wanted to see - we had to laugh at ourselves and acknowledge yet again that we are a pretty boring old couple.

So what do we take pleasure in? For example the night before, warmly rugged up, we had driven with bolsters and an extra blanket to Nollamara for our much desired meditation and dharma fix. As part of our ritual, we floated over to McDonald's for milkshakes on our way home – Siddhartha type world music playing in the car. Then before the sun had risen on Saturday, Alan and I were dressed and ready to head out in that general direction again … Ikea for breakfast, of course, followed by a meander around Sweden’s gift to mankind. Hand in hand, Alan and I love to people-watch as we pick up items like serviettes and candles at lelong (sale) prices. Of course for us no Saturday morning outing is complete without a visit to some Indian or hippie inspired establishment. We generally roam around until after lunch and then head home where Alan brews us Illy or Lavazza cappuccinos – and we sit on our front deck and watch the birds and clouds in shared contentment. I think you get the picture … what we love doing is generally humdrum.

It was 8.15pm

Donny’s guests were beginning to arrive … Alan and I looked at each other and to use a family favourite line from Kabhi Alvida Naa Kehna, we knew it was 'Time to go'.

We sat in the car and Alan asked me for the umpteenth time what we should do. My mind was still a void. 'Avoid, yaar' - yet another line we had freely adopted from Hindi movies - was the only thing that came to me. With a tinge of aggravation, Alan suggested we head out to the little Vietnamese restaurant in Northbridge – I immediately agreed, relieved at his brilliant proposal. Alan is really getting into Vietnamese food these days with all the excitement of our up-coming trip to Vietnam and Cambodia. Our friends Nga and Kevin had taken us to a little place on Brisbane Street a few months ago as Nga decided it was her duty to instruct us on how and what to order when we were in Saigon. Since that detailed introduction to Vietnamese cuisine, where she actually wrote down dishes we could order and made me practice pronouncing the very foreign sounding names, the tasty varieties of pho has very quickly become a family favourite.

And so over steaming bowls of delicious pho, Alan and I held our heads as we slurped up the noodles and fresh herbs, planning our Indochina holiday – Johnny Depp’s Pirates of the Caribbean quietly flashing in the background on the two high wall-mounted TV sets. Unfortunately for us, the service at this fabulous little eating-house is always super-efficient and so our dinner was over and done with before too long.

Sitting again in the car, we opted for the longest route home, along our favourite drive down Stirling Highway. We reminisced nostalgically about how it has not changed (much) at all in the 21 years that we have had the pleasure of night driving along it on our way back into Fremantle. From there we took to the side-streets through and around our beloved port city - as always it left us feeling immensely grateful that we live right next door to such an amazingly culture-rich and exceptional place. Our decision to live in Coogee came about mainly so we could be close to Fremantle and the ocean.

Alan and I kept talking and laughing until it dawned on us - we were nearly home … oh dear … what to do? Alan suggested a tour through the neighbourhood starting with a drive past Sam’s parents' home. Ridiculous but well, why not! We drove past the Tomeo's … the lights were all off so we decided to speculate that they had gone to a party or a wedding. I wondered if Nadia, Sam and the kids were also invited and what Nadia (and Hubble growing within her) had eaten for dinner.

We turned around the corner at Barking Dog House with Veranda … the poor slightly deranged and very scary animal had long since moved on to his next life, yet the name had stuck with that house. Alan has often had to remind me that even the owners had changed since I first starting calling it by that name. Onward we went past Take and Put Garden – a chaotically planted garden tended by an old Italian couple whose plants absolutely thrived despite all the confusion; past Sloping Block That Never Sold and a little further up on the corner to Gi-normous House (aka Pee House as one could conveniently stop for a pee there, at least until they put the cyclone fence around it). Gi-normous House has been five, maybe even six years in the making but is still sadly only a shell. We went past Our Lady of Perpetual Succour Church Replica, past The Gingerbread House (I’m telling you this house is right out of Brothers Grimm), past Astro Turf Lawn and around through a loop road past Christmas Lights House. Alan commented that a new home had come up in that loop and said we had to come back during the day to check it out. We turned at Chinese Cactus White House and went around again – peering through the lighted windows at whatever was visible in the rooms of homes we have grown fond of and took comfort in for we have walked and driven past them for 16 years now.

Finally – we had to go home. Donny's party was in full swing; we said our hellos and then retired into the study.

On my computer, I began downloading Are You Smarter than a 5th Grader. India’s very entertaining version is hosted by the Baadshah, Shah Rukh Khan. It was a celebrity episode and we were looking forward to enjoying it together.

Alan next to me, signed onto Facebook as he had to feed Schultzy, his on-line Miniature Schnauzer. We were so thrilled to be home.

Just before we began watching the episode, we looked at each other and burst out laughing “Old couple!” we said in unison.

It was only 10.30pm.

Must go to India

Recently Nadia said to me in an email that she did not think Alan and I would ever stop returning to India. Just like her and Sam would always return to their Italy – we would be doing our Indian pilgrimages until we were old and grey. My best friend is right as usual – the woman knows me through and through. Did I really even for a moment entertain the idea that after the big silver wedding anniversary trip we would bring the “Must go to India” chapter to a close? Well, Alan did – for a while at least. And he is right as well, as there are so many other countries on our to-do list.

The to-do list of travels … when Alan and I were newly married we would often laze around after dinner and dream about all the places we would someday have enough cash to explore, and of course, all the food we were going to have to try. We were 22 and the first among most of our classmates from our year group to be married and (soon after) fall pregnant. While many of our friends were perhaps perusing Contiki brochures and picking up tickets for their traveling around Europe or the US; we were with equal excitement scrutinising ICI paint charts and collecting pre-loved sofas and baby furniture that families had so kindly donated to ‘the young couple’ setting up a new home. We mostly went with the flow, as we never really had a plan about where our lives would lead. All that mattered was that against all the odds – Alan and I were married and deliriously in love. We had persevered through all the hurt of being rejected by Alan’s parents and had held our love beyond the taint of all the scandalous talk that circulated the Eurasian community. The only plan we really had was that whatever happened … we would be in it together, we would dream as one and we would work to succeed as one.

We had always done everything together, Alan and I - but after our first trip to India, when I began my study of Buddhism in 2004, it dawned on me like a ton of bricks … that finally after all the years of dreaming - just when we had begun our traveling overseas together, I would also have to embark on a very lonely Buddhist trail without him. You see, the first thing I learnt was that Buddhism is not evangelical, it is personal - a life-style based purely on self-discovery, self-testing, self-doing. I was petrified for this wonderful man had been my sounding board for 20 years, our minds always working as one. It would be easier for me to stop believing in God than it would be for me to walk this path without Alan.

I knew he would continue to be with me and support me in a physical sense but he and I were at different places for the first time in our married lives. I was ready to invest everything into this commitment to retrain my Christian mind into an Eastern one – and I did not know if we would ever think with the same oneness again. I had been tinkering with Buddhism for many years whenever I felt helpless and backed into a corner, but the idea of living a Buddhist life-style fully never occurred to me until after India.

Christianity is based completely on faith. As my study began I realised that one of the most difficult things for me personally - as a Catholic who had always been devout - to learn to do was the letting go of my God fearing guilt. Going to the convent school I attended, we girls were daily reminded of our faith. I felt it forever imprinted in my soul that occurances which did not have human explanation are called mysteries and it was through our faith that we believed and would be saved. Buddhism on the other hand threw the entire order of things in my head and heart into disarray as the Buddha told his disciples not to believe him. He said:

“Do not believe in anything simply because you have heard it. Do not believe in anything simply because it is spoken and rumored by many. Do not believe in anything simply because it is found written in your religious books. Do not believe in anything merely on the authority of your teachers and elders. Do not believe in traditions because they have been handed down for many generations. But after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all, then accept it and live up to it.”

My whole belief system was in turmoil. There were moments that first year when my courage would wane and I would pine desperately to have the support of a community, anyone who understood the dharma who could explain the teachings in everyday terms. I had many issues with re-birth and the lack of a God to pray to and to ask for intercessions. The Buddha was only an Indian man, albeit a former prince, albeit enlightened. Indian and a man. My dear grandmother Winnie, my own mother and everyone else in Singapore who had called him the Chinese God were wrong. What did the resultant path mean, how would I ever see myself as a divine being experiencing a human life? I had as a Catholic been able to seek some form of refuge and companionship from other parishioners at church – now I had no place of worship and I had no community, or to use the Buddhist term - I had no sangha. Added to this deficiency, I also had to open the door of my heart to many of my ex-community discussing my failing faith; I believe speculators were even soliciting prayers for my return to the fold. Instead of gentle understanding, many judged and tried to reclaim me with the one tool so often used and that always worked on me in the past … guilt.

Alan held me up physically as did those closest and dearest to me, many of you read my blogs and I want to thank you for being there for me, I love you all so very much. But emotionally I was on my own as I radically emptied my life of all the past doctrines and mindfully held my new discoveries beyond the condemning looks and the taint of all the scandalous talk that circulated the Catholic community. I did not realise this then, but these very people from the community soon became my great teachers, and I will forever be grateful to them for the lessons they will never realise they taught me through their lack of understanding. I discovered the joy of patience and knowing I could find new understandings for the ideas I had out-grown by being open to the ideas of other schools of thought. This sort of learning had no end and I had been gifted with an opportunity to become the person I was always supposed to be for this new way appealed to my intelligence and not just my willingness to believe. Out of interest, I also began to include Hinduism and Taoism into my daily lessons. Suddenly - I began to feel bliss. It astounded me. Family and friends who saw me on a regular basis began to realise the change in me. Soon strangers would smile at me on the streets and even stop to talk with me.

One day … obviously it had been happening gradually but because by then I had become so self aware of my practice, I had abandoned all craving and expectations of Alan committing to the same path … I suddenly realised he had been yearning and that he was ready to abandon the comfort of just being a good person and doing no harm. He wanted more and he was ready. We were in this – together. I felt our already peaceful and beautiful home awash with a new light of connected harmony.

We returned to India for the 3rd time last October, the visits have now become a sentimental journey for The Travelling Children. The explorations, the people, the food have all become a part of our everyday conversations. Most of our family and friends have an idea of what India means to Alan and I as they laugh lovingly at our obsession with it. But I acknowledge India as my salvation and to an extent, it has been Alan’s as well. Yes Nadia … I believe you are right … we shall be doing our Indian pilgrimages until we are old and grey. We will go elsewhere in between; for of course there is still that to-do list of travels.

These days we take refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma and the Sangha that we belong to. We bring our bolsters and in the winter even a blanket on the long drive to Nollamara to sit on a carpet in quiet meditation with our Sangha and to be; in Buddhist fashion educated, entertained and enlightened. We are disciples of Ajahn Brahm.

I send an inner smile through my body.

Celebrating Our Differences

Over the weekend Alan and I celebrated Vesak Day with our loved ones. All save Erica lovely daughter of Mabel's brother, were born in Singapore. It was a relaxing day – starting with a leisurely Indian vegetarian breakfast, lots of happy nonsensical conversation, pots of percolated coffee and hilarity as we laughed at each other and with each other - it went on until three in the afternoon. The tranquil musical sounds of the wind-chimes hanging in the front verandah and the splashing sounds of bubbling water from the water-feature in our garden blew gently indoors with the breeze, through clicking waves of the beaded curtain by our front door. I felt a deep sense of absolute peace and happiness as I kept the emerald coloured glass votives on either side of the little Buddha statue on my kitchen counter lit and the swirling scented patterns of smoke from nag champa incense in the air throughout the day. Vesak, the day of the full moon in May - when Lord Buddha was born, is believed to have attained enlightenment, and when he breathed his last on earth before his entry into Nirvana.

~ ~ ~

In Singapore from 1 December every year, Orchard Road and the entire shopping district would be lit up with literally millions of fairy lights; thick green garlands and wreathes would hang in twinkling white-light splendour along the main road and all the side-streets bringing into our lives kilometers of discerningly decorated brilliance. Curtains of lights encrusted the exteriors of shops, buildings and hotels, and everywhere you looked, Christmas displays tantalised our imaginations and tugged our memories back to stories we had read in books during our childhood. Each year the decorations persuaded us yet again - to want to believe that Santa really existed; Christmas was just one of the festivals that Singaporeans went over the top with in celebrating.

Going into the various cultural sectors that had been divided up during the time of Colonial rule - to mill around, have dinner and shop, or just stop for a jagong (sweet corn) ice-cream and experience the traditions of each festival being upheld every year was something that we felt a yearning for and were sentimental about especially in the early years of our arrival. Twenty one years ago, Perth was not the buzzing multi-cultural city it is today. It was a quiet little town when we began to embrace meat-pies, BYO's, and relaxing Australian weekends under blue skies at the beach or in a park. Although almost impossible to imagine today, Fremantle our beloved Port City, was a bit of a dive back then and going out for Asian food usually meant sweet and sour pork and bok-choi. Sushi, Tandoori, Pad Thai and Laksa – just to name a few of the Asian dishes currently enjoyed with abandon by Australians … were totally unheard of.

So during Chinese New Year, memories of the fire-crackers of our childhood, the red lanterns that hung just about everywhere, the lion dance performances to loud noisy tung-tung chang cymbal clashing and drumming, the even-numbered mandarins and ang-pows given for good luck - would come floating back for Alan and I. How we missed the colourful and so scrumptious Yu Sheng Salad where every ingredient signified life renewed; as we joyfully called out 'loh-hay loh hay' and inserted our chopsticks into the salad to lift and mix the ingredients at the start of the celebratory meal together.

Also, there would be recollections of the Muslim festival of Eid or Hari Raya celebrated with our Malay friends that followed their month long fasting of Ramadan – laughter over spicy halal chicken in coconut milk curries, beef rendang and fragrant rice or ketupat (rice cakes wrapped in coconut palm leaves) that we would devour with our hands … coughing because we were talking too much while eating the coconut serunding. Drinking cups upon cups of syrupy black tea with pineapple tarts and other sweets as we sat on the floor chatting into the evening.

Then during Diwali (Deepavali) Alan and I would reminisce the high pitched voice of singers like Lata Mangeshkar singing what was then called Hindustani hits that filled the air while Indian families in colourful sarees and kurtas bustled their way through the crowded streets of Little India buying statues or pictures of Gods and Goddesses in gaudily painted settings with flashing rays of lights. There was bargaining in loud Tamil over sarees and frilly dresses while garlands upon garlands of intoxicatedly perfumed flowers were being made right on the street. I missed the intense smell of cardamom and other freshly ground spices mixed with that of coconut oil and marigolds – how they assaulted our senses in the lead up to the Festival of Lights. In those early days of living in Perth, all we could do was dream of the mouth-watering masala thosais (stuffed pancakes) and idlis, the buttery flavour of ghee (instant heart attact ingredient) in the burfis and ladoos of our adolecent years.

I think most migrants feel this way; we want to bring into our new country all that is good of our food and culture to proudly pass onto our children and share with our new friends. The Italians, Greeks, Turks – the ‘Wogs’ who were mercilessly teased for their accents and culture before we Asians began to arrive in droves - they made their presence felt here in the glorious delights of their cuisine and beverages. And how we absolutely love their beautiful flavour-infused food; I have to wonder what people ordered at restaurants in the days before pasta, souvlaki, baklava and cappuccinos arrived.

These days, Asian food and culture is very much here to stay as well. What began as just little family gatherings to preserve and share our multi-cultural childhood memories in little versions of festivals seems to have caught on in the imaginations of Australians. Thai and Indian cuisines seem to be the hot favourites, and sushi bars have popped up in just about every shopping centre. Drinking teas from China, Japan and India is very fashionable at the cafes; my own son has turned into what I call a snobby tea connoisseur. He has introduced me to the aromatic delights of Japanese Quince Tea, White Tea and Ulong. We are both however terribly confused about one beverage that has appeared on the menu in recent years - Chai Latte.

Chai – the strong, sweetened, intensely spicy and perfumed, milky drug of divine magnitude! Made in tea pots bubbling over hot coals along the streets of India – the only line of connected reasoning that unites all Indians across the world no matter what religion or region or caste they belong to – has in the western world become a shadow of very weak flavourless tea topped with frothy milk. Chai Latte costing a ridiculous $3.80 in Perth seems to have attracted a following! I have to laugh.

I love that stone statues of Buddha are available at most garden centres, that Zen and meditation is in, that durian and longan is available at supermarkets together with rempah (curry paste) for Thai Green Curry, Biryani and Chicken Butter Masala to name just a few, that Australians throw Bollywood or Miss Saigon theme parties and that Alan’s boss has kechap manis, fish sauce and belachan in his pantry cupboard.

Aussie, Aussie, Aussie! Oi! Oi! Oi!

"Mummy can we afford jelly beans this week?"

I was 26 when it dawned on me that I would physically never be able to have any more children – Donovan would be an only child.

We had been in Australia for a year and were struggling to manage with the never ending deluge of ‘window envelopes’ the postman would leave for us in the galvanized dust-bin with the cut-out slot in the lid, that we had shamelessly used as a mail box. Those invoices seemed to be the only official mail that ever arrived with any regularity. We had lined the bin with bricks so it was heavy and would stay put on the sand and limestone of our Nallabor Plain. I smile as I type this, for that is indeed what we used to call the massive sandpit that surrounded our first home in Australia. 68 Elderberry Drive - where little Donny would learn to read and in turn begin to teach me.

They were difficult times, but I have the fondest memories of our early days. I can still see Alan sitting - with his shins resting on the carpet, his exposed feet crossed under his bottom, going through the junk mail brochures - another regular sighting in our galvanised 'post-box' - cutting out the weekly specials at Farmer Jacks and Coles. Then we’d discuss what we could afford for the week, make a list and because we only had our much loved orange coloured rusty VW Beetle for transport – we would always do the shopping together. Alan was a bus driver then and worked 6 even 7 days a week and always tried to do the ‘spread shift’ - so he could come home during the 3 hour break and take me to the shops or to the library. I was always astounded and thankful for the energy that kept him going.

Our first friends – the kind strangers who were involved in picking us up at the airport when we arrived that cold winter night in August 1997, were also finding it hard to make ends meet. The Meyers had two children at the time and because we had similar circumstances, we soon became very close – we were like family and I was very happy that Donny had found ‘siblings’ to play and even fight with.

This did not however, stop me initially from feeling emotional every time I saw a pregnant mum or for indulging in the creative powers of my imagination when I was out at the Good Samaritan Op Shops where I used to buy our clothes. I often stopped by the $1.00 discounted racks with baby-wear and on two occasions actually bought little dresses for the phantom daughter I carried in my heart – only to end up feeling very silly and more than slightly forlorn when I got back home.

But time heals and I soon learned to smile through the comments of some relatives and friends, when they questioned my selfishness of not having another child to keep Donny company. I do not think they ever meant to be unkind but I remember once, at a church function being told by a lady I hardly knew “Why are you so vain about your figure? Don’t be so selfish, you should have another child to keep your son company.”

I did not see why I had to defend myself by telling them the real reason I could not have another child. I was indeed fortunate to be blessed with a good figure but it completely threw me that these people thought so little of me because of it. I comforted myself with the secret awareness I had always felt about Donovan Michael - my beautiful little boy, whom I had conceived quite by accident in our seventh month of marriage. I was conscious of it from the time he was just 2 weeks old – my child was going to make a difference in this world.

Every mother believes her child is special, but Donovan was doing things which separated him from all the other children around him in ways that astounded us and the people closest to us who saw him on an almost daily basis. In his second week Donny was already creeping up the cradle we had inherited from Mabel, our sister-in-law. Our beloved godson Dustin had slept in it when he was an infant and so I was terribly sentimental about the cot, as I truly adored Dustin.

Alan and I would put Donny down towards the bottom end of the cradle and when we would come back to check on him - in just half an hour he would be at the top end. Before we knew it he was trying to turn, and as a result, Donny was only able to sleep in that cot for just 3 short weeks, as it became too dangerous for us to leave him in it. I was unable to breast-feed and so we had him on the bottle. When he was still under a month, one day while sitting on my parents sofa singing to him as I fed him, I realised he was trying to hold the bottle, with his left hand. He was staring at me as he did so, but not in a way that I have seen other babies before or even after him do at that young age. I saw a wise mature soul and knew this left handed determined little baby would be ahead of his time in everything he undertook to learn and do – I was startled. God had given me a very unusual son.

Donovan will be 22 on Monday. Being his mother and his friend has been an honour and a pleasure. Having just one of him made our small family totally complete. Donny is hyper-active but instead of ever needing to be on any medication for it, he has always channeled his never ending supply of energy into projects and activities - all of which he keeps bubbling at the same time. He is everything I dared dreamed he would be; honourable, kind, exceedingly hardworking, very honest, witty, a great debater and weaver of stories, distinct in his stylishness and personality, decidedly eccentric and funny, a talented and sensitive songwriter and singer, one hell of a kitchen-god with the food he so beautifully creates, a writer, a dreamer and to quote (in an American accent) - a lecturer at his university … ‘Donovan’s a born film-maker.’ All these gifts and more he brings into his slight stature of just 5 feet 7 or 8 inches – my unusual son with the Number 2 haircut, beautiful hands and often dead-pan expression - never ceases to amaze me.

When he was in primary school, at the start of each year he would be accused of engaging someone else to do his homework as he was producing work of a standard too high and too deep for his age. I remember laughing when his Year 3 teacher went to the extent of accusing me of being the culprit. I never once went in to settle issues with the school, I always told him, all he had to do was keep producing good work because I strongly felt it was important that he was aware and in control of his own powerful abilities and that he dared to work hard and be special.

Suddenly, in Year 4 the teachers finally come to realise they were dealing with a very different child. The feedback I received from a distant cousin who was then teaching at his school, was that he was often the topic of conversation among the teachers in the staff room because he had such an amazing mind. Donny graduated Year 7 taking out the Academic Achievement Award and winning a scholarship to high-school. He excelled through high school and in Year 12 as my brother-in-law, Keiron said after Donny’s graduation - “Donovan sapu all the awards.” (meaning: swept away with) Donny had his finger is just about every pie.

Since the age of 12, our son’s dream had been to pursue a career in law – but he soon realised the finer arts … that had once beckoned me … had been gently calling him since primary school. Just before his 21st birthday, as I was going through the box Nadia had given me many years ago, in which I have kept all his important records and stories – I discovered in hindsight how gifted an artist he had been all along.

His medium is electronic art and so it is not uncommon to see him ringing around trying to convince his group of eccentric and artistically inclined friends to be a part of all the strange and wonderfully imaginative projects he comes up with for his films and music. He has completed a demo album of clever original songs, save one which is a cover. His latest film is so excitingly filmed and edited, it’s surprised even Alan and I. Our Donovan who 5 years ago made his first film was he was just 17; a 55-minute tribute to Ed Wood’s world of bad sci-fi flicks – is on his way to fulfilling his dreams.

At this point, I think I need to explain the title of this entry. It's very random, but you see, I was thinking about that question just today. As a child, Donny never demanded for anything while we were out shopping, he would instead look at me with his big quiet eyes, if we ever over-heard a child having a tantrum over coco-pops or a plastic toy. One day while buying his asthma medication at the chemist, he suddenly asked "Mummy ... can we afford jelly beans this week?" He was 3 years old. I looked down at him and I saw he was looking longingly at a little packet of jelly-beans. It was under a $1.00 but I did not have even 50 cents to spare that week. I looked up at the lady at the counter and she immediately read the look on my face. She turned to Donny and told him "What a good boy you are! I am going to give you this packet of jelly beans because I have never heard a little child ever ask for anything so sweetly in all the time I've worked here." I will never forget how very grateful I was to the lady for her kindness, or how proud I was of the happy little boy with the unopened packet of jelly beans in his hands, skipping out of the chemist as we made our way to find Alan who was paying for the groceries.

It is your birthday Donny … your father and I could not be more proud. I love you.

Bowling Ball Sigh

Yesterday brought the beginning, tomorrow brings the end, and somewhere in the middle we became the best of friends.

I love my friends and I do not have very many as I believe less is more when it comes to true friendships. Along life’s way I have had a startling variety; some friends have become sisters or brothers of my heart, some I have loved deeply but only for a few short years, some were instant, a couple were made out of necessity, and some I simply had too much in common with to keep avoiding and actually felt familiar with them from our first meeting. Both my life best friends are of the last variety.

My First Story

I had known him from babyhood but I never really saw him. During puberty, I was really gawky and unattractive; big head, fly-away hair, big crooked teeth, big eyes in bad need of make-up, flat cheeks, on a body with boobs too developed for my small frame, terribly scrawny arms, a high waist, skinny hairy legs and awfully large feet. Add to that, I was not tall, wore glasses and would slump my shoulders forward instead of standing straight. But I was funny and lively and never shy.

All the popular girls at school had boyfriends … I, of course firstly not being in the popular set and secondly having grown up with boys – did not for the life of me understand the need to get all gushy and excited about the boys at St Patrick’s – a Catholic boys school down the road from where I attended high school. The Convent by the Sea - the one near Karikal Lane, where as a child I had often peered through the fence with my cousins, on our way to swim in the warm tropical waves and or to play in the old gun turret. The Convent with the nuns, who always kept the back gate by the old turret - locked.

It was at a wedding held in the school hall of St Patrick’s that I ‘first’ saw him. My mother and father knew his parents and so they decided to share a table. He was the same age as me and our parents began to tell stories of how as little children our mothers would bump into each other and stop for a chat while they were out on their evening strolls, hoping to catch a light breeze. I was not paying their stories much attention at all, for I was actively trying to appear nonchalant. My heart was beating in a strange manner and my eyes wanted to look at him, without being obvious, of course. Man, he is so cute – I love what he’s wearing.

And so we danced and laughed and had so much fun. Even though I did not think I was pretty, he made me feel beautiful about myself; I really liked him. That night in my sleep, I dreamt a strange dream. He was the one. I shared all of my firsts with him - they came in flashes and I even saw myself married to him. It frightened me to an extent; I was after all, only 14 - I did not want to marry the first guy I thought was cute.

Today, as I believe in karma and rebirth; I realise it was not a dream at all - I was only remembering my relationships with him from before. Jannu, I am so grateful we found each other again so quickly in this lifetime.

Through high school, our friendship developed into a rather childish complicated one with me trying to hide from him as much as possible. Believing I was grown-up compared to him, I had begun to find his behaviour thoroughly lacking in decorum and maturity. I was so 'mature', I would squat down on my hunches in the bus, to hide from him whenever I saw him at the bus-stop.

Providence thankfully played childlike pranks and united us, face to face in totally unforeseen and unforgettable moments over and over again through the years until I realised how blind I had been in avoiding him for so long thinking he was ‘such a child’. Especially when today everyone knows … we are the The Travelling Story of Two Small Children.

I am so lucky for I married Alan, my best friend ... we were 22.

A bowling-ball sigh.

My Second Story

She was 17. I was being taken on a tour to meet the staff at Notre Dame University. It was my first day there and I was feeling the usual nerves one experiences when meeting so many new people. I smiled or shook hands, all the while lurking at the back of my head, the knowledge that I was going to forget their names almost immediately. And to be honest, I did not really care for as my son, Donny would say, as long as you appear friendly and chatty ... people never realise you have not remembered their name.

Then I saw her peering at me from behind her computer monitor. With her immensely curly long dark hair and excited eyes, she gave me a huge smile and a wave. I waved back. For some reason, I was not taken up to her desk to meet her, I thought it strange and I kept looking at her … and she kept smiling.

I sigh a bowling-ball sigh now, looking back to the moment - with perhaps an almost poetic description of our age distance - how I met from a-far the young girl who would become the greatest woman friend I would ever have the privilege of knowing.

A bowling-ball sigh or bbsigh. How would I begin to explain the term she and I use on each other all the time? Suffice to say, if you have ever seen Minnie Driver and David Duchovny in Return to Me, where she sighs in happy contentment as she leans her cheek onto the bowling ball, in the bowling alley – you’ll understand. It is the sigh of joy, gratitude and fulfillment.

I remember the day in August when she turned 18, it was about 4pm when she came dashing down the stairs of the main foyer with strings of colourful helium filled balloons bouncing above her head of curls. She was leaving early to have a celebration that night with her family and friends. I smiled and thought – how young and beautiful she was, I had just turned 36 the month before … which made me exactly double her age. If anyone had told me then that we would become best friends, I would have scoffed at them - she was as Alan had been before, ‘such a child’ - compared to me. Can you believe I was actually using the same ridiculous narrow thinking process – again?

And so in the beginning, it was she who kept making the first move – to having a conversation, to having lunch, to being her confidant where she would come so willingly and with so much trust for advice. I began to really appreciate our times together and soon our relationship became a two-way artery that connected our hearts in ways I had never thought possible with a girlfriend. I had to tell her everything - nothing was fully existent, until she knew about it. We became an anomaly to our family and friends who rightly, could not understand what had passed between us to bring us together with such a fierce loyalty.

When we took separate paths after leaving Notre Dame I think everyone thought we would begin to drift apart. But how do you separate 2 souls who belong together? Before I even believed in rebirth, she had said to me … she believed we had been best friends in a previous lifetime. In her mind, we had been beautiful courtesans - of the highest ranking. I loved it!

Ten years have passed since that ‘first meeting at a distance’ happened. Distance is such an antonym in our relationship, for with my best friend - distance does not exist. We hardly physically see each other or talk on the phone, but we are always together. On email or on sms – our lives and our stories, our laughter and our tears are exactly the same, as if we have spoken to each other face to face.

I carry Nadia in my heart all the time.

Lines

Be aware of the smallest ant, the quietest moth, the stillest caterpillar… to be mindful of these focuses all of your attention in the now.

Have you ever watched ants? I have watched them for hours as a child. Ants are a classic example of sure-footed creatures that are amazingly industrious and cooperative and they always seem to have the time to stop and say a quick hello to each other. I love how they carry food above their heads and have the precision of a tightly unified military force – well, at least until we interfere with their mission - at which time they employ their helter skelter tactics. Semut gila … is the Malay term we used to use in Singapore to describe that running amok thing they do when they sense danger.

I used to marvel at the co-ordination needed to maneuver six legs. I have always been clumsy – if anyone is going to fall in public, it would be me. Alan says it’s something nice girls who turn into Miss Universe contestants are able to do rather well. I think it’s one of the reasons he likes Miss Australia/Universe Jennifer Hawkins so much. Jennifer is a beautiful woman, but she’s also clumsy which makes her real and like any one of us. And yes, while I was in the Pagent in Peru, I did manage to fall over while visiting Cuzco, the Andean capital of the Inca Empire. Unlike the sure-footed ants, I have achieved falling in every type of shoe imaginable. From high-school canvas badminton masters to those 1970’s wedges with criss-cross up-the-ankle ties; from my favourite Japanese slippers (rubber thongs) that I would drag my teenage feet around in, to the sexy 5 inch stilettos I used to wear to work with my cheongsams - that gave me a great strut through Collyer Quay... when I wasn't falling down that is.

My cousins Bryan and Royston used to be my constant companions when I was little. I loved them very much and used to wish I was a boy too. We would play with and collect anything that nature abundantly provided … grasshoppers, praying mantis, dragonflies, and tadpoles - the colourful tropical butterflies that used to visit the flowers that grew in Karikal Lane where our grandparents lived, and even the worms we dug out of the garden bed.

Back then, I don’t remember ever putting on shoes each time we wandered outdoors, our skins tanned and sweaty in the constant tropical heat and our bellies happily satisfied with the wonderful meals my grandma used to dish out. We often spent lazy afternoons after school on the side of the big drain that ran along the sandy lane next to the Grand Hotel which stood in white colonial splendour next to my grandparent’s home.

While the boys did their thing like catch tadpoles or tiny fish that lived in the drain, I used to watch the never ending black lines of ants – sometimes salvaging what they could from a dead dragonfly. The rainbow colours still ablaze in the transparent wings that would never fly again. Or I would try to feed a nearby grasshopper with a leaf from a different plant as it clung onto a branch of another.

And of course, if any one of us would slip and land bottom first into the filthy water, it would be me - only to be fished out by Bryan who was 3 years older and always my gallant protector. Once when I had stepped on a large rusty nail while roaming a construction site with the boys, Bryan had carried me all the way home as I clung to him, crying . For all the trouble I gave him, Bryan never once lost his temper with me.

Royston and I loved sneaking into the gardens of the Grand Hotel, and even though I am sure Bryan would come with us on occasion, my memories are mainly of Roy lifting the rusty cyclone wire fence on the side of the hotel where the staff servant quarters were, so I could crawl through. That fence was spider territory and my long hair which I never brushed, always swept clean the spiders and their webs from the fence together with the insects that were caught in them. I would then of course jump around, trying hard to maintain silence, my hands waving frantically while Roy would dust the arachnids and insects from my hair, whispering at me not to scream.

We’d then run hiding in bushes along the way, as the birds in the trees whistled and sang to each other, until we reached the large circular fountain in the middle of the garden. It was the most beautiful thing in the world to me. I loved the tessellated tiles, the cool white marble and the gentle sound of the water that fell like raindrops onto the lotus flowers and leaves in the middle pond; the bridal creeper that grew up the columns and the fragrant white flowers that bloomed. I used to have this fantasy that when I grew up, I would be married on the steps of that fountain.

Royston and I would indelibly be noticed by the Sikh Jagah (Security Guard) with the sky-blue starched turban, who would shout “Ooi!!” and come running towards us. We never understood why he always gave himself away by shouting out to us, Royston and I would eye each other, laugh out loud and say something like "Stupid!" and then like my friends the ants, employ the semut gila tactic of escape – as the Jagah tried in vain to apprehend us.

At other times we would run down the lane where outside the Catholic Convent by the sea, was an old brick gun turret from World War 2. We used to climb into it’s belly that often smelled of dead fish and crustaceans; and play war games while the waves lapped along its mossy outsides. Royston, Commanding Officer of the tiny plastic soldiers he kept safely in a box in my grandmother’s bedroom - provided a running commentary with all the sound effects. We truly lived in the moment; our lives so uncomplicated, so happy, so free.

Then in the mid-1970’s our playground began to undergo a major renovation. Teams of surveyors began to arrive – I remember watching them experiencing a sense of foreboding that something very significant was about to happen. Armies of ants and toy soldiers were soon replaced by migrant workers from neighbouring countries. We heard the adults talking - over whiskey waters and lemon squash, about reclamation and progress, about housing on a scale never seen before, about how Katong would no longer be a sleepy hollow by the sea. Damn right they were … for the sea completely disappeared in a matter of just a year with all the memories of generations before gone with the tide of progress.

Suddenly the sounds of the lapping waves and the smell of salt and seaweed were replaced by the loud pounding of steel pylons painfully rammed into the seabed and the choking, unnatural dusty smell of concrete. The beautiful white beach sand we built our sandcastles with, the garishly painted sampans (boats) and fishing nets owned by the cheeky Muslim boys with the leather brown skin that my mother always warned me about, and the coconut trees that leaned like gentle long necked giraffes over the salty blue that I would jump from … all decimated.

Large, loud machines emitting clouds of carbon monoxide broke down the old barnacled steps and sea-wall along which my grandpa used to take us for mid-morning strolls on the weekends. The multi-coloured speckled pavement - on which we would sit on 3 legged wooden stools to eat clandestinely, the salty and tangy mee-siam (rice noodles in spicy gravy) in frosted glass plates from the make-shift stalls, dished out by the smiling Malay women - was broken and taken away in trucks. I remember how I used to giggle as he would warn me each time not to tell my grandma that we had eaten the ‘outside’ food she maintained was full of fly larvae that would make us sick. Contrary to my grandma’s fears I never got sick this way ever – but the knowledge that those moments with my grandpa were gone forever left me sick with heartache as a child.

This evolving world of progress and concrete also took away the birds and insects. The butterflies and dragonflies no longer visited my grandma’s garden in their old customary fashion. The rusty wire fence was torn away together with those territorial spiders. The Grand Hotel was sliced in two, ripped through the middle of its beautifully tended gardens, to accommodate a future major roadway where bitumen would be poured over the remains of that wonderful fountain, where the lotus flowers and my romantic girl-hood fantasies would never bloom again. Sadly, my beloved playground was buried before I was ready to understand progress’s cruel treatment of childhood dreams.

I still continue to notice the smallest ants, the amazing amounts of caterpillars and butterflies, dragonflies and birds that visit or live in our garden at Oporto Rise today. The ants seem to have a rather large colony on the far left-hand side of our front yard, along our timber fence and under our paving. I see lines of them, busy getting about their daily work, stopping for their usual hellos - a society of living beings not all that different to us humans. We have not interfered with their comings and goings; they have been there for years and the brick paving in their area is an ‘antscape’ of uneven mounds of soil; excavated ant hills of undulating sand.

Over the past few months however, their underground city seems to have progressed with large developments growing in all directions. Progress comes to all creatures, big and small. They now have several subway exits all over our actual driveway and the bricks there have begun to shift slightly. Each time I swept the garden recently, I pondered on what I should do. Our philosophy is that they are outdoors where they belong; it is their home and their playground. But they were advancing rapidly suddenly and claiming areas that we utilise. As much as I love that we have co-existed together all this while – they have encroached too close into our personal space now.

In order to sustain our home and garden, we had to draw the human-line somewhere. A difficult decision was made, but I know it was not made out of any malice. For as we put on our Japanese slippers and began the reclamation process of our paving by sprinklings ‘ant dust’ onto their homes and playgrounds, on all the things familiar and dear to them, we felt tremendous compassion for them. Alan and I were doing as the Singapore government had done to a certain extent – for sustainability reasons. I felt like I was making very bad karma, but Donovan being the wise soul that he is reminded me that even His Holiness the Dalai Lama has said, that in the end, we have to be practical. As much as we do not wish to harm other living creatures, sometimes inevitably our actions will affect their lives.

I am very sorry.

A Lesson in Attachment aka Mothers & Sons

The peacock feather that normally stands in the little vase next to the steering wheel of my VW was missing yesterday morning. I was quite distracted driving into work, for it was the first time since Alan gave me this beautiful car for my birthday 2 years ago, that I was driving without my feather.

Isn't attachment a terrible habit of our human nature? The Buddha had said that attachment is one of the major causes of suffering and yet there I was, distracted and a little upset - over a peacock feather. I kept looking down at every stop-light to see if perhaps it had gone into hiding in the dark crevices between the seats or under the mats. But it was no where to be found. Finally, I took hold of my senses and like any good disciple of Ajahn Brahm, I recalled a story he had told one cold Friday night last winter at the Dhammaloka Centre. I comforted myself ...

… could be good, could be bad.

All new Beetles arrive with an artificial gerbera these days. A little token that brings to mind the flower power days of the 1970’s when VW Beetles and Kombis were hippie status symbols. Alan and I are perhaps to an extent, old hippies – we dress unconventionally in our personal time, reject a lot of what is socially and politically accepted, we are into eastern religions, universal peace and love, the scented smoke of nag champa incense, eating dhal and rice and we get the picture when it comes to Mother India. (As in the Motherland, not the movie.)

The regal and beautiful peacock is the national bird of India. Peacocks are considered sacred and their feathers which they shed so frequently are thought to be auspicious and protective. In both Hindu and Buddhist traditions, the peacock is often associated with deities and royalty. My friend Agnes, had given me a peacock feather shortly after she was married to my cousin Richard and through the years I have used it in different displays.

My new car arrived with a red gerbera. Can any of you actually see me with a plastic gerbera? It sat there rigid and clueless having no meaning whatsoever. I thought, if flower-power was meant to be a representation of the values in opposition to that of our established culture, this poor red imitation did not stand a chance! Plus it was not esthetically pleasing in any way to my artistic senses. The peacock feather on the other hand, with all its regal associations and protective properties, seemed to be up to the challenge - and it suited Jaadoo. Yes, Alan and I named my 'little boy' Beetle, Jaadoo. It means Magic in Hindi. I am not superstitious but must admit, as it has been with Jaadoo and me from the start, it has become a sort of a talisman for ... both of us.

And now it was missing ... I am being ridiculous about my attachment to the damn thing, I actually want to write a blog entry about it.

For a change, it was a quiet day at work and during my lunch break, I typed in ‘peacock feather’ in Google. I was quite amazed to discover several things more about peacocks and that Buddha’s mother, Maya Devi or Queen Maya as she is known in English, is depicted as having a peacock as her vehicle.

The name Maya appears in Greco-Roman Mythology as Maia, the Earth Goddess. Maia was seen as the source of the spring season – when flowers return to life. May, the month of spring in the Northern Hemisphere is named after her. Interestingly, in the Christian Calender, the month of May is known to Catholics as the Month of Mary.

These bits of information about Maia I knew because Donny, my breathing encyclopedia on religion and mythology had talked to me about it some time ago. But what I discovered today is that Maia is also referred to as the Great Mother of Magic, the Virgin Mother who gave birth to Hermes - The Enlightened One of which the planet Mercury is named for. Hermes which in Sanskrit means … wait for this ... Buddha.

I found this interconnection very fascinating - all these blooming (pardon the pun) mothers and sons and the powerful mysteries surrounding their magical stories. Maya was the Mother of the Buddha - who was born, became enlightened and died on the days of the full moon in the month of May. Maia the Queen of May, Great Mother of Magic was the Virgin Mother of Hermes. And Blessed Mary, was Virgin Mother of Jesus and also the Queen of May. Could this all be just coincidence? Or are they all one and the same? Is it, as Gnostics would see it, just another example of the cyclical nature of existence as part of life within this system?

When I received the sacrament of baptism as a baby I was given the name Mary. When I took the 5 Precepts to live a Buddhist lifestyle last year - I felt it was only fitting for me to also choose the name of a mother, Buddha's mother, as my new Buddhist name. Now I discover that my choice of a peacock feather and the name that Alan and I have given to Little Jaadoo - have meaning as well. It made me smile at the incredible links - my new name, the peacock feather, Little Magic - and the flowers associated with VWs - I felt thankful to be a part of such a network.

In the afternoon, before driving off and heading home, I made another search in Jaadoo for my peacock feather. I found it partially under the driver’s seat. Amazing that I did not see it before! Perhaps, it went into hiding to give me a chance to make the discoveries I made today. Perhaps, it is worth a blog entry after all. I laughed to myself as I started the engine and I remembered ...

… could be good, could be bad.