Headaches and giddy spells.

After the onslaught of one series of exams, I realise I have to start preparing now for the next one right after Christmas. I am leaving for China in 5 days- the missionary doctor tells me he is going to take me to a village-hoorah- after which I will be there for 10 days before realising I'm helping out as a co-emcee for a children's Christmas programme at church. Yesterday, I also agree to help in another book project next year to help raise funds for a girls' home for troubled deliquents. Exams go on.

...

"How do you find the time to do all this stuff, man?"

" I don't know... ... " I bite my lower lip. " I really dont know... I never do. Only God knows. "

If she tries to do all this by herself, she will most surely die. But she won't, because Someone is looking after her.

" Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart,

and you will find rest for your souls.

For my yoke is easy and my burden is light."

- Matthew 11:28-30

Let us not become weary of doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up”
-Galatians 6:9

Edited: Human after all.

They kept trying to stick these wires into my chest, and they just kept falling out.

"Just want to see if it's a heart problem," the nurse said.

I remember the occasion when I first had that pain radiating from my left chest. It was when I was overtraining, undereating, and I remember being surprised.

A few weeks ago, the pain returned, except that it was different this time because it happened while I was not training, not doing anything much except studying. It came in spurts, then became more and more frequent. On Monday, I awoke from the pain. Last night, I barely had four hours of sleep because of how it spread, from one side to the next. It was an amorphous, sneaky kind of pain.

I lay in bed, thinking. Lay down quiet in the darkness. There was no pain again, and a certain happiness crept up, before a sharp needle-prick pierced the transient moment of relief.

I paid a visit to the doctor at school today. In the waiting room, I couldn't decide which was worse- to hear that there was indeed a problem that had to be fixed, or that they couldn't find any and it was just something I had to live with. When they can't explain what's causing you distress, they say it's idiopathic. Unknown cause. Case closed.

I waited.

"Oh, it's Costochondritis," the petite bespectacled lady said. "Inflammation of your muscles and cartilages."

"What caused it?" I asked, bewildered.

" It's idiopathic, " she uttered the dreaded word. "There's no cure, there's nothing we can do about it. Please don't try and train for a half-marathon or anything of that sort."

I looked at her, half-stunned by her last two matter-of-fact statements.

"There's... no cure... You mean... there's... nothing... nothing... you can do? There's... no medication... or anything.... ?" I was very soft, very quiet.

I left.

It was a heavy feeling.

As they stuck the wires into my chest, I thought to myself, how human we all are. We gorge ourselves fat with knowledge, bursting at the waist with information, brandishing the latest state-of-the-art technology, thinking that the practice of medicine provides an answer to all our questions, all our needs. And then when it comes to the crunch, all that is said, all that can be said is that it's idiopathic and yes, we're sorry the wires keep falling out.

I remembered the time I returned from my mission trip to Uttar Pradesh, India, the poorest place I've ever been to in my life, poorer than Nepal. It was the most traumatic experience I have ever had. There alone, I experienced the real meaning of coldness, the temperature of lonliness on wintry nights in a dingy room, stuck all alone on an Indian train for more than 18 hours surrounded by strange men. There alone, I saw disease and smilelessness in every face, and the doctor who ate next to me at breakfast falling ill to malaria, caused by tiny mosquitoes.

I returned home 2 weeks later, absolutely traumatised by the sights, sounds and experiences that I had no one to share with, at my lowest weight I had ever been, and falling apart completely when I found oil in my urine a few days later. It was blow after blow after blow- I was breaking under the emotional wear-down.

The doctor didn't know what it was. He rang his colleague in front of my very shocked and traumatised self and bellowed with a hearty laugh that bumped around the room like Indian rubber balls, saying, "Yup! I've never seen it before either! Maybe it's elephantiasis- how interesting! From India! Haha!"

"Elephantiasis? You mean the disease that makes your legs swell up like tree trunks?" I uttered.

" Yea. Elephantiasis. You're a medical student, aren't you? Yup, sure could be!"

I left.

They never found out what it was. It was... idiopathic. Right.


It was such a grand notion. To think we wanted to become doctors to become somebody to help others, cure them, treat them, help them. But for all that grandeur and glorious nobility, I forgot- how human we all are. Merely, mortal. Fallible. Like the dust of the earth, like a breath in a wind.

We try and cup everyone's problems, cradle all of their hurts, but forget, we have our own hurts to heal, too. People told me I'd get into trouble someday by feeling too much for people, taking on too much that I could bear- "Your heart'll hurt someday," they said. While studying for the exams especially, at times, I did feel the crushing weight from the struggles other people were going through. It always comes round to me when someone is depressed, suicidal, injured. "You need to release all this to someone," a friend said.

"If not, your heart'll hurt someday and you wont be able to bear it." At this point, that area of my chest really did. What dark irony, I thought.

It's not like I have cancer. But a peculiar heaviness came down on me as I heard the news. There was nothing they could do. Nothing to ease the hurt, nothing to lessen the pain, nothing to assure me I could sleep through a night and wake up without pain.

I forgot- how Frail we all are. Mortal.

For all our super-human calibre in our areas of work, study and life, we all succumb to the basic enemy that knows no status, calibre or face.

"I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do for you. "

"It's... just something I have to live with?" I asked gently, probingly, hesistantly, almost as if I didn't want to know the answer.

For weeks and months I had ignored it. But of late it had become too frequent and painful for me to ignore. Perhaps it was induced by subconsious stress. It hurt worse, that's why I went to see a doctor. It hurts- so you can fix it, right? You guys are doctors... ...aren't you?

I was very quiet, and she sensed the pregant silence. Our eyes met. And I was embarrassed she saw my eyes melt into water.

"There's.... nothing.... you can do?" I asked.

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

I thanked the petite lady drowning in her white coat. Then just before I walked away-

"Panadol?" she suggested.


I left.


I don't know why I was so affected. It hurt, so you can fix it, right?

But we are all merely human.

During the depression, I suffered from a physical medical condition. I never got better. I tried medication after medication, went from one referal to the next. A lot of time consumed, money spent. Yet, I never got better. I suffered for a year and a half.

Most hurts, we humans cannot heal. We just can't fix everything, or everyone. It's not a burden for us to bear. She suggested Panadol.

Hurts like these, I can only bring to a white place.

That day when I did, I felt a lightness wash down on me. A white-coloured lightness.

Hurts like these, you can only bring to a white place.

No, not a hospital.


But a White, White Place.

Advertisement.

She runs on

Impulse.

Pulsing, rushing, gushing-her heart cannot contain it.

Trickling, streaming, flowing, pouring- her heart cannot contain it.

She wants to, has to, will run fly paint dance- there is no word to contain her Impulse.

It is rushing, gushing, trickling, streaming, flowing, glowing in and out of her. Pulsing through her pulse.

An Impulse. Uncontainable, and indiffusible.

She is looking for a photographer willing to go on a misadventure with her. Her previous one is willing but busy, and Inspiration cannot wait till he is less so. He took the risk and now, she is looking for another risk-taker. Soon.

Photographer WANTED:

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Artistic.

Michievous, impulsive, risk-taking, and willing to spend an afternoon with a fellow artist-herself- soon.

In return, gets an afternoon of Surprise, Artistic exchange, Misadventure and

Deep conversation.

Photographer WANTED.

White walls.

Perhaps, what we’re really afraid of is disappointing people.

For a long time, I think she never knew who she really was. Head prefect, top student, vice-president of the students’ council… Everything outside seemed so praise-worthy. But deep down, I think she was afraid that if she didn’t do, didn’t perform, that possibly, deep inside, there was… no one worth being loved.

And how frightening that would be. Achievements are a perfect distraction.

The smartest, most capable people, are often those grappling everyday with a sense of who they are, a deep-seated insecurity. The prettiest, proudest people, are often those who feel most ugly inside.

But now that she's older, and wiser, and cleaner because of God, at least she can make decisions better for herself like quitting commitments which give her nothing but Posts and Statuses to cover up for a false sense of validation.

Today, now, she is doing everything she can, and not doing the things she should not, not to be the person she used to be- the person who had everything and nothing at the same time, the angry, hurt, over-achieving, empty child who lost absolute control because she tried to control everything she possibly could.

God and church saved my life, twice- I know Ive told you that before.

Kitesong. But even then, I wonder. What if-

- there was no Kitesong. What if I was just… normal? Would you still like, love, be as inspired and as much drawn to me as you are now?

What if.

What if I told you I have demons I battle with every day, that till now, I am still- in recovery, that every choice I make is a battle won or lost, and I am either dying brave deaths to bad messages from my childhood, or dying senseless, hopeless deaths when I stop fighting.

What if I told you I’m not nice to everyone, that I have absolutely tactless moments, I don’t remember everyone’s names, and when I break, it can be into many, many pieces- and that what you see on this clean, white space is only but one part of me- and if it’s the only part of me you know, then it’s not the real me.

What if I told you, the real me still struggles with something as basic as my self-identity, that for all my talk about loving strangers, I struggle with releasing unforgiveness to the people who raised me, that for all my talk about missionary work, I am also very, very spoilt- I don’t do chores- and am still… learning.

That I am having not only to learn, but to unlearn the many, many things I thought was truth, but were lies, all lies. Not just having to unlearn, but having to forget, to forgive, to release, to re-learn, to just… let go.

Let it go.

What if I told you that this was only but one facet of me, and that what you are drawn to is not me, really, but writings, light, God, and things of universal loveliness- things we cannot see, and not me.

I am trying to learn.

Would it still be okay. Would it still be okay?

More than anything, I think she’s just morbidly afraid that if someone found the truth out, she wouldn’t be loved anymore.

So this is the truth.

I'm still learning, a work-in-progress.

Still learning, stumbling, falling, getting up all over again. Still free-wheeling, bleeding, dying and blooming.

We keep covering, hiding, and we keep doing. We keep doing. We keep doing all we can. We keep fighting ourselves to be who we are not, and become just that.

We keep fighting. We keep fighting so hard. But it is a battle that must be lost, either now, or later.

I was in the bathroom the other day and wondered to myself- how kind you all have been. I remembered the emails, the messages on this tag-board, and the letters... I was and am very grateful- it is these words I remember whenever I get discouraged about writing, about this site, about A Taste of Rainbow, about the occassional person who shows disdain with regard to my naivety- but also very embarrassed.

Everything here is so clean, and white, and you speak of me like I am some kind of saint. I was embarrassed because I wondered what you would think of me when you really got to know me in person- when you got to know that my heart really ain't that big, sometimes I really am tactless and unforgiving, that I'm impatient and edgy with my parents sometimes, that I really do think terrible things, that I'm not nice to everyone and that I really dread doing mundane things like sweeping the floor, that I really am a spoilt brat... when you got to know how real I really am.

I think she's just afraid people think... too well of her. That maybe, just maybe, if they knew her better, they'd see she's not always wearing white- she's in tatters and rags sometimes, with a smelly rag doll nobody wants, and a mop of frizzy, untamed hair that causes sirens to go off.

…

It's a burden too heavy to carry- to fear disappointing other people.

And then I found… a Place, with white, white walls. I go to it and find myself at once, at rest. For once, accepted, for who I am, in tatters and rags, with a smelly rag-doll and having an illegally bad hair day, disappointing no one.

This Place. It used to be a discotheque. A dark, sleazy, smoky kind of discotheque- MUSICWORLD, they called it. Where the clean, bright stage is, used to be huge cages where the bar-girls would dance in. Where the whitewashed walls are, used to be gargoyles and medusa sculptures sticking out.

Sunday at church. I like it here.

Within those white walls, suddenly I feel like I know myself again. Within those white walls, suddenly I feel like I'm seven, and my own size again. In church, miracles happen often, missionaries are the heroes of their own epic adventures to save the poor, sick people get well.

Two weeks ago, I met two lovely church staff members, one who used to be a prison warden and who now spends all her time organising community service projects to help people, and the other, who dedicated her entire life as a single, as a teacher, to teach, help, inspire children, even went to Vietnam and Africa for extended periods to help the underprivileged.

Within those white walls, and amidst all these wonderful people who hardly claim the glory for themselves, suddenly you feel Real again, that really, there's nothing to try and show for, there's nothing to try and desperately attain, or to be prideful of. Suddenly you feel Real again not in a I-feel-inferior-to-these-saints kind of way, but in a I'm-so-humbled-by-the-lives-of-these-Ordinary-people-here kind of way.

It is in that moment, within those white walls, that all these so-called things to show for, Kitesong, my being a medical student, writing books, giving talks... ... become Normal, become not achievements, but gifts, blessings from God for our faithfulness to the faith.

It is in that same moment, within those white walls, that you can come to terms with your imperfection, your sheer earthy normal-ness, and rest in knowing that God’s love is big enough to cup our ugliness, because some days you feel so ugly.

And suddenly I feel like I could be in tattered and torn clothes, with a smelly rag doll and big ugly hair and still, I would stand in church. God would love me, still.

And I wouldn’t disappoint anybody.

Suddenly you feel clean inside, not because you are, but because you know, somehow, in spite of all your imperfections, God loves you, still. Because He knows you're trying.

For maybe all we are now are grimy discotheques.

But the white walls, the white, white walls, holds for me promise of a future that is to come, that is coming soon, because I am trying so hard. Holds for us promise that transformation is possible, is coming soon, because I am trying so hard, and because above all, God can.

He did it for this place.

I can’t, because I’ve been trying so hard all my life, and only became... more broken, more desperate, more afraid to disappoint. We can’t, because we are only human.

But God can.

He did it for this place.

White, white walls.

And so maybe, no, and so I know... ... He can do the same for me too.

Even if I'm in tatters, with a smelly rag doll and unforgivable hair.

White, white walls.

Our Blessedness.

Dear Wai,

Thank you for your reply, I also happy to hear from you, sorry for late reply you. it was busy day. I am ok and my study is getting on well, but I have problem with homework and assingments because I don't have computer use, it is the main problem for me now.

Oh I have 3 days off, so I will go to my homeland tomrrow to help my parents on the farm. In Cambodia celebrate water festival, it is big one in my conutry, but every year, I never stay in phnom phen on the festival because there are so many people in city.

God bless you!!!!

Somaly

Merely mortal.

Often, it is during exam periods when things strike.

Fatigue, weariness, occassional moodiness, and the subconscious stress that tweaks the charm of your smile ever so little. It doesn't help when after a long time of prayer by your bedside, when you've -finally- reached the point of letting anxiety go, and feel your eyes quietly descending like curtains, you hear the deafening sound of a monster banging down on hard concrete.

BANGBANGBANG.

Right when the clock struck twelve last night. It was as if the funeral chants through the whole day yesterday were just a prelude to this grand finale. How the road authorities had the audacity to allow a yellow,ugly crane to dig up a road RIGHT OUTSIDE MY WINDOW at midnight, ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT, remains to be one of the greatest mysteries to me. BANGBANGBANG.

It carried on like this for at least 3 hours past midnight.

As if the terrible bash of a tonne of metal against the tarred road wasn't enough to draw attention, I peered out to find the monstrous machines banging in sync with flashing fluorescent lights. How nice, I thought. So I studied a little more and did bible study till my body had to surrender to exhaustion.

Hang on, I hear you say- this is Singapore. Things like that don't happen- it isn't right. I couldn't believe it either. I live in a residential area, not Pulau Ulu.

How this incident didn't rile up everyone immediately to manifest their complaining prowess in full Singaporean glory to put a stop to that incredulity remains the next mystery to me. You mean everyone sleeps with the air-conditioning on in sound-proof rooms? Or maybe the authorities were sleeping at that time of night. Maybe.

Mum woke up to find her daughter curled like a dead animal on the wooden bench in the living room. "Jia," her text message read, " I called the National Environmental Agency to complain. They will look into the matter. If they make noise again tonight, call again. U have a good day."

I can almost imagine my mother spitting fire into the telephone in a how-dare-you-make-my-daughter-sleep-on-the-living-room-bench kind of way, and the NEA recipient on the other line shrinking back in trepidation. Like, my daughter was sleeping in the living room because it didn't occur to you most people with normal circadian cycles sleep at night? Many people must have called them today. Mums are the best.

Land Transport Authorities, and Crocs. Bottom of my list now.

It has not been an easy week. A lot of memories and old things returned, of which I will share after I've somewhat figured this out. I promise to write more when this series of exams end next week. Yesterday at church, we talked, and then you looked at me very seriously to tell me I was taking too many things upon myself, mainly, other people's problems. And I looked at you, quiet, because well, to some extent, it was... true.

I am tired. Physically and mentally. That day a friend asked why he hadn't seen me running anymore. I didn't want to tell him I was tired, and there were 2 days I woke up with my heart hurting, literally, even though I wasn't training, wasn't doing anything much. It wasn't a stabbing pain, just a weak, mild sort of lingering muscular discomfort. One day it lasted through the entire day in spurts, not enough to hinder anything at all or to demand a visit to the doctor, but enough to remind me- that we are all frail, merely... mortal. This was a consequence from the past, my heart muscles weakening as a result. This morning I awoke feeling it again. It went away.

I can't wait to leave for China to visit this missionary doctor. He started a leprosy community clinic, numerous village-doctor training programmes, and actively involves himself in helping the poor and needy there help themselves. 5 December to 15 December. I can't wait.

Woman was made in the garden, in the midst of birds, trees and waterfalls- not behind a study desk.

I need an endless beach, sand on skin, and a blue sky filled with fluffy clouds. Just, clouds.

Small things.

We call them Pots.

They are medium-sized glass boxes, filled heavy with chemicals, used to preserve sectioned human organs. To most people, they are a pain to look at. Disgusting, even, considering they were taken out from real human bodies.

Yellowish-brown, gray and sometimes even black, these organs can cause more than mild gastronomical discomfort. But put a few of these special glass boxes, pots, in a roomful of medical students, and you get the phenomena of moths sucked to a lamp-light.

For a few moments, these preserved organs bask in revelry and worship. In a classroom of knowledge-hungry medical students, they go from being beggars of attention to basking in the glory of kingship.

It was the laboratory technician who walked into the classroom, pushing a trolley stacked with boxes and boxes of them, these pots. Students were filing out for lunch, and he took the opportunity to deliver the pots to various classrooms, so we could use them for our next lesson after lunch.

As he took one pot out after another, the line of medical students on their way out for lunch, suddenly braked to a sudden halt like cars on a highway, and jam-crashed into one another.

Today's pots contained human lungs. There were all sorts- blackened ones tarred by charcoal, sickened ones infected with bacteria... Everybody reversed to marvel at the pickled wonders. What a headturner.

As if in frustration, the lab technician grumbled out loud, " All these lungs, so black. You think I care? Tell me smoking is bad, that this will happen to me... Some people smoke till they're ninety, a hundred even! I won't stop smoking! " He scowled and huffed, as if in self-denial. He stared at the glaring reality before him, and slammed the glass boxes of blackened, diseased lungs on the table, one by one.

He ranted on and on, and one student merely looked at him, stunned by his outburst. The rest, appalled, streamed out.

I noticed it. There was an atmosphere of judgement, disconnection. Hoity-toity medical students, us, all-knowing about disease and what's for our own good, and seemingly foolish and stubborn Mr Lab Tech caught up in his little outburst. There was a Great Divide between us.

I stayed to watch him.

For some reason, my heart hurts for smokers. I think it hurts for people suffering from any kind of depression, sadness- and smoking is the way many people cope with their stress, sadness, boredom, albeit with many regretful consequences.

Once, I tried it. Smoking, that is. I was in Indonesia, by myself on a short blue-sky getaway and I took a smoke from the boatman. Tattoo-man. I tried it merely for that reason, just to understand it, to bridge that gap between us Strangers. He had a profound sadness cupped in his life of being a boatman and I wanted to understand, wanted to listen to his Story. My first puff cemented our connection, and I managed to convince him it was bad for him, that he needed to quit it. I remember the Uncle I met at Cold Storage that day.

The lab technician continued to slam the heavy pots down.

I hesitated.

"Why do you still smoke?" I asked gently. I didn't want to offend him.

"Aiya," he said without looking up at me, " I don't care la, life is life. Some smokers smoke till they're ninety or a hundred- no need to quit! Die then die la!"

I watched him, didn't quite know what to say.

Then I spoke softly, " But... you know... even if we do live long, how about your quality of life? I mean... look at them... " I was very soft, careful not to anger him. I just wanted to know, just wanted to.... to try... to try and make a connection.

He crossed his arms and stared at the glass boxes. The lungs, charred like tar, glared back at him with candid honesty.

"Can't do without it la. Every day I move all these things- so heavy. I don't smoke I cannot do! Aiya, I don't smoke too much anyway... No no, not heavy smoker, maybe 2, 3 days, 1, 2 packs like that. Like that only!"

"Then it should be easier to quit ya? No?" I asked suggestively, trying not to sound judgemental. I was hesistant, not afraid- because I remembered, Sincere love never fails.

Finally he looked up at me. I smiled.

There was an awkward pause.

Then, his frown broke into a wide, wide smile. "Thank you so much. " He looked at me and smiled with his eyes. "Thank you so much," he said again. He laughed.

All it took was a small decision to change his countenance completely. Mr Scowling Lab Tech to friendly, smiling, laughing man. I asked for his name.

"People don't remember! Medical students don't remember... My name is Rajendran. But too long, nobody remembers. So just call me Rajen."

I thought about the talk on smoking cessation we had a few days ago, about how so many of us medical students skipped it, skipped it because we had "more important" things to do. And I thought to myself- what a great difference it had made in deepening my love and understanding for these people, smokers, and helped me to understand their psyche, understand what perspective I had to come from to reach out to them, to bridge the Great Divide.

And then it came to me. Deep inside, we all want to be great. We all want to be special, and extra-ordinary, and noble, even. But it's all about being faithful in the small things, in choosing not to compromise. I wasn't special. It wasn't anything about me intrinsically that bridged that Divide. It was the decision made to talk to Tattoo-man, to that smoking Uncle, the decision made to stay for the talk, the decision to perhaps see how there may be the possibility that our hearts could be further enlarged, enlarged further still, because our hearts are so small.

So small.

So many people with needs, from different backgrounds, with different Stories. How many of them do we actually empathise with? So many patients go to doctors and never get much better-never get any better not because they were given the wrong treatment, but because there was no connection made between two people, no understanding and hence, no adherence to a suggestion to make a change in lifestyle.

So I learnt today, that perhaps, just perhaps, it isn't about being a Dean's lister or about being a leader with a Post and Status. Well, to some extent, it is. But more, it's about making a stand to make our Little deicisons in life, it's about being faithful to the love God has given us, and has called us to give to others.

In our faithfulness to the small decisions we make, we shape the kind of experiences and Encounters we have with people, and the kind of persons we eventually become.

It is the faithfulness in the small things.

He left before I could say, "You're welcome. Rajendren."

"Be faithful in the small things, because it is in them that your strength lies."

-Mother Teresa

Baby steps.

For those of you looking for help, or for you who have loved ones needing help.

I know it may be frightening, a giant leap even, to attend something like this. We fear doing so would mean acknowledging a problem we hoped never existed in the first place.

A recovered lady I met at support group decided to turn her experience into a source of empowerment. She organised a very meaningful event this Saturday, so I thought I'd tell you about it, even if it doesn't really apply to you.

If you know someone who ought to be there, share this with them, ask them gently and if they like, go with them. If you don't, just smile and marvel at how people, Normal people like her, turn their struggles into breakthroughs into lighthouses for people around them.

There is always a place to start.

Don't be afraid.

Baby steps.

My Maxis Wireless broadband review

Living in KL is expensive for me.(i represent the lower class of society being paid much less than what an average worker should be earning in the country)


Food is expensive. (had claypot chicken rice with syang and its was RM9)


My 4wd tank drinks petrol like water. (2.6 litre petrol engine) A pajero that has been over-glorified in the past.





Paying electricity bill is crazy.

My water bill is not too bad because i hardly drink but its still expenses.

Grocery is an added expenditure by choice. Despite i require so little for the house, somehow little things starts to add up alot for a single person.

and the list goes on...

Not knowing that i'll never be able to enjoy what most young rich kids can have like having a girlfriend


and driving their very fast japanese sports/rally car around town talking about modifications day and night and their past experiences racing with other rich kids' fast car.



Watching in cinemas together with their darling.



Buying their girlfriend birthday gifts,



romantic dinners,

and also to the extend of taking them trips all over the world.

what more have barely anything to do.

They complain of boredness when i'm stuck here infront of my laptop thinking of how to increase my income joining the rest of the troubled people on this earth!!



sigh....rich kids i wonder..what a nice life..

I could barely able to support myself with so much expenditure already!!

Well...a few days ago, with already so much expenditure in hand..

I decided that after working for nearly two years now, I should get myself something to make my stay in KL a little more comfortable.

I DECIDED TO GET INTERNET!!

MY VERY OWN INTERNET!! (mind you, i never liked the idea of sharing somebody's internet connection all this time) (poor ppl still do have ethics even though they are umm...poor)

Nevermind if it was going to be an extra expenditure and have my single life extended by 30%, I was going to get it!

So, a few days ago, I decided to work on getting my internet. (find more details la, cannot simply rush rush one)

I called up one of my friends who happens to work in Maxis. YES...I have friends who work in MAXIS!!

His name is Matthew Krishnan. Played a very big role in Maxis in explaining to me the Maxis broadband. Reassuring me that buying the maxis broadband was a better choice for me than getting streamyx.

"So to the CEO of Maxis, If you find this guys name somewhere in your staff database, give him an increase and a higher rank in your organization."

AND NOW I PRESENT TO YOU MY MAXIS WIRELESS BROADBAND.





You must be thinking why I decided not to get the puny small USB modem that is so fully advertised everywhere.


Its really that small.



Well, that's because i needed the LAN cable which the big modem offers so that I could one day share my internet connection with others by connecting it to a router. (clearly, poor man with long goals never really work)

It was so easy to apply for this wireless broadband from Maxis. All i needed was RM100, my iC, the address to where they would mail by bill(very important if you want to make a claim if you no longer want to use the modem. A claim can only be made if the modem is used where internet is accessible. Some kind of zone lah)

THAT'S IT!! I have internet straight away!

I chose the 640kbps which was RM78 which i would just have to break a few piggy banks that i have saved my entire life time and start paying next month.



I did not get the 384kbps which was RM68 (RM10 cheaper) because I felt that if i can spend on claypot chicken rice in that few minutes of a dinner, why not RM10 for one month. Clearly it was dumb maths. There is a one week of a trial period which u can return it if you're not happy with it. After that one week, you are binded to a contract of holding it for 18 months.

18 MONTHS!! gosh...18 months of expenditure, 18 months of singlehood, 18 months of sadness.

But all that is going to change soon when my blog gets famous i thought....or maybe an internet business I was going to build once i get my internet line(no business idea so i simply simply say i want to do internet business)

So it looks like this.



Nothing nice.



Nothing cute.

It has a Sim card which u insert behind.



It has battery so that i could still have internet for at least 45 minutes if the phone lines are down.



even if we're attacked by aliens disrupting our phone lines, i would still have internet.

It also comes with a phone.


A FREE PHONE MAN!! DO YOU GET THAT IN STREAMYX?? NO RIGHT!!



The phone comes with the modem for 6 months which u have to return after that or else you'd have to pay RM15 every month. No extra charge on service till then. Just pay if you make outgoing phone calls. RM0.30 per minute to maxis. and blah blah..saying that, you should know by now that the sim card provides me with a new maxis phone number.

I NOW HAVE TWO MOBILE PHONES NUMBER!! Make me look like a busy busy man having two numbers. Its a 012 by the way.

Now the most important thing at the end of the day is whether the damn thing is any good.

Well..lets just say that i first tried doing the dumbest thing ever.

Checking out my broadband connection speed from maxis website.

Clearly not the way.

So i did it my way, the way that suits my everyday needs. I'm a very heavy internet user. If it works for me, it should work for u.

There were no problems in surfing the net..


Trust me.



Very compatible with facebook and friendster heavy users.

Before thinking all too well that this was the best offer that i have ever had, there was only one minor problem which i thought u should know,


YOU CAN'T DOWNLOAD ANYTHING during the day. P2P downloading starts from 12 midnight till 7am only. Can you live with that??

Right and left.

Doing the Right thing requires one to make a choice. Sometimes this is hard. And it is in this choice, where we choose to be who we stand for, who we become.

To be this is to not be that, to do this is to not do that. Not to do anything at all, to pretend to stand in the grey area, is to decide not to do the Right thing, anyways. Nobody likes to know that in actual fact, there is no middle ground. Worse than making the decision to do the wrong thing, is perhaps being indifferent to making a decision at all.

I remember being very disappointed that day. Angry too.

We, second-year medical students, were supposed to attend a Suicide Awareness talk and only half my cohort’s medical students showed up. Fewer paid attention. While the speaker went on to tell us about the crucial ways to stop someone’s suicide, the person in front of me fixated his eyes on his lap-top, playing a blood-splattering battle game to kill as many people as he could on his virtual quest.

Of all ironies.

Two days ago, our Dean organized another talk for us to learn about how to counsel smokers and help them gain a new lease of life from the addiction. Smoking is the most preventable cause of death in the world, and accounts for our top four causes of death in Singapore.

The talk spanned over two days, each lasting about 3 hours. On the first day, fewer than 40 of us showed up. In a cohort of 259, that makes up to less than 15%. On the second day, it was announced that attendance would be taken. Twice as many showed up, half left during the break.

I found the talk very insightful. Especially the last part.

It’s true. The talk was badly timed. We have exams in less than 2 weeks, and we are all short of time. Deep within me, I wanted to use that time to hit the books, but I remembered what I had learnt at church last Sunday, what had moved me to tears in my seat and stirred something deep within me- that in this world, there is no middle ground.

In the tiniest decisions that we make, we are either for or against, we are principled or not, and we choose to do the Right thing… or not. Every decision or compromise we make, no matter how small, adds to or takes away from who we are, who we become. Every decision counts.

I rationalized it in my head. No point getting angry or sad- it’s just the way things are, I rationalized. It was heartening to see my closest friends attending the talk. We had not discussed whether we would show up- we all just did. We were intimate friends because we shared the same values. It was the Right thing to do, to show respect to the doctors who had painstakingly planned the talk, to show humility in wanting to learn, to show self-restraint in studying in trying to be a better doctor. Note the trying.

And when I saw them, I thought- this is what cements Real Friends together- a mutual spurring of one another to do Right things, in love.

But deep inside I was aching, still. I wish I could have done something, made others see that the topic on smoking, and counseling wasn’t just about common sense- that there is a reason why so many people complain about how doctors lack compassion, lack understanding. There is a complex psyche behind each addiction, and every addiction has a Story behind it. It’s never just another smoker. We know too much, and yet too little, to be Good doctors.

If I had organised an event to raise awareness about eating disorders and depression in my faculty, I wondered what the turn-out would be like. I shuddered at the thought.

You moved me to tears when you did what you did.

Before the talk on the second day, we all attended our lectures. The lecture theatre was packed- because the topics were examinable. One lecture in between was about relating to patients and showing empathy to them. It was then that the lecture theatre grew noisy, and people walked out.

I ached inside. So this is the kind of doctors we become.

And then suddenly, out of nowhere, you walked down to the podium, and took the mike from the lecturer. You stunned everyone. You even stunned the lecturer.

“Hi everyone, I just have something to say.”

Dead silence. Everyone was shocked.

You went on. “I just have something to share. You know last week I went to the hospital because my cousin was very unwell. Being born prematurely, he has been ill for most of his life. My Uncle and Aunty were worried sick about his present condition, and the doctor just…”

As you went on, we pieced your story together- the doctor wasn’t mean, or bad even. Just, cold, distant- and frighteningly real.

So this is the kind of doctors we become?

You continued, “… Two months ago, my other Uncle passed away. We were devastated, but how was the news broken to my aunt? Is this the kind of doctors we want to be? I know this lecture on exercising empathy sounds very common-sensical and maybe even useless, but I think if we all kept quiet, exercised a bit of humilty, we would all have something to learn. Yup, that’s all I wanted to say, heh.”

You won everyone over.

I was the first one to clap and cheer for you. Who but you would have done that?

Sure there were people like myself who would have thought of that. But you were different. You stepped out, you made a choice, a decision, you put yourself on the line, risked being thought of as preachy, silly or attention-seeking, to say and to do the right thing.

Everybody listened. Everybody was won over. Everybody was moved, because you were so genuine, sincere. You did the Right thing.

You made me cry, you know that?

Last year we became friends because you approached me for a copy of Kitesong and even wanted to join me for my mission trip to India. We became friends because on our second encounter, I was the first one in school to confront you about the depression I had sensed in you despite your cheerful demeanour- you said no one else noticed. You had lost weight and skipped school some days. You asked me about God, who He was, how He changed my life, and I told you. I told you everything. And within a year, you have transformed yourself. Your broad, muscular frame, a far cry from the wisp of a boy you were a year ago, mirrors your strengthened faith in life, in God and yourself.

Most times the Right thing to do isn’t easy. Sometimes, it’s not even our obligation- after all, you didn’t have to do what you did. Surely, you must have thought, that there would be some people who would think what you did was laughable, attention-seeking, out-of-line, even. Even for myself, I have had someone say to my face, to my face that’s right, that what I do, this helping-people-thing, was nothing else but self-glorifying.

I have learnt, that when we step out to do the things we believe in, the right things, we risk mockery. Yet, it is still worth it. The Right thing is always worth it.

And you did it anyway. I salute you.

During the talk on the second day, we watched part of the movie “Patch Adams”, a movie that makes me cry buckets every time. Patch was a clinically depressed person on the verge of suicide who decided to become a medical doctor after discharging himself from a mental institution. He exuded love, compassion and most importantly, he remembered people’s names.

Names are so important. Sure, we could always have a good relationship with people around us, people whose faces we see ever so often but can't place a name on, such as our patients, peers even. But have you seen the way a person lights up when you do remember? You are saying to the other person that more than a face in the crowd, he is someone whose identity you took the effort to remember- because it mattered enough to you. That is what’s in a name. Everything.

How much love do we have for the people around us, to make the kind of decisions that reflect that sort of love?

It takes effort to do the Right thing. It is a conscious choice, and it may be at times sacrificial. Remembering people’s names and birthdays takes effort and time, humbling yourself to attend a talk means taking up already scarce study time, doing what you believe in sometimes results in people throwing mud in your face.

It hardly seems worth arguing about- weighing a talk against studying- but it is these small decisions which we make which make us the man or woman we become. No one sells their souls from the start- it always started with small compromises from doing the Right thing.

It’s worth it. You showed me that it is all worth it. You did what I didn’t do because deep down inside, I was scared. Your impulse and courage to step out, sincerity to impact others, and sense of righteousness moved me to tears. I salute you.

Later that day, you sent me a message:

“ You have been one of my greatest inspirations to who I am today.”

You too, friend. You too.

Tiny things.

I was in a large hall with a lot of people, girls mainly, and they were all very young. For some reason, a lot of people I respect were there too- teachers, parents, my senior pastors from church. We were there giving a talk to help these young girls, teaching them about values of self-esteem and loving themselves, teaching them about overcoming trials and having a hope for their future.

I was dreaming. It was a happy dream. And when I woke up that morning, I felt very accomplished. To have all those good and fuzzy and fulfilled feelings of helping people and doing what you're passionate about, just by waking up from a night of sleep was like waking up to find out that WOW, every day is Sunday! It was a good dream. Happy feelings.

It was almost like an encouragement. For nights, I was on my knees asking God how. How do I go about reaching out to people who need help? How. I'm so small. Twenty. Studying. Naive. Right? And after nights of praying, it was almost as if the dream served as some sort of a reminder, of a dream that is real, and Possible.

So a few days ago, in between the lull of a series of examinations and the next, I decided to revamp this space, to make it easier for people looking for help to help themselves or a loved one. Our society is moving from first world into upper-class first world, and people are falling ill, losing lives not because of infections, but because of diseases of the heart.

Many of you have been asking me for help, and how to go about helping someone you love through a period of darkness. We all the know the answers actually. There are doctors in hospitals, pastors at churches, hotlines to call, school counsellors to speak to, counsellors at Community Centres to set appointments with... But in our moment of panic, denial, shame or fear of being found out, we often forget where to get help, or where to help others get help.

At the pace our society is moving, it will be a matter of time before you meet someone who needs this kind of help. And at that time, I just pray that somehow, some tiny part of you will remember this space, and realise that there is light at the end of the tunnel.

People who are hurting most commonly seek doctors, not counsellors, out. So to my peers reading this who will become doctors-to-be, I hope this may be helpful for you, help you be more aware of the resources available and the reality of the hidden phenomenon which no one talks about, to save that extra one or two lives who might otherwise slip through your fingers, and help you make all that difference in the world.


For you and the people you love:

• Fighting Depression
• Dep Net


• For tertiary students who need help at:
  NUS
  NTU


• Helping your Children
  

I've added more links under the link "HOPE", and will be adding more in time to come. They are resources I've sourced for and which I'd like to share with you because I've been answering the same questions- How, how do I help? Why, why did this happen?

I hope they'll be of help to you.

People often approach me asking, "I'd like to help you in your project. How can I help? Let me know if I can help in any way, okay?"

This is how you can help.

Even if you're perfectly fine right now, or don't know anyone who may need help, read. Explore. Watch the videos under the link "Dying to Be Thin", visit the websites when you're bored. Heighten your awareness, learn what this is about, because you'll never know when you might meet someone out there who needs a touch from you, from a heart that understands, from someone who's not just asking Why or How, but rather, just being there, understanding, doing the right things. And in doing so, people will come to you, because people will know you know. Trust me, they just will.

When you know, when you understand, your spirit somehow sends out a message to the world, to the people around you that you have that sort of love to hold that kind of hurt.

In knowing more, in understanding, you are spreading the chain of love, sending out love frequency signals through your invisible antennae, creating your own ripple effects. Passing it on, impacting life after life after life, simply because you know, you understand.

Every time you help someone by understanding, every time you share with someone what you have learnt, what you know about depression, anorexia or anything for that matter, you are raising someone'es awareness, breaking myths, removing stigmas, equipping them to help themselves and in turn, others.

It is a powerful thing. Don't underestimate it.

Share this sitespace with people.

This is how you can help.

Loving Big starts with the small things- small, Tiny things like clicking on links.

If we want a love message to be heard, it has got to be sent out.

-Mother Teresa

My Missing Piece.

You know the feeling when you're looking desperately for a jigsaw piece and you finally find it, and see that it fits? That's how I felt this morning, after agonising over Somaly's plight.

I had bought a book lately, the first of its kind, a precious compilation of the stories and experiences of lovely Singaporean medical missionaries who valiantly took off to Africa and many poor parts of Asia to help the needy. When I opened the book randomly and started reading a short chapter written by a missionary doctor in the Philippines, it was as if I had found my Missing piece. It was a lovely coincidence.

So this is what the right thing is.

Dr Chau Chwen Hwe, a lady missionary, who together with her family founded a livelihood programme to help the poor in the Philippines help themselves, writes in Carry the Spices:

French ethnologist Marcel Mauss had this to say, "One kind of giving leaves a man in another's debt, disgracing and humiliating him like a bond-slave, while another kind of giving raises him to the dignity of a genuine personhood."

...

"Whenever generosity of giving and helping is of unconditional character, the recipient must be able to return the gift or some equivalent in order to remain his own respectable self. Otherwise he will begin to see himself as inferior to the giver; his personal sense of worth is downgraded, and instead of being grateful, he will be bitter."

-Dr John Janzen, a Christian anthropologist

...

"Empowerment of the poor is the kind of aid that helps them to help themselves. It is the empowerment when they can take pride in producing results with their own efforts. This is our journey with the poor- the kind of holistic help that lifts a person from dependency to dignified personhood."


So perhaps my best gift to Somaly would be our friendship, us keeping in touch, me writing to her and encouraging her in her faith in life, studies and God. Perhaps that is the best gift I can offer, a gift that both restores her dignity and moulds her character, a gift that sits in fairly well with me- my Missing piece. There will always be a part of me that turns and tosses, wondering how she is doing, how her mother is, what I can do for her, but for now, there is some sort of closure, for her next year of university education at least.

So this is what giving is, what Peace is.

I think I've found my Missing Peace.

Let us not be satisfied with just giving money.

Money is not enough, money can be got, but they need your hearts to love them.

So, spread your love everywhere you go.

-Mother Teresa

The Right thing.

Finally.

I was elated to finally find a Cambodian missionary back in Singapore, excited to seek her advice, ask her for help to find out how I could help Somaly. After listening to what I had to say about Somaly's plight, she looked at me squarely and said, “I can’t help you.” I was downcast, and my tears welled up but I understood- it was not that she was ungenerous, or unwilling, but that there were just too many. Too many of these kids in the same dire situations and too little manpower to help all of them out. Time, logistics, dealings were involved and there weren't enough hands. Too many.

But I stayed and I pleaded, and then I showed you Kitesong, of what Somaly meant to me and I was almost in tears because this has gone on for far too long, and I didn't know what to do. You saw my desperation, and what I had written at the back of the book- of how Somaly had been Kitesong's inspiration to a large extent, to help children in their education, you looked at me, tired, worn and said weakly, “I’ll try my best, okay? I can’t promise, but I’ll try. I'm trying only because this means so much to you.”

I held your hands and I said, “Please try. Thank you so much.”

It’s not easy being a missionary. She was juggling many projects at the time, and had to make special efforts to visit Somaly’s home, to check that she was truly in need and not merely writing to me or other Singaporeans to fish for extra money. Weeks later, she emailed me to tell me she had visited Somaly, and though her mother was very ill, her father elderly, and she had many siblings, their family still had many cows. They would get by.

It seems cruel, doesn't it? We have so much here, and yet we take the trouble to investigate the family background of a young Cambodian girl who worries about not being able to complete her university education every day. But is the right thing to do, to just give money unconditionally?

“Why don’t you just send her money? Why go to all that trouble?”

Because it’s not about the money. I had found her a sponsor already, but it’s not about the money- it’s about doing the right thing, the right thing of giving responsibly and lovingly. As short-term voluntary mission-trippers, we see a Cambodian girl in need of money for her education and cant wait to charge forth to lavish upon them our generosity. But are we aware of the social consequences involved, the disastrous long-term mess that we leave long-term missionaries to wrap up?

Some people say we should just give. After all, what is a few hundred dollars to us? But in our impulsive and earnest compassion, do we respect the humble culture and frugal life of these people, or take it upon ourselves to exercise what we deem as more generous, more giving, imposing our cultural attitudes on a different people? We want to give, we want to give, we want to give. It is easy for us to give- but there are social consequences that we leave for other people to clear up.

Sending money is not the problem. Precipitating a social evil of villagers fishing for money from better-off social workers like us is. Breeding a culture of jealousy among them (How come that mission-tripper sent you money and not me?) is. Leaving the long-term missionary to handle all these unintended social ills is.

So that is why we go through ‘all that trouble’.

After emailing missionary after missionary, calling and approaching them, troubling them to help me get connected with her, asking them for advice as to what to do, whether sending money would be right thing to do or if it would precipitate a social evil, I was beginning to get discouraged. I received news that Somaly would be able to cope, and emails from her saying that she could not.

The right thing to do. What was the right thing to do? Term was starting, and she either needed the money or not. She was either truthful or not. I would send it to her or visit her or not. I was tempted to get on a budget airplane and take a short 3 day holiday in Phnom Pehn one weekend to get some sort of closure.

This was the girl who partially inspired Kitesong. This was the girl whose life breathed into me some sense, if any, of decent compassion for the uneducated children around the world and my basic level of gratitude for my university education. If she had to forgo her education, give up her dream of becoming a teacher, work on her farm “like my farmer parents- Wai, I don’t want to be a farmer”, how tragic it would be.

This spanned over a few months. After many, many nights of prayer, finally, an answer.

Dear Wai

I just want to tell you that I can continue my study at university in year III, but everything not getting on well, as you know I don't have enough money, maybe you want to ask me why I can go to study in year III? because my poor brother sold his motor to take money for my school fee.

my family is ok, but my mom often sick.

Somaly


She got by after all. But at what price. How much can we, should we interfere? Is it one evil over the other?

The right thing to do.

Free and Beautiful.

Sometimes, it is the smallest of Encounters that make the greatest differences in our lives.

On my way to church today, I thought of all the people, both friends and Strangers, whom I have had Beautiful Encounters with, and realised how precious our exchanges have been. Precious, because they were collisions of serendipity. Precious, because ever so often, you tell me things you said you had never told anyone, even though we were meeting and speaking for the first, or second time.

There was you, L, a young girl, pouring out to me your entire life struggle with anorexia, bulimia and bingeing; B, a working adult, stuttering and almost in tears just telling me why you left church, and how it left a hole in you; R, a Singaporean traveller I had met during my solo backpacking trip while I was in the outskirts of Nepal, telling me how devastated you were by your mother's diagnosis of cancer; C, a young lady on a train with multiple wrist slits, telling me how you tried to kill yourself just days before we talked; Z, a quiet person on a public bus, sharing with me how your younger sibling had committed suicide lately, and you didn't know how to cope, you didn't know how to cope, you just didn't know how to cope.

I met all these people, and more, only since my trip to Nepal in June this year. All these people, I had met only for the first or second time. Random Strangers, interwoven into my path, pouring out life stories, heartsongs, cries of their inner spirit- all, looking for something to hold on to.

Once, bewildered and deeply puzzled by the sudden flourish of Encounters I kept having with people, homeless, depressed, anorexic, suicidal, poor, I finally shared with a friend all my stories, and asked, in true sincerity, "Is this normal? I mean, all these Encounters, do you have them too, or am I making a big thing out of nothing?"

And in reply, J laughed. "No, I don't think it's 'normal'." You giggled as you said that, and then you grew sober, "You know, maybe, maybe God has a reason and a purpose for all these Encounters, for letting your paths cross. Look at what people tell you without you asking them. It's a gift. Think about it."

I did. I have been. And I think I know why.

A vibe. You said it was a vibe. And I believed you, because I remember that homeless stranger, Hideo, walking up to me, his first question being, "You an artist?" and when I asked him why he chose to speak to me, he merely replied mysteriously, "Your vibe, just." We ended up talking for five hours. About life, literature and poetry.

More than a vibe, I truly believe now that it's when we have nothing to hide, when we open our hearts to be brave to tell people our experiences, our darknesses, something in our human spirit sends a message to other humans- that we too, are Vulnerable. That because we have exposed ourselves to being vulnerable for them, they, too, can be vulnerable with us.

I kept trying to trace how this crazy human-stranger-reaction cascade began, and it began on my trip in Nepal, when I met Chloe on a rickety Nepali bus. She was a beautiful Scandinavian living in Australia, and the first Stranger I could recount and share my experience with anorexia, depression, Kitesong and God to. It was at that moment, I believe, that something special happened. I had taken the conscious step to become Vulnerable, and in turn, she, too, did the same, and shared her Story with me.

Things have never been the same since that trip to Nepal.

When we make that choice to be unashamed of our past and our experiences, and to be willing to be made Vulnerable in front of people, Strangers, friends, anyone, I believe something hard, something hardened in our spirit becomes broken in that moment. And because we are all human, all connected in some profoundly divine and mysterious way in our lives, I believe people sense that, and in turn, are willing to be Vulnerable with you.

For some strangers, especially those with anorexia, I have had the privilege to listen to their stories only after sharing mine. But for others, they have shared wholeheartedly, voluntarily. I cannot understand it myself. I believe with all my heart there is not one fibre in me that makes me more special than anybody else. But I do believe that God is directing me somewhere, some place through this, teaching me something that delves deep, and far back- that to truly be free, to truly reach out to others and change lives, we first need to be comfortable with ourselves, comfortable with the experiences we've been through, and thankful to Him for them. We need to be unafraid to share them, because when we make that decision in our hearts, something deep and unspoken is broken. A stronghold is released, a beautiful, free spirit is released. That vibe.

And people, friends and Strangers, will come to you because everyone needs, wants to be listened to. Everyone has a dark story, a heart's cry. Every one wants to be Stopped for. Every one.

These Strangers who've become friends have blessed me in ways deeper than I could imagine, sometimes sending me notes, emails, text messages about the way their lives have changed, in however small a way, since our Encounter. And always, always, my life is impacted by their sharing, their life, their courage to share with me, a Stranger to them too, a piece of their Story, themselves.

We cannot claim to solve their problems, heal them even, because how we've all fallen short of the kind of love only God can give. By our own abilities, we cannot even claim to have the time, energy, or strength to stop for every single person. We can only love the way He loves if we see how small we are, truly, and in entering that place of utter humility and surrender, be multiplied like bread to fill a multitude of Strangers, more than we could imagine we would be able to. How we can only have the strength, time and energy to do so for everyone only when we stand in the palm of God's hand, and allow that hardened thing in our spirit called pride to be broken.

It is impossible, otherwise.

Make that Decision to make yourself vulnerable, be bold and tell someone your Story. However dark, seemingly shameful, or terrible it may be, it will release that captive spirit trapped inside of you, a spirit that was meant to be Free and Beautiful, unbound by shame, pride or fear. And when that spirit is released, oh, look at the people you will draw to yourself. When you yourself are finally freed, people will sense that freedom, that vibe, even before you start sharing. People just know, and they, Strangers and friends, will come. And when they do come, you can point Home, where He is, where all of us belong.


Free and Beautiful spirits rain from a place called heaven. It only takes a Decision.


I received an email from one of you again lately:

It is amazing how a small and simple thing can create such great ripples in one's heart, because your actions did just so, not only in my heart but in my friend's heart as well.

So, open your mouth, open your heart. Set the captive free, and in turn, free others.

Be surprised by the ripple effect.

We had a prayer meeting at church today.

"You have a beautiful spirit. I just needed to tell you that. There was something different about you while we were praying together with the others, something in your spirit. " An Indian lady who was sitting at my row, whom I had never seen before at church came up to tell me and hugged me before I left today. I thanked her.

But do you see, it's not me. It's the Decision.

There's nothing to be proud of- there really isn't. It's not anything we do. It's about a Decision, a Decision to be Free and Beautiful. I don't claim to be so, because I'm merely on the road. It's a Decision about trusting God with sharing our vulnerabilities with others to connect with and help them, because people are attracted to things which are free and beautiful-like God. It's about allowing Him to set something trapped... free. And when we do make that Decision to trust in Him, to let go, to share, to love, we generate an unstoppable chain reaction, a ripple effect, that sets others free, too.

Open your mouth, open your heart. Be brave to be Free and Beautiful. Set your captives and other's captives free.

People will come, oh, the people will come.

Accept my friend request

I have now become full-time facebook user because of the following motivational video.



JOIN FACEBOOK NOW!!!

ADD ME!!ADD ME!!

I'M ON FACEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEBBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOKKKKKKK!!!FACEBOOK FACEEEBOOK!!

*gosh its just so difficult to be a stalker in facebook* there are regrets...

Saturday Night at Poppy

Last Saturday night, I went to poppy.

Its a night club near Aloha.

I don't know what is the name of the road.

But i know my car park is RM10 for the night.

We couldn get into the club because some of our friends were underage.

But its ok. They were "she's" and they'd manage to get in.

The music was definitely the best i've heard. Its RnB on saturday night. WHOLE NIGHT LONG!

Other than that, it was happening, filled with people dancing (actually just shaking their body around)

Looking at the place that night i thought it was just one of those places that look really like a dump when the day is bright.

Went back home, checked it on google. Guess what i found out.

We were clubbing at a place that look like this on daylight.




If you're wondering where I was standing, look at picture 2. I was standing next to that funny looking jar situated at the left end corner of the picture.

I guess clubbing wouldn be that happening if the place was kept like that for the night. A whole different kind of lighting going on back then.

Well, I think i will appreciate going out during the day time at poppy.

extra-Ordinary Angel.

It's been two weeks since our paths crossed. You did for me what I do for others, but you taught me more, still.

It's been two weeks since our paths crossed. Things have been challenging but I have been happy.

I received a text message yesterday.

" Howdy. Hope u are fine. Feel free to write or call me if you need a listening ear. You can always take me as a brother. Regards, V."

As it was, you had done more than a normal person would, and still you did more. You taught me that more than Stopping for one person, we can do so much more. We can choose to remember. We can Stop many times for the same person, simply because we choose to remember them.

Most people say I'm too gullible, the sort of person who'll get cheated someday by one of these Strangers I meet. But I liked that you were middle-aged with a receding hairline, quiet, and always maintaining a distance, for the sake of decorum and propriety. Just, lending a hand as a Stranger, and knowing your limits, my space, our Comfortable distance.

Thank you for Stopping again for me, for bridging the Gap and yet keeping the distance. More importantly, thank you for teaching me what it means to Stop and to remember.

extra-Ordinary Angel.

Learning what it means.

It struck me some time ago, and ever so often it returns to agonise and torment me- that I am too proud, in too many ways.

I realise I had lied, because there were 2 more trophies in my new house. I must have brought them over from the old house after all.

One looked like a glass vase, while the other was a plastic plaque, the one that had the most significance to me. Perhaps that was why I brought them over from the old house, after throwing the rest away.

I am too proud, in too many ways. It is a long-suffering struggle- to be confident, humble, and level-headed enough to maintain your poise without losing your balance and falling into the pit of pride and arrogance. I am too proud. It was an ugly feeling.

Yesterday, in the evening, I looked at the both of them very carefully, and pondered over their significance. Then I walked to the kitchen and threw the both of them down the chute.

There was a lot of noise as they clanged and banged their way down. I didn't stay to hear the final landing but I believe they were smashed to bits.

Bite-sized bits.

Some things have to be done.

" Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where theives do not steal.

For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

- Matthew 6:19-21