Lowest Point.

Being Happy.

“ You should have got Best Actress, Wai Jia. That’s what people are saying, I hope you know that. But it’s an intra-faculty play competition and they have to divide the prizes equally across the levels.”

It’s funny. After the performance, as I left that stage, left that part of me which was true, there, I told God that I was thankful for that performance. Out of all our rehearsals, my final performance was my best shot, and that was all that mattered, that I gave it my best shot. There was such a deep sense of peace.

Random people came up to me today to tell me how much they felt for my character, people whose names I never even knew. That was my best moment. That was enough.

What may have been even more beautiful was that after the performance, after I had done my best, I felt validated already- by knowing that through it all, God was with me. He gave me this opportunity to release my Story this way, gave me the strength to do so. I felt adequate, sufficient, without needing anyone to commend me. I prayed to do my best, and I did, and there was an indescribable peace from within. I left early, didn't even stay for the prize ceremony at the end, because I had no expectation, and there was a deep peace welling up inside.

Two years ago when we moved houses, my father asked me what we would do with the twenty over trophies, plaques and awards I had accumulated over the years- art competitions, calligraphy competitions, school awards… My parents displayed them in the living room, and were prepared to pack them into boxes to move into the new house. Holding up my first trophy in her hands, my mother said, “You got this when you were five, remember? Don’t you want to take a picture with all of them- to remember all your achievements?”

“No,” I said. It was a final and firm no. “We’ll throw them all away,” I said, “Throw them all away.”

We kept not a single one from the old house. Trophies, prizes, awards can be dangerous things. And sometimes, it is their absence that makes us True-er to our hearts. Re-reading newspaper articles or material about your achievements is dangerous, very. So in some strange, peaceful way, when I didn’t win, I felt… more settled, almost as if it was more fitting, more appropriate. To know that I had delivered my Story in its true spirit, in a way that had evoked people, touched hearts, in a way that had elicited the sense of injustice in people for me- that was enough, more than enough. It is more beautiful this way, in some strange way it sits better, that I gave something true for nothing tangible in return.

It is like missionary work, isn’t it?

But I’m hardly that noble. Of course there have been moments where I regret not keeping those medals, those objects of achievements. And I’m sure of moments in the days to come where momentary pangs of sourness may challenge my peace and resolve in not being validated by a prize for this performance. But it is like being trained for missionary work, isn’t it- to give your all without being awarded, recognized, and to find complete satisfaction and adequacy in your own spirit, that spirit of doing your best. Thousands of nameless saints work among the poor, selflessly, wholeheartedly, without any form of tangible reward, any recognition.

I’m hardly that noble, but I am learning.

I quit being in the executive committee of the Medical Society, quit being put in a place which made me vulnerable to seeking validation from other people, or awards, or prizes. I remember we organized a Charity Run last year, but I enjoyed it far less than doing Kitesong, mainly because there were so many people to please, so much validation that the Medical Society was needy for. Ten thousand dollars to raise, guest-of-honours to please, right things to say, decorum, standard procedures… Too many things that digressed from the spirit of the event, which was essentially, to spread love.

People like us, perfectionists, try too hard to please everybody else. Sometimes, maybe, we just need space to be ourselves, to be happy with who we are. To do things because we love doing them, with no tangible returns. We write because we like to, we paint because we feel like doing so, we act because we love performing. We love because we love God, because we love to love. That is all.

Sometimes, maybe we just need to do things that have no return. It is a deeper blessing, more beautiful this way, so we learn humility before getting stumbled by pride. I need to learn how to deal with not being awarded, rewarded, validated by others, need to learn how to stop being so needy. So in many ways, I felt the radiance of God’s love when I heard the news. I felt like for once, I am learning what it means to be validated by my own spirit, by God’s love.

“I hope you’re happy, Wai Jia. Because you put up a great show. I just wanted to say I thought you deserved the award, that’s all.”

It is simpler, more beautiful this way. I am happy.

Mind the Gap.

" I cried at your scene."

And after I had got through the crowd, I saw you running towards me, your eyes swollen with tears, saying, " You made me cry..." And you gave me flowers, my favourite ones, because you knew what they meant to me. When I saw your face, wet and red with tears, I hugged you.

Today was the performance of our play, the annual medical play production, and I acted as female lead. It didn't feel like it, because it wasn't a glamorous, diva role. It didn't feel like it, because I've never taken major roles before. It didn't feel like it, because the gravity of what this performance meant to me far outshadowed any amount of excitement that playing a major role could evoke.

Our play was called Mind the Gap. Using the train as a metaphor of life, it highlights the Gap we all have to mind, the gap between living our dreams and realities.

I was expecting an adrenalin rush, but I felt no nervousness at all- not because I was brave, or confident or experienced, but because of the gravity of what this performance meant to me.

I had a Story to tell. A true one. And because it was true, I was putting myself on the line. It was a Vulnerable Feeling. What if the audience didn’t empathise with her Story? What if they thought she was over-the-top, too emotional, unconvincing?

It was a Vulnerable Feeling, a feeling of inadequacy. Then one of you came up close to me before my cue on stage and you whispered into my ear, " I know I’ve told you this before, Wai Jia- you’re so believable it’s scary. Now go do your thing."

So there I was on stage, performing today.

“Wow. You know, I could never do something like that… I nearly cried at that scene, it was so moving. What I can never figure out is- how do you feel so much for a character, act a life out, especially for one like yours… She’s so… complicated,” K asked.

“Memories,” I said. And then immediately, when I saw your quizzical expression, I quickly withdrew, “No, not memories. I mean, it’s about putting yourself in other people’s shoes I think.”

But my words fell apart, and I remembered God doesn’t like lying, doesn’t like lying under any circumstances.

So I looked at you, and said, “ No, I wrote her, that’s why. It was a Real Story. Not all of it, but enough. So yes, memories were enough. ” You frowned, looked at me, and then nodded as though you understood.

Perhaps that’s why it meant so much to me, this performance. I only perform, write, paint things that are True. And so when I performed, it wasn’t –just- an act, it wasn’t –just- a play, it wasn’t –just- a poem I wrote. It was my life, my Story on the line, me. Being presented on a stage, to an audience. Not all of it was literally true, but enough, enough was.

So she put herself on the line today, and right there, when the audience cried, or nearly did, felt for her Story, they put themselves on the line, too. My character’s Story made you cry. I performed today, and you received not only the performance, but received me. During my performance, the audience stood on that line with me, and cried. Thank you.

So many tears were shed during the course of rehearsing for this play, because the memories were so real it hurt. Three days ago, I couldn’t sleep till 3 in the morning. And on Monday, when Lines were cut, when a little girl’s Voice and her Story were erased, it more than shortened the play, it invalidated the heart behind those Lines, and fragile things fell apart, broke. Lines were still cut, but those cut on Monday were added back because they were Real. You cannot give fake things to an audience. It is not right.

This had to be done. I nearly wanted nothing to do with it. But I agreed to be involved in the scriptwriting, acting, conceptualizing, only because I knew this had to be done. This, releasing Real Stories and Real Emotions into the world had to be done.

This performance meant so much to me because it was True to us. We went ahead with it even though it was controversial, edgy, and even though we knew it wasn’t mainstream entertainment. We stuck to it because we believed in it, wanted to tell the stories True to our hearts. And because of it, because we were True to the Story and went over-time, we weren’t afraid of being disqualified. Because of it, I joined this small-scale, far less glamourous production instead of an upcoming large-scale, glitzy act which I couldn’t connect with in the same True way.

D, the director and a good friend of mine, had asked me at the beginning about his concept for the play, and said, “ I know this is a controversial, serious play. Won't go down well with a lot of people. I want to tell you about it, and if even you don’t think it’ll work out, I won't do it.”

When I heard it, I said, “Do what is True to you, because art is precisely that. ” And you did, D. You pulled this whole thing off. You inspired me, because more than anyone else, you stood on the line and were unafraid of the consequences. You are so brave, a True artist.

Every time we re-enact our past, acknowledge it, breathe it into life, we release some of it into the world, and connect with the people who receive it. Maybe this is what art is, then. It is about putting Real things about yourself on the line, re-presenting a part of yourself to others, and hoping that somewhere down the line, they would be brave, too, and put themselves on the line- with you. Art that is Real connects people, makes people think about things, makes people brave enough to be Vulnerable with you. And as an artist, when you release something Real into the world, it makes you a better person.

A better person. What does it mean.

Today, I have released it. I have released that part of my past into the world, and I am happy.

“ Hey Wai Jia, that was a very moving performance, made more stirring by the reality behind it. Thanks for making me think about life, and being grateful for the blessings I have…”

And so it is all worth it. Art that is Real, art that is honest and from the heart makes people, both the artist and the audience, better people. Maybe this is what it is all about. It's about being honest, bridging the Gap, putting yourselves on the line, making connections, and helping one another become True people, True-er to ourselves, and to the world around us.

I am happy.

Ordinary Angel.

She cried on the train today, through the entire train journey home. Something that belonged to someone very, very little broke today, and for a moment, time stopped. It wasn't what it seemed. It wasn't what it seemed at all. This ran far deeper than she could explain to anyone.

I remember what L said before- that sometimes, people come completely undone due to some Tiny incident, not because of their reaction to the incident itself, but because of the power some past event holds over it. I knew what it was. I knew what it was. It ran deep, deeper than Black, deeper than a suicide off a valley.

Life has a funny way of turning itself on you.

Put yourself on the line, and don't be afraid to get hurt. Didn't that come from me? I did, as I always do, and today, I got hit by a train.

It ran too deep, too far back, to a place before the Blackness began. And when the Tiny incident pulled the trigger on an unexpectedly loaded gun, it surprised her, and everyone else there. It wasn't about what happened today. It was about what it collided into, what it broke. Maybe if you had sat by me on the train home, you would have understood a little better, what it was you didn't mean to break.

She allowed the tears only because she remembered what L had told her, that you have to let it out, that the reason for the Blackness before was that she never let the sadness out. She kept it inside, kept things in bottles, paintings, writings, but never used her Voice. The Tiny incident happened during a rehearsal for a play she was acting in today, when lines were cut, Voices removed. It wasn't the incident itself, but what it collided into, what it broke. It ran too deep, too far back, to a place before the Blackness began.

So she sat on the train seat, crying, face and neck aching through and through. It was the kind of crying that is not legal on clean, efficient, proper train carriages. It is the kind of crying that is only legal at church.

An angel came on board the carriage, sat beside her, and gave her tissue.

Out of all the people who saw what happened today, only you, Ordinary Angel, understood. It was the kind of crying only legal at church. You were a middle-aged, bespectacled ordinary angel with a receding hairline. With tissue and God's love.

What happened next touched me beyond description- you did what I do for strangers, what I have been doing, what I would have done if I had seen someone grieving on a blue plastic seat on a train carriage. You gave me a tiny booklet, something about God's forgiveness, and a little note with your name and number. And then you placed a small bottle of Evian water on my lap. In that Moment, you felt for me.

You did what I do for people. You reached out. You bridged the Fragile Gap. For me.

I was still undone, with snot all over myself, face and neck still aching. And then I took out a little card from my bag, from my stash of little cards I always carry around just in case a Stranger or a friend needs a note, a verbal hug. And then I wrote "Thank you. Thank you for giving out God's love," and left you the address of this space.

I want to thank you for bridging the Fragile Gap, for being brave to feel for me. It was first tissue, then a booklet, and a note, then a few very gentle words before I left you. Thank you for bridging that space, for reaching out, for putting yourself on the line you drew for me, from your heart to mine.

I thought I was done, thought the crying was done after the Blackness became light. But we are never done, we will never fully arrive, I think. Life is a journey from one station to the next, and just when we think we've reached the end, reached the terminal, we find ourselves going back to the start, where it all began. Some things, you have to re-grieve in order to let go. Re-grieve in different places so you can let go of it, in places you never even knew existed, grow up, become stronger.

But, she still needs to find her Voice. Why is her mouth always being stolen? In A Taste of Rainbow, an unprotected little girl loses her mouth.



Why does she keep losing things.

Ordinary angel, thank you for reaching out today. For drawing a line for her across a Fragile Gap, for standing on the line with her.

Train rides are special journeys.

"She searched high and low, but still, she could not find her mouth."

- A Taste of Rainbow

Waiting here.

It used to be so painful, this Waiting. An empty space between here and there, a dream and reality, my heart and Yours. An empty space pregnant with uncertainty. A prayerful but wordless, unanswered empty space.

It used to be a writhing, tormenting pain, bordering on unbearable.

When we were little, we were dying to grow up- "I WANT TO BE BIG!!" When we were bigger, we wanted to be bigger, still. When we are finally Big, we wonder how we ever crossed the empty space, and wonder if maybe, we could go back to the start?

When am I going to be a doctor. When am I going to become a missionary. When am I going to be whole and complete. When am I going to be brave enough to give part of my heart away to someone other than God, if ever. When am I going to Grow Up and become this terrifyingly beautiful idea of a Woman, whose shoes are so big I am afraid my feet may never be able to fill them. When is A Taste of Rainbow going to be published. Will it ever?

It is the waiting that kills, and suffocates. Not a strangulating kind of suffocation, but the kind that sits on your chest like a heavy barrel, the kind that presses onto you like a clear, hot day, leaving you oppressed and breathless with its cloudlessness.

An empty space between here and there,
a dream and reality,
my heart and Yours.

An empty space

pregnant with
uncertainty.
A wordless, prayerful, unanswered

empty space.

The Wait was so bad she could not sleep for several nights last week.

Today, at church, a cloud lifted and suddenly, the empty space was filled with colours and smells and life and Happy Things.

She is enjoying it now, this empty space. We are so used to running through it, desperate for the end. But she is enjoying it now, this empty space, swinging her legs on a swing from a cloud. Why the mad, mad rush for the end?

Today, she learned- Waiting isn’t a space between here and there, dream and reality, one heart and another's.

Waiting isn’t a space. It is a place. A place to be still, and exult in, so Time can make us ready for the Time ahead. If only we’d learn to be still, and patient, Faith fills the space with swings and Happy things, and really, it isn’t so unbearable after all. When the space is filled with faith, it becomes a place.

It is a nice place.

Betrothed.

People keep asking me why.

Because. Just because.

In some countries in Eastern europe it is believed that if a ring cracks some important event will happen or has happened.

- Wikipedia

Being a Friend.

“I’m just disappointed, that’s all. I know you’re busy, but I’m just disappointed.”

Again.

I’d just heard that one before, and there it was again, stinging my face. I always apologise immediately. I never try and defend myself first- only later do I explain profusely, defending my ground, trying to make up for it. I am anxious and uptight lest you think I don’t value you enough, strangely relieved you care enough to feel angry, and tired because I am at my wits end.
Sometimes, there’re just not enough words to make up for it. You expect me to be there, to always be there, and sometimes I’m not, or rather, can't.

Today it happened again. Your cold, cold shoulder stung me.

And it makes me wonder, am I not a good enough friend, not a good enough daughter, not a good enough person? Do I have too many friends, do I communicate the wrong signals, or do I have the wrong priorities?

Twenty-four hours. One me. Too many people.

God and family. Then Friends. Then Studies and my service to my community, be it book-writing, community service or church ministry. Are they not in the right order? Priorities are hard.

I always apologise first. Then I try and explain and defend myself, try and tell you that I did try my best and I’m sorry I fell short, that I did my best to reschedule and reschedule so I could be there for the party/outing/chalet gathering/lunch/movie, but sometimes I just can't because there are 3 events to attend to on one night, and only one me. And you are all important so I try to reprioritize but I can only be at one place at one time. And sometimes I try, I try and take a cab so I can split my time and be at two places, and then you ask me why I always have to leave early. I try and explain but it sounds so useless because I see the disappointment in your eyes.

Again.

“Again? How come you always can’t come?"
“ Isn’t this important to you- you mean you can only drop by?”
“You missed my 21st birthday because you had a choir performance, I know- but I’m entitled to feel disappointed right?”
“How come you don’t reply on MSN?”

So many people, so many demands. And I try my best to be a good friend, to be there for people, and to live my life the best way I know how. But there is so much to do, and only twenty-four hours. School, studying, spending time with family, prayer, spending time working on a project to help people with depression and eating disorders, selling Kitesong –still-, meeting friends, spending time with them individually because everyone is precious and how come today there is a regional earthquake and everyone has a problem at the same time, replying to unanswered text-messages, online messages, emails, hand-written letters, keeping people in prayer…

“Woman, I don’t understand. Medical school and all this stuff. How do you cope?”

Most of the time, with prayer, I manage. And then occasionally, more often than I’d like to have, a friend complains howcomeyoudidntcome? wherewereyou? howcomeyoualwayshaveaprojecttodo? Howcomeyoualwayshavetomeetpeople? Howcomehowcomehowcome?

I can’t keep up.

Only the closest of my friends understand. They understand because they know I try my best and we can rest secure in the bond of our friendship. They understand I am human, that when I can’t make it for an outing it’s because I’m at church, or at another outing, or meeting old friends leaving for another country, or meeting people regarding the project, or at a support group sharing experiences with people with eating disorders, or just too darned tired because I’ve to wake up at unearthly hours to travel extra early to school just so I can facilitate morning sharing sessions for our community. They understand and they aren’t disappointed because it also happens that my closest of friends are those who spend large portions of their time helping other people too- so we understand and we let each other breathe. We treasure every minute we have with each other, before we step out into the whirlwind world out there that demands, demands, demands so much of us. When we get together, we just sit and smile in silence. We understand one another's joy and physical tiredness. We never make fun of one another missing outings because we know we each try so hard to make things work. We never blame each other for not showing up. We understand. It’s those relationships, spun on uncertainty, that demand our full commitment so things seem more secure.

But I am human. Twenty-four hours. So many people. One me. Trying.

I wish you understood, understood that I couldn’t go because another friend was performing as the lead actor for a play and it meant a lot that I went to support it; I wish you understood I had to leave early because I was attending the support group, and three girls and two mommies came to say thankyou because of some random thing I’d said, that I couldn’t make it because of my commitment to church on weekends, that I’m sorry I was almost late but a friend was crying and needed to talk. I try to put my family and friends first before serving the community or other people, because that’s the way things should be- right? But sometimes everything wants a piece of you NOW. So many people to call, care for, write to, pray for.

Yes sometimes I can't show up because I am meeting people about the project but can you not see I am not doing this for myself? That from one perspective, what good do I stand to gain from all this? I try to put my family and friends first before serving the community or other people, because that’s the way things should be- right? But sometimes it’s just so hard.

I can’t seem to keep up. So many people.

“That’s why you can only have a few close friends, Wai Jia. Too many, and you wont have time for them all.”

“But I do only have a few close friends. I tell you what's funny, you know, these people who complain... I don't even feel they're my close friends... I dont understand... ”

“Maybe it’s because these people feel you're closer to them than they are to you, and they value you and your friendship. Maybe it's because they feel treasured and want to continue to be affirmed. That’s why they’re disappointed. Otherwise, why would they care?”

Sometimes it feels lonely. Because no one but God sees what a Normal day is, no one but God and my closest friends understand what it feels like to have to be there and present for so many people. Because the world knows how we can be there in person and yet, absent. No one knows the hurt inside when someone casually makes fun that you're not there again, because you've tried your best, youve tried your best, youve tried your darned best.

Twenty-four hours. So many people. One me.

Is there something wrong? What is it.

But I won’t be put down. Everyday is a finetuning process. Everyday I am learning. I just have to keep trying my best, and keep praying for God’s strength to sustain me to fulfill this calling. If it's God's will, then there will always be enough. There will always be enough because his strength is enough.

I can try but I can’t please everyone. But still, by God's grace, I can try.