Saturday, August 22, 2015

This is what happens when I try to film myself



I was trying to film a video for the church Young Adult team as a review of my 30 days of Prayer Journal experience. I was really bad at it (both the videoing and the prayer journal), and probably did about 7 days of the 30 (Why could I do thirty days of yoga and not thirty days of prayer? Because I don't like structured prayer, being told what to pray about, I like to pray as a conversation with God. On the other hand, morning bleary eyed Miriam needs someone to tell her to do a downward dog.)

Friday, August 21, 2015

I don't want to lose dual nationality



On a border between two States
Someone has written,
“---- your nationalism.
We are all Earthlings.”

And on the Mexican border,
Someone has ripped through a fence
Of reinforced chicken wire
With bolt cutters,
And erected a hammock
By suspending it
Between two of the fence’s
Concrete pillars.

After swinging gently back and forth,
From Texas to Mexico and then
From Mexico back to Texas,
They doze off; contemptuous
Of the security guards
Patrolling this artificial demarcation  –
For, once upon a time,
Texas was Mexico
And Texas didn’t exist.

When Eugene Debs was imprisoned
For conscientious objection in World War One
He said, on September 11th 1915,
“I have no country to fight for
My country is the earth
I’m a citizen of the world.”

– Heathcote Williams, “No Borders” 

Thursday, August 20, 2015

Dentist daydreams



Today I spent half an hour lying on the reclined chair in Dr Wee Thiem Heng's clinic (also known as Uncle Thiem Heng because he's from our church care group) I always have somewhat strange thoughts on the dentist chair, as I try to avoid eye contact with Uncle Thiem Heng. Today my thoughts were:

'I wonder what happens when dentists have those scary dreams where your teeth fall out?'

'My mouth is such a lie right now I never ever brush my teeth and floss in the middle of the day unless I'm going to the dentist this is like my mouth photoshopped'

'I wonder if he'll be able to tell from my braces that I've been eating apples whole and not chopping them up into tiny bite sized pieces?'

'It's so strange to think that so many different people lie in this chair. I could be a president or a pauper and I'd still have teeth.'

'This is really relaxing. This over the hair dresser's any day.'

Other news: My braces are out! Retainers arrive tomorrow.

Monday, August 17, 2015

12.6



Today's run was a bit of an adventure. I decided to go somewhere I'd never been - left down the old railway track opening. I brought my watch this time, because I didn't want to be caught in an unknown place (that has no street light, or proper paving) after the sun had set.

After about 30 minutes, I was about to turn back, when I saw a black and white pole in the distance and thought - that would make a very nice turning point, and so I ran towards it. When I got to it, I stopped. I had intended to just turn round and run back, but right in front of me was a concrete sign saying 'Bukit Timah' and below it 'Singapura | Woodlands' and behind it a low, old building with a red roof.

I had run all the way to the old KTM railway station at Bukit Timah.

I had run all the way to Bukit Timah.

I really want to forever remember this day when I RAN ALL THE WAY TO BUKIT TIMAH

I was sort of unbelieving and I was going to ask one of the maids walking their dogs there 'Uhm, do you know where I am?' But on second thoughts I thought they might be spooked or think I had amnesia or something, and so I just turned around and ran back. I couldn't stop smiling all the way back, partly because I had run further than I intended (without any stitches PRAISE GOD) and also because there was a cool wind starting up and I felt like my guardian angels were fanning me with their mighty wings as I jogged along on my two little feet.

God gave me a playlist in my head all the way home, from 'Shepherd' to 'O Great God' and 'My Heart is Filled with Thankfulness' and even a self made song right there and then that only had the words 'Worthy is the Lamb Jesus Jesus'.

Sunday, August 16, 2015

16/08/2015

Today Wen Pin gave a completely brilliant sermon (punctuated with bashful 'Do pardon me while I drink a bit of water' requests) about how while we often worry about how to twist and turn and find the right corners and roads to God's will for our lives (Does God want me go here? Does God want me to work here? Does God want me to date his person?), what we really need to do is fix our gaze upon the mountain-in-the-distance Will of God which is simple: to become more Christ-like as we wait for and take hope in Christ's return.

And the way to do that is by bearing the fruit of good works for others that comes from a steadfast faith in Jesus Christ, increasing in the knowledge of God (with the precious resource of the Bible which so many people don't have access to in their own language), being strengthened to endure and persevere by the power of God, and giving thanks always because we have been saved! (Colossians 1:9-14)

After the sermon, Emily and I went downstairs and I spied a figure in all black sitting at the end of the youth corner table, and LO AND BEHOLD it was CHRISTY WU KUI who I haven't seen for almost three months.

Emily and I immediately descended on her with hugs and I was smiling so much to finally see her.

She was the highlight of my day even though she was wearing black from head to toe.

Saturday, August 15, 2015

14/08/2015


'Shinrin-Yoku' is a japanese word meaning a visit to the forest to relax and improve one's health.

On Friday I lay under the leaves of a sun-blanched tree with Chrispy, listening to a plane fly over head again and again, and the susurrous through the tree's branches, and thinking of how you'd ever know if you really truly love someone.

The light was bright and so I put two leaves over my eyes in place of my sunglasses, and peeked at out of a hole in one of them.

I thought of the woman I had seen shouting and crying and shouting and crying into space in a pavilion that morning and wished I had gathered my courage and gone up to her and given her a hug.

Friday, August 14, 2015

Deep calls to deep



'Why do we think so horizontally?'

That was the conclusion I came to after visiting the Deep exhibition in the Art Science Museum.

(Also, random fact: I always pronounce it 'the art see-yonce museum' in my head, using the French pronunciation. Pretentious, I know. Strangely it doesn't happen for other things, like life science or scientist. Hmm.)

The exhibition lets you descend through the depths of the deep ocean, to see the flora and fauna there through pictures and preserved specimens. You go from 150m below sea level all the way to 'The Abyssmal Plain', which is the bottom of the Sea. The creatures are weird and wonderful - they have bodies which light can pass through, or are gelatinous in nature, some use the colour bright red as a camouflage because red is the first wavelength to disappear in the water, many of them are bioluminescent, and they produce energy via chemosynthesis rather than photosynthesis because of the lack of light.

But despite the averse conditions - lack of light, food and warmth, the different levels of the sea are teeming with life. In fact, the sea floor is thought to have a more diverse range of animal life than the Amazon Rain Forest and the Great Barrier Reef combined!

And yet here I have been, walking on the thin layer of earth floating above this whole other world, and thinking of things with human created names like 'mathematics', 'buses' and 'visas', for the past 18 years.

Sometimes now, when I am walking to buses or running on roads or combing my hair, I suddenly remember that below my feet lie fathoms and fathoms. And I arrest myself momentarily - I am so small, and there is so much to be seen.

I feel like that businessman in 'The Little Prince'

"Three and two make five. Five and seven make twelve. Twelve and three make fifteen. Good morning. Fifteen and seven make twenty-two. Twenty-two and six make twenty-eight. I haven't time to light it again. Twenty-six and five make thirty-one. Phew! Then that makes five-hundred-and-one million, six-hundred-twenty-two-thousand, seven-hundred-thirty-one."

"Five hundred million what?" asked the little prince.

"Eh? Are you still there? Five-hundred-and-one million--I can't stop . . . I have so much to do! I am concerned with matters of consequence. I don't amuse myself with balderdash. Two and five make seven . . ."

"Five-hundred-and-one million what?" repeated the little prince, who never in his life had let go of a question once he had asked it.

The businessman raised his head.

"During the fifty-four years that I have inhabited this planet, I have been disturbed only three times. The first time was twenty-two years ago, when some giddy goose fell from goodness knows where. He made the most frightful noise that resounded all over the place, and I made four mistakes in my addition. The second time, eleven years ago, I was disturbed by an attack of rheumatism. I don't get enough exercise. I have no time for loafing. The third time--well, this is it! I was saying, then, five-hundred-and-one millions--"

"Millions of what?"

The businessman suddenly realized that there was no hope of being left in peace until he answered this question.

"Millions of those little objects," he said, "which one sometimes sees in the sky."

"Flies?"

"Oh, no. Little glittering objects."

"Bees?"

"Oh, no. Little golden objects that set lazy men to idle dreaming. As for me, I am concerned with matters of consequence. There is no time for idle dreaming in my life."

Surrounded by beauty and yet I bend my head, get down to the grind, count and count and think I doing something of great importance when - why can't I see - importance has been done, it is all around me.

Do we see in words?


For the longest time one of my biggest questions has, 'Do you ever wonder if we all see in the same colours?'

Yesterday I learnt that Russians have different words for what we term light and dark blue in English. Lighter blues are 'goluboy' and darker blues are 'siniy'. To them, these colours are not different hues, but completely different colours, just as how pink and red are completely different colours in English, while in Chinese pink (粉红, or powder red) is simply a hue of red (红). What was even more astonishing (as I discovered after I came home and furiously googled this incredible reality) is that this affects their perception of the two different colours/shades.

"Jonathan Winawer at MIT in the US and colleagues set out to determine whether this linguistic distinction influences colour perception.

Subjects completed two types of tests: in one version, the three squares were of a similar shade, whereas the other test involved one square that was a markedly different shade – for example, distinguishing a dark blue from a light blue.

English speakers were no better at distinguishing between dark and light blues than they were at telling apart two blues of a similar shade.

Russian speakers, by comparison, were 10% faster at distinguishing between light (goluboy) blues and dark (siniy) blues than at discriminating between blues within the same shade category.

“This is the first time that evidence has been offered to show cross-linguistic differences in colour perception in an objective task,” says Winawer."

https://www.newscientist.com/article/dn11759-russian-speakers-get-the-blues/

It's so difficult to try and imagine a world where colour is not cut out in to it's different, well, colours, in the same way that I have been linguistically shaped to understand. Even trying to fathom how to convey this is so difficult because the words and phrases in this limited language of mine can't imagine it. Wittgenstein put it most aptly I think: “The limits of my language means the limits of my world.” 

I was naturally captivated by this entire concept that words both form and inform our world, and so I looked into other colour/language conundrums, and discovered this fascinating article that covered quite a few and the implications behind this strange difference in sight. (I initially sort of snipped and stripped the article, which is very long, to the parts I think are most interesting and relevant, but after a while it got just so engaging that I left the latter parts unaltered)

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The Wine-Dark Sea: Color and Perception in the Ancient World by Erin Hoffman

“And jealous now of me, you gods, because I befriend a man, one I saved as he straddled the keel alone, when Zeus had blasted and shattered his swift ship with a bright lightning bolt, out on the wine-dark sea.”

—Homer, The Odyssey, Book V

There is no word for “blue” in ancient Greek.

Homer’s descriptions of color in The Iliad and The Odyssey, taken literally, paint an almost psychedelic landscape: in addition to the sea, sheep were also the color of wine; honey was green, as were the fear-filled faces of men; and the sky is often described as bronze.

It gets stranger. Not only was Homer’s palette limited to only five colors (metallics, black, white, yellow-green, and red), but a prominent philosopher even centuries later, Empedocles, believed that all color was limited to four categories: white/light, dark/black, red, and yellow. Xenophanes, another philosopher, described the rainbow as having but three bands of color: porphyra (dark purple), khloros, and erythros (red).

The conspicuous absence of blue is not limited to the Greeks. Ancient Japanese used the same word for blue and green (青 Ao), and even modern Japanese describes, for instance, thriving trees as being “very blue,” retaining this artifact (青々とした: meaning “lush” or “abundant”).

It turns out that the appearance of color in ancient texts, while also reasonably paralleling the frequency of colors that can be found in nature (blue and purple are very rare, red is quite frequent, and greens and browns are everywhere), tends to happen in the same sequence regardless of civilization: red : ochre : green : violet : yellow—and eventually, at least with the Egyptians and Byzantines, blue.

“Why then 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”
—Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2

Blue certainly existed in the world, even if it was rare, and the Greeks must have stumbled across it occasionally even if they didn’t name it. But the thing is, if we don’t have a word for something, it turns out that to our perception—which becomes our construction of the universe—it might as well not exist.

Our brains are pattern-recognizing engines, built around identifying things that are useful to us and discarding the rest of what we perceive as meaningless noise. (And a good thing that they do; deficiencies in this filtering, called sensory gating, are some of what cause neurological dysfunctions such as schizophrenia and autism.) This suggests the possibility that not only did Homer lack a word for what we know as “blue”—he might never have perceived the color itself. To him, the sky really was bronze, and the sea really was the same color as wine. And because he lacked the concept “blue”—therefore its perception—to him it was invisible, nonexistent. This notion of concepts and language limiting cognitive perception is called linguistic relativism, and is typically used to describe the ways in which various cultures can have difficulty recalling or retaining information about objects or concepts for which they lack identifying language. Very simply: if we don’t have a word for it, we tend to forget it, or sometimes not perceive it at all.

The famed neuroscientist Dr. Oliver Sacks described a poignant example of linguistic or conceptual relativism with regard to schizophrenia. Accounts of the disease prior to the 19th century are rare, and none at all exist in ancient literature (as opposed to “madness,” which was documented, but primarily concerned aimless wandering and spontaneous violence). The broad classification of “madness” persisted well through the 19th century, with schizophrenia identified in the early twentieth, and still considered rare through the middle of the century. When Sacks began practicing in 1965 in New York City, and in particular began studying disorders related to schizophrenia, he was shocked by a gradually increasing awareness that the disease was not nearly as rare as the science of the day claimed—especially among the homeless. Importantly, the clinical assumption that “schizophrenia is rare” was reinforcing the rarity of its diagnosis, to the point of blinding doctors to what was right in front of them. These blooms in diagnosis—we have been for the last ten years experiencing a bloom in autism recognition—have as much to do with clinical perception as they do with the actual physical incidence of the conditions.

On a lighter note, Sacks also recently recalled that the most magnificent thing he had ever seen in his life was a field of yellow, seen while he was conducting experiential research in a varied state of neurochemical condition. He says it was the most yellow yellow he had ever seen or expects to see again, a yellow beyond description, a yellow of interstellar radiance and the breath of ancient gods.

It isn’t the first time that Dr. Sacks has discussed color and altered states: in “The Dog Beneath the Skin,” he tells the infamous story of the 22-year-old medical student who, under the influence of PCP and amphetamines, enters a week-long heightened state of awareness. Among other things, this student—decades later revealed to have been Sacks himself, of course—perceived “dozens of browns” where previously he had seen only one shade.

This particular super-sensory color perception is, too, reminiscent of another physical condition related to color: tetrachromacy. Most humans are trichromatic, possessing three types of color-sensing cone cells—but an undetermined percentage of women, as well as almost all birds, are tetrachromatic, possessing four receptor types. Tetrachromats perceive a kind of fourth primary color, usually a blue-green, that gives them a heightened ability to distinguish between shades of color, often to the point of distinguishing separate shades where a trichromat will perceive identicality.

“The evolution of sense is, in a sense, the evolution of nonsense.”
—Vladimir Nabokov, novelist, synesthete

We need not travel far to determine whether these enhanced states of perception—which, given that we remain the same species as Homer, can be societal or psychological in their impetus—can impact our worldview, or our creative selves.

We know that people with synesthesia, a neurological anomaly in which one sensation “bleeds” into other sensations, are eight times more likely to pursue careers in the arts than non-synesthetes. Synesthesia comes in many varieties, but those with a visual variant (for instance perceiving numbers and letters in colors) are more likely to become visual artists—or novelists.

Vladimir Nabokov, novelist and synesthete, wrote his synesthesia into his characters on occasion, and some of his descriptions—such as the word “loyalty” suggesting “a golden fork lying in the sun”—indicate that this crossing of senses, infused with color, certainly influenced Nabokov’s construction of language. Words themselves could be beautiful or garish depending upon their letter-level construction.

Some scientists have postulated that this phenomenon of carrying meaning from one sense into another—which is essentially the definition of a metaphor—is universal and contains insight into the deepest workings of our minds. In the case of the common grapheme-color synesthesia, such as Nabokov’s, a likely explanation is the close proximity of portions of the fusiform gyrus that deal respectively with word and color recognition in the brain. When a synesthete reads a word, some of the electrical energy from that word-recognizing region is possibly leaping over into that color recognition region. One remarkable side effect of this is that many synesthetes tend to perceive the same colors for letters (“A” tends to be red), which underscores the structural theory—and might suggest that this same phenomenon is at work in all of us below the level of our conscious awareness.
While the causes of synesthesia remain unknown, it is generally agreed that the physical basis is a kind of excess of interconnectedness between neurons. It may be that the “pruning” we undergo as children does not complete, leaving connections behind that in the mainstream population are eradicated—but provoked synesthesia in the cases of drug use or epileptic seizures suggest that non-synesthesian brains are capable of synesthetic effects.

A 1929 experiment by Gestalt psychologist Wolfgang Köhler elegantly illustrates what some call our natural synesthesia. Köhler drew two random shapes: one spiky and sharp, the other flowing and rounded. He then asked subjects to guess of these shapes which one was called “kiki” and which was called “bouba.” The results were very clear: 95-98% of subjects identified the sharp shape as “kiki” and the rounded shape as “bouba.” (Fascinatingly, autistic individuals make this match only 56% of the time.)

Köhler’s experiment wrapped science around what we would call onomatopoeia: when a word sounds like what it is. But onomatopoeia is by definition synesthesia, the transference of sound into orthogonal meaning.

The modern neuroscientist Dr. Vilayanur Ramachandran suggests that Köhler’s experiment shows that, to a certain extent, we are all synesthetes, and further that this inherent interconnection between our cognitive functions is intrinsic to the most beloved traits of humanity: compassion, creativity, ingenuity. What, after all, is an idea, but one flash of thought leaping across the mind to suggest novel possibility?

“The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance.”
—Aristotle

So, if we’re all synesthetes, and our minds are extraordinarily plastic, capable of reorienting our entire perception around the addition of a single new concept (“there is a color between green and violet,” “schizophrenia is much more common than previously believed”), the implications of Homer’s wine-dark sea are rich indeed.

We are all creatures of our own time, our realities framed not by the limits of our knowledge but by what we choose to perceive. Do we yet perceive all the colors there are? What concepts are hidden from us by the convention of our language? When a noblewoman of Syracuse looked out across the Mare Siculum, did she see waves of Bacchanalian indigo beneath a sunset of hammered bronze? If a seagull flew east toward Thapsus, did she think of Venus and the fall of Troy?

The myriad details that define our everyday existence may define also the boundaries of our imagination, and with it our dreams, our ethics. We are lenses moving through time, beings of color and shadow.

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When I think of the power of words, I am floored at the privilege I have in studying them and excavating their meaning in literature. And I am also so cognizant that there are so many other languages, so many words in the English language I don't know and so many words in every language that I don't and so many languages I don't even know exist. Which means that within this earth, there are worlds and worlds that I don't know, and that I can't even conceive as being in existence! (This certainly makes being a polyglot a much more profound concept than simply mastering numerous languages - or rather the profoundness is in mastering other languages)

I also think it's incredible that God chose to use words as his primary form of communication with us when He left us the Bible. He knew just how limiting and enlightening words could be, and how our entire world, first created by Him in the very beginning of time, could be built in our minds through His Word.

'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.' - John 1:1

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

urk



Today my Mum went to the British High Commission to try and find out more about whether or not I am eligible for the Right to Abode (because of difficulties with my visa), and had to endure a taxi driver who told her a scary and apparently true story about a man who submitted to a year-long highly paid medical test that would eventually kill him so that he could support his wife's extravagant materialistic spending, and then dropped poor Mum off at the American High Commission (my Mum probably just about died at the thought of being thought of as an American) and by the time she had walked to the British High Commission -she discovered that they do not take unscheduled enquiries!

Well.

So she came back home, and had to face a long and complicated process of tallying numbers and figures and accounts for her work. I get my math skills (or lack thereof) from my mother, and suffice to say the numbers were completely hostile to her and her to them, so much so that as I was reading 'Bleak House' at the dining room table, she suddenly stalked past me and said 'I need to strangle something - like the British High Comm!'

I followed her into her room where all she could say was 'It's such a poopy day.' And my Mum NEVER uses toilet humour so I knew she needed a hug, which I readily gave, even though I could no nearer solve her math problems than write my own visa.

New running strategy


Recently (recently being this week) I've decided to make my runs a bit different. Previously, whenever I did overcome the inertia of heading out for a run, I would make a loop around the neighbourhood, then go through Mediapolis, across the Ayer rajah flyover, over an overhead bridge, back through Mediapolis and the neighbourhood, which I would time myself to run in at most 30 minutes.

One day, I took a wrong turning, and headed down towards one north and got lost in the maze that is Biopolis. I got so tired trying to find my way out that I just walked for about 20 minutes before I found the exit. Usually, I would feel disappointed about walking, and not completing my run with integrity, and not going to my ultimate limit. But that time, the walk felt really good (it was also a really blissful day) and when I picked up my run to get back home, I felt utterly content with myself.

Now, when I head out, although I still stick to my usual path, I no longer wear a watch. I run at the pace my body feels like it needs that day. Sometimes, I really want an intense run, and I quicken my pace so that by the time I get back I am gasping and shaking and pretty much half dead. Sometimes (like today) I just want to get out and enjoy myself, and so I jog slowly, slow enough to gasp a conversation to anyone if I had the chance, and I really savour the last 100 - 200 meters where, without fail, I sprint and feel as if I am flying. And I'm pretty sure one day when I'm feeling adventurous, I'll go into the maze of Biopolis again.

It feels so much less tough on myself to just harmonise my movement to my situation at any given moment. It isn't any less of an run of integrity, because now instead of staying true to my standards of what I should push myself to be, I stay true to what I know my body needs. I don't think that watch is coming back on my wrist any time soon. (and besides - no more fear of a watch tan!)

When I was running a while ago, I saw three children on scooters - two older girls and a little boy. They seemed like a ghost of my childhood running around with Hannah and Tim. I can never be grateful enough for my childhood.

Would you like to see Jesus?


Yesterday, my mother went for a free hair treatment she'd received because she'd watched a play earlier in the year. At the end of the treatment, the saleswoman (predictably) tried to sell her a package deal to become a member and receive ten hair treatments for $2000. My mother refused, and the price went down to $1000. Still beyond my mother's budget, the saleswoman tried offering her various permutations of packages and costs, but thankfully my mother (remembering what had happened the last time she had fallen for the guile of salespeople and bought a very expensive vacuum cleaner) walked out of the shop unfettered with any sort of attachment to that place.

At night, I curled up next to her as she read to me from a book about Mother Theresa. The part she read to me can be summed up in this line 'The dying, the cripple, the mental, the unwanted, the unloved-- they are Jesus in disguise.' My Mum looked up, aghast, and said:

'You know Miriam, I've been thinking about that hair treatment.'

I (afraid she was going to cave and buy it), said, 'It was horrifically expensive.'

Mum, 'Yes, who can afford to spend $2000 dollars on ten sessions of hair treatment?!'

I murmured my support, still not quite sure why we had taken this sudden departure from Mother Theresa.

Mum continued, 'I was thinking about how long $2000 could sponsor a child. I pay about $45 to sponsor a child for a month. $2000 could sponsor a child for... oh my goodness, 4 years!'

Then we talked about how sometimes we feel that our church, while great in preaching and focusing on evangelism, sometimes fails to see the very physical needs of so many people everywhere. Some people in our church are wonderful - Uncle William Lenn and Auntie Yahwu are using all their savings to set up a girls' home in Chiang Mai so that the girls from Kathy's Home in Pua, when they go to the big city for University and lose the protective and nurturing environment of Kathy's Home, will still have a community together.

But unlike Uncle William and Auntie Yahwu, we often forget that Jesus asked us to love one another, and not just pray for one another. We so often focus on saving souls that we forget that God gave humans bodies too, many of which are suffering from malnutrition, sickness and fatigue. Mother Theresa said, 'When a poor person dies of hunger, it has not happened because God did not take care of him or her. It has happened because neither you nor I wanted to give that person what he or she needed.' I think there needs to be an awakening - an opening of eyes to the fact that as a Christian, when God asks us to love our neighbour, he means for us to think of our neighbour and notice what our neighbour needs, and give it. We must not just think of our neighbour, and feel pious for our consideration. We must not just pray for our neighbour, and slide all responsibility for his provision onto God, and refuse to let God work through us, and mold our generosity and humility to serve our fellow people.

'Make us worthy, Lord, to serve those people throughout the world who live and die in poverty and hunger. Give them through our hands, this day, their daily bread, and by our understanding love, give them peace and joy.' -Mother Theresa

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Perhaps the first step towards this is understanding that in our economy, each person is linked in a intricate and complicated supply and demand web to many many others. The things we buy are made by someone, shipped by someone, priced by someone, sold by someone, and when we discard them, they are collected by someone, processed by someone, thrown somewhere by someone, and may very well form someone else's back yard view. Ask questions: Who made this? Under what conditions? Who priced this and how can it be priced in this way? Who will this affect? And under and over and through all of it as, 'When I buy this, or when I do this, is Jesus the center? Would this be something that Jesus would be happy for me to have and does buying it show love to other people?' (Sorry Miriam, I do NOT think Jesus is the center of that Stone Cold Fox x Beach Riot swimsuit) 

It can get pretty mind boggling. It can make going into places like PRIMARK and Forever21 miserable. But slowly (or even quickly!) it will become natural, it will feel natural to care for others in the things we do and buy. It will become natural to restrain from consuming and consuming to satisfy a need, and it will become natural to rely on Jesus Christ to fulfil that need, and strengthen us from temptation and give us joy in loving others.

'I pray that you will understand the words of Jesus, “Love one another as I have loved you.” Ask yourself “How has he loved me? Do I really love others in the same way?” ' -Mother Theresa

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After the first step, which is really nothing more than becoming passive in the economy of extracting pleasure from other people's pain, the next step is an active one. An active will to reach out and love. We can start one person at a time. I know I need to take it slow and ease into it, because I often approach things with the 'charge headlong into it' attitude which lost the Jacobites the War on Culloden Moor. I suppose it can start from not losing our tempers at younger brothers, at helping our mothers when they are in cleaning frenzies and it is so much easier to just go out of the house, to meet up with people who you haven't seen for months, and listen to them, and love them.

But it's important also not to stop there. When I was younger, at every Chinese New year my parents would divide my Chinese New Year money into parts - one to spend however I liked, one to save in my bank account, one to donate to (usually) Worldvision. And I never felt that it was any sort of injustice that 'my money' was being given away. Because I knew it wasn't my money. I knew that I was lucky to be part of a culture that inexplicably gives children money every January or February. And I knew that somewhere in another country, they don't have Chinese New Year and children never get handed money in little red packets. I hope that that childish logic will continue to prompt me to give what I have, especially now that I am earning, and even in college when I receive a monthly allowance from my scholarship board. There are people out there working as hard as I am, if not harder, and being as clever as I am, if not cleverer, without having the ability to advance that I do, and that injustice is greater than any petty injustice that I give money that I 'earn' (by doing next to nothing) to others.

Donating often seems a very passive thing to do - but I think it is certainly a start. It is part of a process that demands us to sacrifice for someone else and 'a sacrifice to be real must cost, must hurt, must empty ourselves' -Mother Theresa. If something costs us nothing, takes nothing away from us, it means we can certainly give more. And giving cultivates an attitude of generosity and love and service. And every little act of service that we give out of our heart, is a gift to God.

Jesus made it very clear. Whatever you do to the least of my brethren, you do it to me.
Give a glass of water, you give it to me. Receive a little child, you receive me. -Mother Theresa

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This post was titled 'Would you like to see Jesus?' because so many people do want to. It is hard to love and serve someone we don't see, and sometimes that makes being a Christian hard. But what my Mum read -'The dying, the cripple, the mental, the unwanted, the unloved-- they are Jesus in disguise.' is so true. The thing is, Jesus is in all these people of need around me but because, to save myself trouble and sacrifice, I avert my face, I don;t see them and I don't see him. But if I would look into the face of someone in great need, even if I only saw that face through a computer screen donation campaign, I think I would be looking at Jesus. Jesus asks for us to love Him, to serve Him, to make much of Him and make ourselves nothing more than a tiny whisper in the background. And that is what that person in need requires too.

'Would you like to see Jesus? 
[Mother Teresa takes Bishop Curlin around a few walls to a man lying on a black leather pallet who has clearly visible things crawling on his body. As the bishop stands there in shock, Mother Teresa kneels down and wraps her arms around him, holding him like a baby in one's arms.] 
Here he is. 
[The bishop asks "Who?"] 
Jesus. Didn't he say you'd 'find me in the least person on earth?' Isn't this Jesus challenging us to reach out and love?'

over/under water


I went swimming with Dad and Tim on Monday, when my Mum was in one of her cleaning frenzy moods (they remind me of Mrs Joe's moods: "She...got out the dustpan -- which was always a very bad sign -- put on her coarse apron, and began cleaning up to a terrible extent. Not satisfied with a dry cleaning, she took to a pail and scrubbing-brush, and cleaned us out of house and home,..." )

We plunged into the pool, and did a few laps. Dad splashes a lot when he swims freestyle, and so he tends to alternate between freestyle and breast stroke, sort of as if the calm waters that ensue when he swims breast stroke are an apology for all his previous bluster and noise.

Because our goggles always tend to lose themselves, we had one pair between the three of us, and so we had to swap them round, Home Run style.

When I was above the water, I moved much more slowly. I took about 50 strokes to clear the length of the pool. I had to purse my lips to avoid swallowing displaced water from other swimmers who perhaps had learnt to swim at the same place as Dad.

I also got to see much more. I saw a squirrel race along the narrow silver railing beside the playground, and two women who stayed at one end of the pool talking, and never swimming a stroke. I laughed quietly at the gasping, serious faces of other swimmers, their mouths jumping into little 'o' shapes whenever they surfaced. I've always wondered how I look when I come up for air. I glided along, tired but calm, and smiled when I saw coming towards me, head above the water too (Dad had the goggles), both of us laughing at each other just because we knew the other would.

When I got the goggle, swimming became so much easier. I swam the length of the pool in 30 strokes, and my neck wasn't straining to keep myself afloat all the time. I could maneuver around other swimmers in the congested lanes, going around or under and smoothly keeping to my path.

But I didn't resent swimming with my head above the water. It may have been the 'wrong perspective' for a swim, and it certainly was harder, but it gave me such pleasure, and forced me to take things at a calmer pace (and I know my heart - it races and rushes and bolts from one thing to another and strains against slowness) I loved the swim under water, and I loved the swim over water, and both looking through the tinted lenses of the goggles and over the undulating surface of the pool were beautiful sights.

Saturday, August 8, 2015

A collection of last week's facts


- On Monday it rained really heavily and I was feeling tired and achy, which is actually the best feeling to have on a stormy day, because I curled up in bed with Bleak house and my Burmese blanket, and fell asleep to the sound of pitter-pattering rain.

- I have discovered that toasting desiccated coconut makes it taste insanely delicious, especially when folded into banana nice cream.

- On the way to meeting Niki one day, I was stopped at the train station by a group of people trying to convince me that there is a 'God the Mother'.

- When I feel sad I eat oat porridge for dinner.

- I cycled to Phoon Huat one day and upon returning to my bicycle, I found a red plastic bag with a Styrofoam container of food left hanging on one bicycle handle.

- I went back to On the Table and every one was new and unrecognisable apart from Kai Jing and Daryl.

Breathing in


Practice is a word I've been hearing a lot recently, because I've recently begun doing Yoga at home. It started when I was bored (as do many things - in fact, some say that being bored is what gives rise to creativity!) and so, remembering a divine Yoga class I'd had once I decided to try it again. I found a Thirty Day Yoga programme on Youtube, and have been doing it every day since.

Some days are really relaxing, like the first day (aptly called 'Easing into it') and the day of 'Yoga for spinal health'. Other days are challenging, like the 'Full Body Yoga' day or today's 'Half Moon Practice'. I've always considered myself someone with good balance but the half moon pose and crow pose leave me struggling!

The beautiful thing about Yoga is that the instructor in the programme always reminds me that this is a practice, not a series of poses or hard core exercise. It is really about finding the space and humility to say, 'This is hard, but I will try. It will take time, but I will try. And I will find joy and peace even in the moments of trying, and look forward to the moment of achieving with hope but not desperation.'

The other thing I really love, is waking up early in the morning and pushing open our louvred windows to let in the light, rolling out my mat, and just having half an hour to myself. It gives me the time to set my mind at rest and centre myself on Christ.

It may seem strange to mix Yoga, a practice derived from the Hindu religion, and my own Christian faith. Once I rolled up my exercise may after a short sun salutation practice and checked my Facebook page, only to see a link to a Christian discussion on whether Yoga was a sin!

I think that Yoga is really what you make it. When I breathe in, the words of the song 'Holy Spirit, Living breath of God, breathe new life into my willing soul' come to mind. I take the practice, and make it my own, focusing on starting the day with a calm heart resting on God's promises and letting go of my earthly worries.

Monday, August 3, 2015

Why I've been away all June part IV: London

7/07/2015

We arrived at the sunshine yellow door of 97 Lollard street Lambeth, and took a walk around the area, Auntie Sarah telling us to walk like men when we were in the area to safeguard against muggers.

8/07/2015

In the morning we headed to Raw Press for Breakfast. I bathed using some sort of divine body soap that had Patchouli inside - I think there will definitely be patchouli in heaven.

Anyway, Raw Press is a little hard to find, hidden down a little flight of stairs that descends fro street level into a white walled, white light lit, clean cafe. The salads that Ellis and I got were so fresh, and quite innovative (they used cauliflower to make couscous, and zucchini to make spaghetti!) They also had classic flavour combinations like tomato and pesto, but it was the quality and freshness of the ingredients that really made it an amazing treat. (I've been craving fresh fresh tomatoes ever since, like Laura in Rossetti's Goblin Market...)




I also had an acai bowl - coyo (coconut yoghurt) and blackberries. It was a risk because I typically don't like coconut, but the coyo tasted like whipped cream and since then I've slowly been getting really into the taste of coconut!




The rest of the day was spent battling crowds at oxford street. The ongoing tube strike meant that congestion is really fierce - thank god it's just 2 days. Respite came when we stopped in a LUSH shop, assaulted with smells and colours and helpful sales staff. I tried on 'rosy cheeks' and 'bbseaweed' in the shop - I felt like the Queen of Sheba as the sales girl massaged the masks onto my hands and washed it off with warm water and then towelled my hands dry. Another sales woman told me her philosophy as I dithered over which to buy - 'You change all the time in life - pregnant, young, old, birth, age, work. You can't stay the same, you must change as your life changes.' I got the seaweed one in the end, and the rosy cheeks as a tester (which can actually be used up to 3 times, if you scrimp a little!)

We also went into PRIMARK which gave me really heavy boots, as Oskar from Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close would say - racks and racks of clothes wracked and wracked by suffering.

We got lost getting home but all's well that ends well and we eventually found Bunny's house. Grandma called as we were getting ready for bed and told me 'I called you because I missed hearing your voice' which made me weep as I put down the phone, but I had two angels by my side and they hugged me and gave me space to dry up a little.

09/07/2015

We went to Bicester village today - truly a blessing to get out of tube strike struck London. And an even greater blessing to get the coach that went to Bicester village- we only just made it in time to the ticket desk! Ironically as we were driving to that luxury shopping outlet I read 'A testimony' by Christina Rossetti

'...Our treasures moth and rust corrupt,
        Or thieves break through and steal, or they
        Make themselves wings and fly away.
One man made merry as he supped,
Nor guessed how when that night grew dim
His soul would be required of him.

We build our houses on the sand,
        Comely withoutside and within;
         But when the winds and rains begin
To beat on them, they cannot stand;
They perish, quickly overthrown,
Loose from the very basement stone.

All things are vanity, I said,--
         Yea, vanity of vanities.
         The rich man dies; and the poor dies;
The worm feeds sweetly on the dead.
Whate'er thou lackest, keep this trust:
All in the end shall have but dust:

The one inheritance, which best
         And worst alike shall find and share:
         The wicked cease from troubling there,
And there the weary be at rest;
There all the wisdom of the wise
Is vanity of vanities.

Man flourishes as a green leaf,
         And as a leaf doth pass away;
         Or, as a shade that cannot stay
And leaves no track, his course is brief:
Yet man doth hope and fear and plan
Till he is dead:--O foolish man!

Our eyes cannot be satisfied
         With seeing, nor our ears be filled
         With hearing: yet we plant and build
And buy and make our borders wide;
We gather wealth, we gather care,
But know not who shall be our heir.

Why should we hasten to arise
         So early, and so late take rest?
         Our labor is not good; our best
Hopes fade; our heart is stayed on lies:
Verily, we sow wind; and we
Shall reap the whirlwind, verily.

He who hath little shall not lack;
         He who hath plenty shall decay:
         Our fathers went; we pass away;
Our children follow on our track:
So generations fail, and so
They are renewed and come and go.

...

A King dwelt in Jerusalem;
        He was the wisest man on earth;
        He had all riches from his birth,
And pleasures till he tired of them;
Then, having tested all things, he
Witnessed that all are vanity.'


It was still a nice day because Ellis and I had a long space to just talk - away from the noise of planning and travelling, and away from the city.


The sunlight on the way home was gorgeous, and I noticed a few quirky things around town that made me smile.


Represent austerity?
Just casually wearing a silk waistcoat on my evening walk



10/07/2015

Early today we bought tickets from Leicester Square for 'Miss Saigon' at the Westend, but we had the whole day stretched before us first and so we went to Borough market. A cornucopia of food and artisan pickles and white truffle oil and 1024829342 different kinds of mustard and cheeses and dried things and wine and street food. Basically all the really snooty food that tastes amazingly delicious. 


This is a FLAXjack - a flapjack made with flaxseed. I had the vegan and sugar free version!
We went around trying all the samples and getting sample seconds and thirds (especially of truffle oil on bread)The best thing I had was probably an AMAZING spirulina smoothie - it's deep green colour surprised me but it was really deliciously sweet and complex.




Ellis had some scotch eggs
The best tea I've had in my life

THAT GREEN SMOOTHIE
We sort of got traffic light colours
Indian food craving satisfied
Really really really
REALLY REALLY REALLY GOOD
Despite the circus of wonder around me I was feeling quite under the weather because my eyes wouldn't stop watering and I had a sniffle, probably because it was a very very hot and dusty day.

We headed to Pimlico after that, for some charity shopping. A man in a cap and quilted jacket kept entering the Trinity Hospice Centre and demanding to be sold  guitar at a discounted price, despite constantly be told that that was not possible, and not up to the jurisdiction of the shop assistants in the place.

Dinner was at Hyde Park under the shade of a chestnut tree. The chestnuts reminded me the seasons jigsaw grandma and I had been working on in Ixworth and I missed her with a pang. Uncharacteristically, I began focusing on negativity. I thought of how much I missed my grandma, I thought of how scratchy my throat was and how painful my eyes were and I just had a horrible little pity party in my head right there.

The worst part about feeling bad about yourself is that you never just inflict negativity upon yourself. Somewhere during dinner Ellis asked if she could have some water because her bottle was empty. Mine was half full, and yet the voice inside of me said 'Oh Miriam, you are so tired and so ill, you need it more. Oh Miriam, Ellis should have thought to bring her own water. Oh Miriam, you must feel so much worse than Ellis you need it more.'

And so I bluntly said, ' No, I need my water, I get thirsty too.'

And then I offered her some of the coconut pineapple juice that I had gotten at the tube station in the morning which none of us actually liked - that warped negativity inside of me thinking, 'well, if she really were thirsty, she would be glad of coconut water.'

Honestly. I felt so disgusted with myself afterwards. How could I moralise my actions so much when really all I was doing was being a really bad friend? The thing about pity is that it spills into your actions, and makes you focus on yourself and think 'I'm only human' to justify what is only selfish.

It was quite hard to write this on my blog - it is a part of myself I dislike, a part that rarely surfaces but that I know exists, a part that lives for me and me alone. And yet God calls us to live for Him. To place Him as our center and think of Christ's sacrifice on the cross as the reason we still live. If Christ could offer words of comfort to the agonised prisoner hanging on the cross beside Him when he himself was facing excruciating pain, I can offer my friend water, I can offer my friends time, I can look beyond my own tiny sphere of self interest to serve others. My history teacher told myself that there are no permanent friends, only permanent interests. But Christ teaches us a different lesson. He said our permanent interest is to be a permanent friend, brother, sister, lover, mother, father. A permanent person who tries struggles fails but keeps trying to live as he lived and offer unconditional love and kindness to those around him.

Anyway, at that moment as I lay back and realised what a despicable human I have the capacity to be, I wanted so much to be a bird and fly away.

We still needed to get to Prince Edward Theatre, and we got distracted twice by beguiling street acts, but eventually we got there!!! Running in and squeezing past our whole row of people (yes, we were those annoying theatre goers) but we got there.





The show was dramatic, tragic, and beautiful. I loved the running theme of dreams and disillusionment after sacrifice. But apart from that, I was struck by the beginning of the second act. The second act began with a song about the 'Bui Doi', the half Vietnamese and half American children that were a product of the war and a lasting reminder of it's failure. I thought it apt that the identity of a mixed child was presented through the lens of war - it seems necessary to choose a side, but it is impossible. And nothing good will come of remaining in war.

We took a taxi back to 97 Lollard Street, mistakenly taking it from near the theatre and getting caught in the horrendous city centre traffic. The meter jumped higher and higher with each passing minute and our hearts sunk lower and lower...

11/07/2015

We popped into the National Gallery spontaneously in the morning after Wei Xin and Ellis bought tickets to see Wicked. Outside there were quite a few street performers outside - the usual Yodas and Grim Reapers and silver and gold men, and a couple of artists chalking flags of the world on the ground, and (the best one) a man offering a cycling challenge. His bicycle turned left when the handlebars went right, and vice versa, and if you managed to cycle the bike over a short distance marked out by tape, he'd give you 10 pounds. He demonstrated quite a few times, making it seem easy, but I saw 3 people try to no avail!


In the National Gallery, we saw Van Gogh's sunflowers and his yellow chair, and another of Monet's Japanese bridge paintings and waterlily paintings. I wish I had more time to just stand and inhale Monet's delicacy and Van Gogh's strength and assuredness. I've always found it so strange that Van Gogh could project such confidence despite a crumbling mind. I suppose that no matter you situation, even if you are so desperate that you turn to yellow paint as a hopeful elixir, there is still a strength in every person - a strength that can overcome depression, raise children, protect a nation, or create beautiful art.


Then we went to Camden market, a real tourist trap, with artisan jewellery, cheap chinese fareastplaza-esque clothing, sops and candles and food, but I wasn't complaining - I loved it all! 


Wei Xin got the best churro she's ever had, she and I shared a falafel wrap, and Ellis got a box of falafel and hummus and some paella.


We browsed Harrod's for a while after that, and then headed to St Paul's for evensong. I loved walking through it's doors, which had 'This is none other than the house of God. This is the gate of Heaven.' written on them. It was such a beautiful reminder that honestly, you are constantly stepping through the republic of heaven on earth, having little tastes of heaven, because heaven is where (oh, happy day!) there is never ending fellowship with God. As long as you are with God, you are in heaven.


In the evening, Weixin returned to Harrod's and Ellis and I had a good game of cards at home. We played Tai-ti, and made the stakes high - whoever lost had to tell one good and one bad thing about the trip. On a trip with friends, it's inevitable to learn the little things about them that annoy you beyond belief, but also the little things about them that make you fall in friend-love with them over and over.



12/07/2015

In the morning we headed for Brick Lane market, getting quite hopelessly lost on the way there. The streets in the Eastend are much more colourful than the Westend. Graffiti is everywhere, and street art is an obvious tradition. I saw an amnesty international sticker on a traffic light that read 'Love is a human right'.

I completely love the concept of love, but I wonder, is it really a human right? Or an act of grace? If anything, humans have no right to love. We lie, cheat, steal, shame, scorn and sin. And yet God loves us infinitely and purely and His love for us spills out of our broken vessel bodies like light through the leaves of a tree, dappling others around us in various shades of love - friend love, lover love, stranger love, animal love, patient love, sacrificial love...

In a meritocratic world, love seems the furthest thing to be given freely, and yet love not given freely is not love. Why then do we demand love given freely? Possibly because we have a perfect example of it, and we know that that is the best thing there ever is was and can be. We have all received love undeserved from God, parents, friends, lovers, and perhaps that is why every human should give love to others who are undeserving - because so are we, and we have been given this unlimited and beautiful gift. Love is an act of grace.



Brick Lane market was the least touristy of the three, and my favourite, if only for the abundance of raw, natural desserts (!!!)


I bought a chocolate tart from a Brazilian man whose creations were made entirely of natural ingredients and were raw and vegan! I asked him why he decided to begin making such a niche dessert, and what goes into them. He asked where I was from, and finding out that I was from Singapore, said that, like Singapore, Brazil has a blessed abundance of fruit and a culture of incorporating nature's goodness in every day life. He said that all it takes to make his beautiful beautiful cakes are 'Nature, time, and inspiration!'

The tart was certainly inspired, and very very good.



We headed out of the covered market, only to step into ANOTHER market, and another and another! That place was a rabbit warren of markets with the best wares. Vintage clothing, natural cosmetics, salt beef buns (with a lady who very testily shouted at her customers to get in line), apparently the healthiest curry in the world, sugar-free chocolate, cameras, antiques, flowers...




That afternoon we went to St Helen's Bishopgate church. It seemed traditional on the outside, like the other churches I've been to, but the inside had (gasp) YOUNG PEOPLE HALLELUJAH!!!! It's certainly a sad sight to see very very few young people in the churches in Suffolk, and it was so encouraging to see a thriving youth and young adult community in St Helen's Bishopgate. We were introduced to a man who brought us over to eat cake and have something to drink, and who introduced us to Sophie, a Korean who has lived in England for 18 years.

We had a sermon on Jonah (a very good one that I enjoyed, despite my languor) and after the service Sophie kindly offered to direct us to the bus so we could get home. On the way out, we met someone from Impact Australia, which, like ImpactUK is under Project Timothy. I'd heard of ImpactUK, and had been asked to it, but was hesitant about going. Meeting that guy was a godsend - it sounded so useful as a way to ground me in God before I head over to the UK to study!

Wei Xin and i sat together on the top level of the double decker bus, just like old times on the 153 coming home from SCGS, and we watched London through grey, rain streaked windows.


13/07/2015

We went back to Raw Press in the morning because all of us were completely willing to spend some of our last pounds on their acai bowl.



After that, we headed over to Westminster - just so we could say we'd seen it! On the way, we bumped into a policeman called Timothy Mills who smiled CONSTANTLY.


The Victoria and Albert Museum was fantastic-they had an exhibition on luxury, where artists used unusual means or painstaking methods or expensive materials to create an opus, all giving different interpretations on what constitutes luxury.

I loved a collection of lights, each encased within the head of a dandelion. There was such beauty and potential in the seeds of a dandelion head - a sort of mirror to the potential and inspiration in each human being, for which light is a common symbol. And yet there was such delicacy in it too - one could blow out the light by blowing the dandelion heads just as one would blow a candle. The ephemeral nature of the dande-lights reminded me how short life is - one puff and we're gone, but if we can burn brightly while we live, that truly is luxury. 


I also liked a piece where gold was used in memory preservation - to create maps, encyclopedias and atlases, showing how memory really holds more value than even the most valued metal on earth. And yet there was also a critique, I thought, in how gold was used to replace words or drawings. It was intended to symbolise worth, when really it changed not the worth of the atlas. The atlas derives its worth from its recorded, remembered information - using gold was it was a mere shift in colour. And so when it comes down to it, although memory is a luxury, something held in high regard by cultures globally, it is also commonplace. It does not need to be gilded in gold or covered in jewels, it is preserved in the humble hearts and minds of every person, in words and thoughts, and sustained not by its net worth but by the unstoppable human desire to remember.  



After a short stop in the science museum (I looked for but did not find Grandad's name in the exhibition about Churchill's use of science in war time - surely someone who improved the radar would be worth a mention!) We ate lunch in Hyde park, and then walked over to Maitre Choux, which had the most beautiful and expensive eclairs.


Wei Xin and Ellis went to watch Wicked that night, and I was in charge of submitting our online check in and arranging our seats on the aeroplane. I decided after that to walk down to 'FOOD AND WINE TILL LATE' to buy some dates. There were three different sorts of dates which confused me and so I brought them to the shop keeper and asked how they were different. We had met him another night, when Ellis bought Almond milk, and we had told him we were from Singapore, and he told us he was from Afghanistan and that he respects Singapore because it is a country that recognises that education is beautiful.

This time, he kindly exaplined that the dates come from different countries - Iran, Saudi Arabia, and Oman. His favourite are the Saudi ones, which have a more complex taste, and are more expensive, but when he asked what I would use them for and I said baking, he recommended the Iranian ones, which are softer and therefore easier to blend. I was completely ready to just trust him and buy the dates, but he insisted on letting me taste them for myself, opening a box and letting me have a date - it was like a caramel drop! He then went around offering the rest of the customers in the shop dates, and I got three new boxes to buy home, as he refused to let me pay for the date I'd tried. Instead, he opened a packet of the Saudi dates and let me have two!

As I was buying my boxes of dates, he introduced me to his fellow shop keeper and friend, who is from Pakistan. He had the most beautiful smile, and smiled often, especially when he saw me buy three boxes of dates! He received an MBA in accounting in Pakistan, but in England he makes his living through a more humble sort of accounting - shopkeeping. When he found out my name was Miriam, he said 'Mariam...a Muslim name!'

I smiled and said 'Yes, and a Christian name too I think, from the Old Testament that we share,"

He laughed and very tactfully explained how Muslim and Christian faiths aligned until the one he calls 'Jesus the Prophet'.

I spent so much time talking to them, leaning against the counter with my three boxes of dates forgotten, that the Afghanistan man disappeared and reappeared with a bottle of apple juice and some cups, and poured us all a cup and let me break the Ramadan fast with them as they drank the first liquid they'd had since the sun had risen! It was so intimate and friendly, and I was so sad to leave. They wished me safety for my flight back, and said that if I ever came back to Lambeth I had two friends there always open for a visit. I do hope I see them again.

I was smiling all the way home.

14/07/2015

 'One by one they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.' - James Joyce, Dubliners The Imperial War Museum was probably the best one we'd been to! I only wish we had more time...


I suppose that desire for more time was my presiding feeling for the whole day - to leave England after a month seemed like I'd spent ages there, but it never felt long enough.

We packed and left in time, lugging our heavy suitcases to Lambeth North Station. Two boys in the next carriage threw little white sweets at us through the adjoining windows.

Change at Piccadilly.

Train to Heathrow. I was reminded of the heart wrenching departure in Like Crazy.

Wei Xin's suitcase was a mere 200g shy of the 23 kg limit!

We almost missed the transit train to our departure hall, but made it by running.

Phew.


A smooth flight, as we slipped from England's grey skies into a night, and then woke up to sunlight so strong that I opened the window by cracks.


I will never get tired of this view.




Arrival.

Customs.


Heart swells.

Home.