tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16666340513336674402024-03-28T10:54:35.033+08:00More Than MiriamMiriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.comBlogger1203125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-68690002412658044092024-03-11T17:28:00.004+08:002024-03-11T17:28:42.418+08:00My thoughts on the pill<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS-gacOc3oX66AEvnXL_7qggMkb_kKRJ228C57UE89cViJHscf8_vKkoZYONe-WG9iiz-MPX7SvkZLyekXNi6gcz4aAo-5ocWaXBBLQMd2Jr2uVEnABItRKZ_V6udorPUMcajA7A6d0u31s-TYey4yIUo83jQO-I63PH2JviOM6eQO-eC66IQgN8NiISRy/s600/tumblr_5fca983ebf1d6514848ef11201a6ee67_e955acf4_640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="377" data-original-width="600" height="402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS-gacOc3oX66AEvnXL_7qggMkb_kKRJ228C57UE89cViJHscf8_vKkoZYONe-WG9iiz-MPX7SvkZLyekXNi6gcz4aAo-5ocWaXBBLQMd2Jr2uVEnABItRKZ_V6udorPUMcajA7A6d0u31s-TYey4yIUo83jQO-I63PH2JviOM6eQO-eC66IQgN8NiISRy/w640-h402/tumblr_5fca983ebf1d6514848ef11201a6ee67_e955acf4_640.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>Diary entry in March 2021:</p><p><i>I went in a run this morning. At about 2km in I am very sweaty, much sweatier than usual and feeling uneasy and anxious. I am beginning to get a dull pain in my abdomen. I stop and sit down for a while, Mum comes to walk me back, I drink water and walk back feeling better.</i></p><p><i>I start work, feeling a bit sore especially in my lower back and abdomen. My abdomen feels like it’s being pressed with a heavy weight and also feeling oddly hungry. I drink lots of water but feel dry mouthed.</i></p><p><i>It gets worse at lunch time. I feel tired, I need to poo, I sweat a lot and it’s cold sweat now. The pain is bad. Lying down helps a little but not much, then not at all. My face feels slack. I’m sweating so much. I’m turning to try to ease the pain. My legs hurt. I want to faint to be out of here. My breathing sounds like this: “Hannah, hnhhh, hnhhhh.” I feel like I’m slipping away, but I also feel so much pain. I try to sleep to escape, eventually I do. </i></p><p><i>I feel better when I wake and the pain has passed but left me weak. I sleep again and wake up feeling weak but no longer crampy. I eat some bread.</i></p><p><i>————————————————————————-</i></p><p>It's been over a year now since I started taking the oral contraceptive pill to manage period pain. I wanted to write about my positive experience with the oral contraceptive pill to add balance to the conversation, because sometimes it is the most extreme and negative responses are the ones that get magnified. These are legitimate experiences: the pill is a hormonal medication that will create change, which could be positive, or it could be negative. But it is worth a try, and if the pill has negative effects it is possible to stop and see an end to the effect of the pill. For anyone thinking about the pill, I recommend watching<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ggxal2zHJ2E"> this video</a>. I’ve learnt that the pill benefits anyone suffering with endometriosis for the following reasons:</p><!--StartFragment--><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p>- It reduces pain.</p><p>- It directly addresses the problem, reducing the growth of endometrial tissue and therefore reducing inflammation and the development of scar tissue because of cycles of growth and shedding.</p><p>- Prolonged use of the pill increases rather than decreases the chance of being pregnant.</p><p>- After stopping the pill you usually get your period back in 32 days.</p><p>- There are multiple sorts of pills, and a doctor can advise on the best one. If one doesn’t work, there might be another option out there that will.</p></blockquote><!--EndFragment--><p>I started experiencing pain connected to my period to the extent that I was unable to function in 2020. It would typically come on the first day of my period, usually without warning. I wrote a list of what the pain was like for a visit to a gynaecologist:</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p>- I sweat a lot</p><p>- Cramping in my abdomen, which comes in waves</p><p>- Pain radiating down my legs</p><p>- My vision goes blurry and I feel like I'm going to faint</p><p>- I feel weak and dizzy</p><p>- Sometimes the sounds around me go muffled, like I'm underwater</p><p>- Sometimes I vomit because of the pain</p><p>- Usually the pain lasts for a couple of hours, and I fall asleep.</p></blockquote><p>I first went to the doctor for my period pain out of necessity rather than choice, after almost passing out on a bus, getting off, and then literally crawling on the floor to the steps of a hotel where staff then called an ambulance. The nearest hospital was SGH, which is where I went and they monitored me until my blood pressure got back to normal levels and the pain stopped. They gave me some strong painkillers (Mefenamic acid) and another pill to line my stomach before I took the strong painkillers, and a follow up appointment.</p><p>The follow up appointment was with a business-like looking woman who told me that this was a normal woman thing. I asked for a blood test to check on my iron levels or nutrition, and she assured me it was not necessary (but I didn't feel very assured - I just felt trapped and frustrated). I left, and tried the painkillers, which didn't work.</p><p>The second visit was with a young man who looked fresh out of med school. I explained the pain I was experiencing. He said it was menstrual pain (I mean, <i>duh</i>) and that I could take the contraceptive pill or get a contraceptive implant. I asked if he could explain what was causing the pain before I considered hormonal medication. He said it was my period (<i>yes</i>, but why is it so painful, when it hadn't been before?) and asked me if I'd heard of prostaglandins (I wanted to ask him if he'd heard of google; of course I'd heard of prostaglandins. I'd been reading everything I could about period pain ever since I'd had the first bad one). I started to cry. He looked stricken, and a nurse passed me a tissue box. I left and cancelled all future appointments.</p><p>At that point I thought I'd just endure things, but it kept getting worse, so I made an appointment with the polyclinic, who referred me for an ultrasound and then a follow up at Ng Teng Fong hospital. I went there at the end of 2022, with Mum coming along for moral support. We saw a male doctor who had a foldable bike under his desk, who gently explained that there was nothing unusual about my ultrasound, which meant I (thankfully) didn't have fibroids. He then suggested that while we can't be sure, the cause of the period pain seemed to be traceable to the first day when the uterine lining sheds. The intensity of the pain suggested that either I was experiencing heavy bleeding or endometriosis. He then drew a squiggly picture of a uterus and explained that endometriosis is a condition where the lining that’s meant to grow in your uterus somehow also grows elsewhere. Doctors and scientists don’t quite know why this happens, but when your period arrives and all these linings shed it can cause a great deal of pain. </p><p>He then suggested taking the pill, which introduces “fake hormones” that mimic estrogen and progesterone into my body. This signals to my body not to produce so much of the real stuff, and as a result I don’t ovulate, my uterine lining grows much less each month, and when I have my period between pill cycles, there is less shedding and less pain.</p><p>It made such a difference to have someone take the time to explain how things worked, and to answer questions I had about the pill which I was anxious to take in case it affected future fertility, or had negative side effects on physical or mental health. I left the appointment sufficiently assured and with a bag of pills to take. </p><p>After I begin taking the pill I saw an immediate positive change in my periods. They were far lighter and les painful. Initially I would still get cramps, but cramps that were manageable with pain medication, and which didn’t stop me from moving or working. It has only improved; these days I can go for a run on my the first day with no consequences or fears. I rarely experience any pain, fever low grade pain. </p><!--StartFragment--><!--EndFragment--><p>An unexpected benefit of taking the pill was also in regulating my moods. I'm not clear as to whether it was due to hormones, or the apprehension of pain, but previously I’d get very anxious near my period, and I’d experience what we’d come to call an ‘emotional breakdown day’ at some point which involved lots of crying. Not to mention the feeling that my body was betraying me, and the self-gaslighting of my own body and experiences, exacerbated by doctor's visits in which I was told this was 'normal', where I doubted that the pain I experienced was legitimate. The physical relief provided by the pill also offered mental and emotional relief. After taking the pill I was calmer around my period.</p><p>When I was doing my own research about the pill I came across so many terrible stories about its side effects and inefficacy. This combined with the tendency for women's health issues to be downplayed societally and even in medical circles means that it can be hard to take the step of taking hormonal medication for period pain out of fear of the effects of the pill, and doubts that one actually 'needs' it. What I experienced was pain that was abnormal, but I made it seem normal, and kept going until I was shown a way out. The thing is, if pain is stopping you from pursuing normal activities you need relief. If pain is causing you mental and emotional distress, you need relief. It was only when I could step out of the cycle of pain that I fully realised how unnecessary it was to experience it every month, how much it impacted my life, and that help was out there, I just needed the courage and assurance to try.</p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-37854510385125697972024-02-15T08:56:00.000+08:002024-02-15T08:56:03.838+08:00Little moments of joy<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuDaE0OEhK_tCx55897BxyTd3LL6WJQbsQl2BobOxdPqGunNnxmC9KB0MlchrlI4POlnEVTPKcIn1HRORnzHQwDb22VBXpYqeUhoiUwrxDKiAy0fPM-NqZbVE0acPWrgHbuq_fUwL0-CJhsKwqRm41pYqWWb7RuNPvqxCaYYeWkU4bp0XmJQVxW5GV1ZAP/s4032/20240213_161838.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuDaE0OEhK_tCx55897BxyTd3LL6WJQbsQl2BobOxdPqGunNnxmC9KB0MlchrlI4POlnEVTPKcIn1HRORnzHQwDb22VBXpYqeUhoiUwrxDKiAy0fPM-NqZbVE0acPWrgHbuq_fUwL0-CJhsKwqRm41pYqWWb7RuNPvqxCaYYeWkU4bp0XmJQVxW5GV1ZAP/w480-h640/20240213_161838.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>- Playing League of lexicon</p><p>- Big shell pasta</p><p>- A good design meeting</p><p>- Running to work</p><p>- Seeing an owl as we walked home from my parents house, perched on a branch and backlit by the lights of a basketball court, before it swooped away silently</p><p>- Pancake day pancakes slathered with tahini and honey, and chocolate hazelnut spread and banana</p><p>- A big bunch of lilies from my love</p><p>- A prune (called, on it's packet, a 'plump') and toasted almonds after a Chinese New Year day three walk</p><p>- Playing "Six second scribbles" and seeing my auntie double up in laughter over a stick man drawing in response to the prompt "nipple".</p><p>- Jungle gold chocolate</p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-65522041267187208672024-01-30T13:29:00.007+08:002024-01-30T13:38:45.251+08:00Looking back on 2023<p style="margin-bottom: 13.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyglfA1AWFSc2jiWHBVEQkAnFzPpJbkhX7o86HZRiBrdF8ktfB_sCWge_h2-ce0meMQqYlJzpJI-Q46dB_7IdAMmbAk_IyK5BvBYTYw7ihWlWBiiHcVRuIuztEbioiNHPLuRg0Exfy2nFAhrS-9nu_0e2ibq2wzXRxNQPXG49cHHLTwAPMGk2cHlGVjBaP/s4032/20230512_192210.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyglfA1AWFSc2jiWHBVEQkAnFzPpJbkhX7o86HZRiBrdF8ktfB_sCWge_h2-ce0meMQqYlJzpJI-Q46dB_7IdAMmbAk_IyK5BvBYTYw7ihWlWBiiHcVRuIuztEbioiNHPLuRg0Exfy2nFAhrS-9nu_0e2ibq2wzXRxNQPXG49cHHLTwAPMGk2cHlGVjBaP/w640-h480/20230512_192210.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><p></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At the start of this year, I drew myself in vibrant colours. In the picture my arms were outstretched and words surrounded me, words like: <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Open" <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Embrace"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Adventure" <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Fun"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Joy"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wanted 2023, after the <a href="https://sleepingpolicemen.blogspot.com/2023/01/looking-back-looking-forward.html" style="color: blue;">wintering year of 2022</a>, to be my spring: a year where my life opened up again to possibility, joy and adventure. It meant less stability and more flux, experimentation and journeying.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmCCoGRlg_NYk07XMDERdKseSuilx-L121amnV6oc8hETJ-S7_b50Ar4hc2GZjxyuY6FdOea1Xc6HecJe95SjCN38ez_-sAlrVBHOdqK30kBq1ZNoUxJY2nmK93AOA7YAJb6r8RjTB2meb5wxLC3SVmssuXt_-K1lVCxAiMKMjj2nTbk6YAyCZXU12tbzo/s1024/IMG-20230301-WA0030.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmCCoGRlg_NYk07XMDERdKseSuilx-L121amnV6oc8hETJ-S7_b50Ar4hc2GZjxyuY6FdOea1Xc6HecJe95SjCN38ez_-sAlrVBHOdqK30kBq1ZNoUxJY2nmK93AOA7YAJb6r8RjTB2meb5wxLC3SVmssuXt_-K1lVCxAiMKMjj2nTbk6YAyCZXU12tbzo/w480-h640/IMG-20230301-WA0030.jpg" width="480" /></a></span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>Adventures took lots of different forms. </span><span>Our family went on our first trip together in February, up to Desaru on the east coast of Malaysia. Desaru has been a holiday place for my family before I was born: we grew up going to the same seaside resort, and saw it change hands three times. The people working in the hotel would recognise us every year and comment on how tall we'd grown, and at the end of the holiday we'd return to Singapore with our skin brown, our hair big with salt and the memory of being rocked by waves still held in our bodies. This visit was the first time we had been back after the pandemic. The sea was bloated and high from the monsoon storms and waves towered over us. There was no choice but to dive into them, or under them, and feel them push and pull you like a muscle. Dad no longer rolled in the breaking waves with us, but he did slowly (stick and all), step into the swimming pool. The cold water stiffened his muscles, but he kept going, walking a lap around the pool before retiring to a deck chair with sunglasses on. An old place, a new form of family; we still had a lot of fun.</span></span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: center;">The most surreal happening was in April, when for one glorious weekend I flew to the UK for Lucy and Dom's wedding. International flight is befuddling at the best of times, but the sheer magic and strangeness of stepping on a metal airborne cylinder in tropical Singapore and twelve hours later stepping off into the cold air of England was especially obvious when it happened for such a compressed amount of time. I remember the days in a series of delightful vignettes: being lifted off the ground by a hug from Naomi, sipping hot tea in the kitchen surrounded by excited, loving people, a grateful nap in Lucy and Dom's new apartment, blowing balloons in a room full of balloons, laughing over photographs of young Lucy and Dom with Rachel. Rolling fiddly curlers in Lucy's hair the morning of the wedding, singing 'The blessing' and meaning every word and wishing with all my heart for happiness forever for these two lovely people, dancing and dancing and dancing... I did worry about such a short trip: it was a big expense and a lot of carbon from the flying. But when I was studying in London, an artist once told me that life is short and whenever you have a choice, choose the option that loves people; in this case the answer was obvious. I was so glad I went.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTDIYHC6ilhiLZ2_OszPfjJuq3-kHD8TZO0HJ2zu9dKhghAgO7LKauZPouJYfsNiqyx4AvieQlsmB2Bpax5P7zFKlwPGXKFL5JckUxnlpcnTalgc6ijJ9FAl6KRwx1hw2tWcSfy9Z9JYuXwOtn1kXWUxsj-h4qfeJSNYpWkE1VgFn5YBc_nC-t09fcd5n0/s4032/20230522_191154.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTDIYHC6ilhiLZ2_OszPfjJuq3-kHD8TZO0HJ2zu9dKhghAgO7LKauZPouJYfsNiqyx4AvieQlsmB2Bpax5P7zFKlwPGXKFL5JckUxnlpcnTalgc6ijJ9FAl6KRwx1hw2tWcSfy9Z9JYuXwOtn1kXWUxsj-h4qfeJSNYpWkE1VgFn5YBc_nC-t09fcd5n0/w640-h480/20230522_191154.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><!--StartFragment--></span><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In May we celebrated two years of marriage and I prepared for the opening of my first <i>big</i> exhibition. Both collided on the 22nd of May (our anniversary date). We met on the top of Mt Faber hill, beloved because it has a beautiful view of the port and the sea, and crucially is usually empty of other people. We each brought surprise bits for a picnic, and Jacob chose things that brought back memories of past dates or moments. I felt truly, blissfully happy. When we got home, I received a call from the museum about something in the exhibition that was changing which I thought should not be changed. It was gut wrenching and after the stressful, intense days of installation prior to it. When I talked about it with my boss subsequently, he reminded me that in this job, one must strike a balance between caring for the work and not caring too much. I’m learning to find that balance at work, but the scales don't add up in marriage. In marriage the best thing is to care, and then to care more and more and more and more (but not care about things like an unmade bed or full rubbish bin). </span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Jacob's parents visited in <a href="http://sleepingpolicemen.blogspot.com/2024/01/bali-june-2023.html">June </a>(his Dad and sister) and September (his Mum). By the second visit both had moved into separate houses, and things were different. I read somewhere that divorce doesn't mean your family is broken, but that your family is reorganised. That was a really helpful perspective shift, and meant that when I asked Jacob who he considers his family it made sense when foremost, he maintained that he still sees his Dad, Mum and sister as one of his families, mine as another and our church small group as another. "What about me?" I asked. "You're part of all of them." At the end of the year we went back there to see them, and celebrated Christmas in two different homes. That wasn't easy: each home had it's own emotional energy and ways of being, but also had it's delights. I loved the red kites above Catherine's home and the long walks which required a certain skill of navigation. We walked them with friends too, which felt important. I loved how close Mark's home is to the river that he loves, and how the kitchen is full of his pottery projects (including some plates he considers 'failed', which Jacob and I now happily use for all our toast adventures). In a way, I am learning that there is more of family to explore and discover in this separation, rather than less.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This year my intention is to seek clarity. I imagine clarity as a clear path found through inner stillness, but with the intention to move forward (or backwards, or sideways, or wherever the path is taking you). I hope it will bring better balance between work and life (last year sort of felt like my teenage years at work, with big feelings and frustrations). I hope it will also bring more trust, as Jacob and I make bigger plans for our future. </span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Smaller adventures from the year (but still big on joy): </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1. After much deliberation, I joined a choir again and sang in a concert in March. There was also one point where I looked out over the audience and saw Dad struggling to contain what would have been an almighty sneeze and had to stifle a giggle. And after the concert we asked a woman to take a photograph of us, and she cheerfully took one that had all of us in it except our heads. </span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">2. After the exhibition had been open for a while, Hannah and I took a weekend trip up to Kluang to hike Gunung Lambak. It was a tricky climb, and I was trying my best to keep up with two guys: one of whom was an ex-marine and the other was a canoeist and marathon runner. I just about managed, puffing and panting all the way!</span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">3. In November we joined Emily and Wesley at the 39th Singapore bird race. There were mistakes made: I didn't bring a pair of binoculars and I was wearing bright pink shorts (no camouflage here). We saw over 30 different kinds of birds, including the otherworldly milk stork, endangered strawheaded bulbul and a lineated barbet, which I consider my personal friend since there's often one outside our window. I am looking forward to the 40th bird race!</span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">4. Towards the end of the year some of our friends from small group started weekly badminton sessions. I am very rusty (although have I ever been sharp? That is the question...) and have a bad tendency to squeal when the shuttlecock approaches me at speed, but it is <i>so much fun</i>. </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjboPgUTJ_HtO0lR0EFsuZlDtwjqjsFV0LShd2gQ3R7FhVR39nwuamgpaWZzDyA5MiK1ITy5nSuksc2i4rZfwCBewcMc7GXdD6SgZ1Ppnid3zy-lrun1_0L1t4ic1ZrzphfFLLQYBfjpENWwY3UZ-OaHbLR0SO0Yrj-PGY4y4UdOm4RkR8TeHGlkzQcqyhL/s4032/20230602_083532.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjboPgUTJ_HtO0lR0EFsuZlDtwjqjsFV0LShd2gQ3R7FhVR39nwuamgpaWZzDyA5MiK1ITy5nSuksc2i4rZfwCBewcMc7GXdD6SgZ1Ppnid3zy-lrun1_0L1t4ic1ZrzphfFLLQYBfjpENWwY3UZ-OaHbLR0SO0Yrj-PGY4y4UdOm4RkR8TeHGlkzQcqyhL/w640-h480/20230602_083532.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXkeMUlLHWUmw5VNYPyGi3eco-YMBwKqocAFv4NE2k89KMvPVStBsGMEImfsX0ow8cwGUtdG8TJWcI7NFx8hyDeKK6NWpC4XaJ7GwcAKJ24Ou0qD4k-b2AN2jk0cIDJMh4zJVRDDko0Fd8wvVe01kYvbpXsdJYLqtbJwCsgUArzMX4CQkVbdFjLraulk5Z/s2048/IMG-20231105-WA0017.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1366" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXkeMUlLHWUmw5VNYPyGi3eco-YMBwKqocAFv4NE2k89KMvPVStBsGMEImfsX0ow8cwGUtdG8TJWcI7NFx8hyDeKK6NWpC4XaJ7GwcAKJ24Ou0qD4k-b2AN2jk0cIDJMh4zJVRDDko0Fd8wvVe01kYvbpXsdJYLqtbJwCsgUArzMX4CQkVbdFjLraulk5Z/w640-h426/IMG-20231105-WA0017.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTFCcaFyafInayO1ShobGwF32ptWJ8fdvAKmity9CpbZmbw4bKv2k8FxaQe1JrfZslWDJwBggGWj7bjAhzhE4S2yHfw4YHTBgZRFJnkaZcmYrG-izKPYTDjzf2VY83KAN8up5yHEJiN-plyj5NF12vWdAHEYqVWCyAufRGPIXSjga3xah2lGVy1pFG3pDA/s2048/IMG-20231105-WA0018.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTFCcaFyafInayO1ShobGwF32ptWJ8fdvAKmity9CpbZmbw4bKv2k8FxaQe1JrfZslWDJwBggGWj7bjAhzhE4S2yHfw4YHTBgZRFJnkaZcmYrG-izKPYTDjzf2VY83KAN8up5yHEJiN-plyj5NF12vWdAHEYqVWCyAufRGPIXSjga3xah2lGVy1pFG3pDA/w640-h480/IMG-20231105-WA0018.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghG9H9pAMoGmLCcmR26yYQW3XDygNqA9NkUGDURqNbEaJIQXR_9OPW-H393gkj3BNAD7Gmf3chyCwSYY1qA8eFtaK2aFqFoiS9QxUrLVn2A50xj6RSO2cSuLI3elneb8zjQxQkFfvTIFezS1KYvVO3m1lZzzadTrKVdqkhCMZ1TAkFJCqCUnE-DKO2zMYj/s1024/IMG-20231112-WA0009.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghG9H9pAMoGmLCcmR26yYQW3XDygNqA9NkUGDURqNbEaJIQXR_9OPW-H393gkj3BNAD7Gmf3chyCwSYY1qA8eFtaK2aFqFoiS9QxUrLVn2A50xj6RSO2cSuLI3elneb8zjQxQkFfvTIFezS1KYvVO3m1lZzzadTrKVdqkhCMZ1TAkFJCqCUnE-DKO2zMYj/w640-h480/IMG-20231112-WA0009.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><p></p><p></p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-36952082363973098542024-01-15T10:19:00.000+08:002024-01-15T10:19:27.981+08:00Bali June 2023<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivD36ddnhKfk9nnxqmmy94-oztg2hbX6OgaMaWNy3a2HhrCaHeo7-lQuu_Vm-M3zXA5cVJ8WLjMXt93U3SMDGrRddElDaU8utvhIKIkc4l_BolAsSJVA6sfD7VhNbDvSwKuZzhqDIA09Pjc4JpCYQAfY4gBzYJPAALDGy4pZ2mJyt8O3TbO2_Pj6c_MNl4/s1024/IMG-20230621-WA0025.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivD36ddnhKfk9nnxqmmy94-oztg2hbX6OgaMaWNy3a2HhrCaHeo7-lQuu_Vm-M3zXA5cVJ8WLjMXt93U3SMDGrRddElDaU8utvhIKIkc4l_BolAsSJVA6sfD7VhNbDvSwKuZzhqDIA09Pjc4JpCYQAfY4gBzYJPAALDGy4pZ2mJyt8O3TbO2_Pj6c_MNl4/w640-h480/IMG-20230621-WA0025.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">After opening my first exhibition in May, Jacob and I took a break in June to fly to Bali with Jacob’s Dad and sister. During the flight I noticed a tiny black speck in the corner of my vision: a floater, like the dot of an ‘i’. It was only visible when I looked at the flat expanse of the great blue sky, and I wondered how long I’d missed it, staring at screens and in dark galleries? I forgot about it soon enough, when the cloud cover below the plane was broken by the tip of a mountain, and as the clouds cleared another appeared, and another.</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We’d gone to Bali primarily for Mark, Izzy and Jacob to achieve their open water scuba diving qualification and for me to use mine in the clear waters off Amed (north-east Bali). The sun set about an hour earlier in Bali, and by the time we got to the dive centre it was dark and we were tired after a day of travel. We walked up the stairs to the communal garden where we were offered cold lime juice and water and we knew we were in good hands. The days that followed started with a cooked breakfast, more juice, beautiful dives in the morning and languid afternoons reading and lying down. I loved the regular rhythm and simplicity of it. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs18ve5hDhEaCY1PTPejXXy5dPbD1T2l6k88SKmulA23f8a3XZp4aqhpJjXM6LC6rO8iqP86SM4HaI3G4SWclJDQ_dUOOKHGXKA8lIYsQrUXQc9YiYhQcC6EY29LsQqO-u4yJ-gdCaxSkHz3mge2ztx-b17seKbdXDHa0zeCyjNfAFYGeMhtXPPuEi05Fk/s1024/IMG-20230621-WA0017.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="710" data-original-width="1024" height="445" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs18ve5hDhEaCY1PTPejXXy5dPbD1T2l6k88SKmulA23f8a3XZp4aqhpJjXM6LC6rO8iqP86SM4HaI3G4SWclJDQ_dUOOKHGXKA8lIYsQrUXQc9YiYhQcC6EY29LsQqO-u4yJ-gdCaxSkHz3mge2ztx-b17seKbdXDHa0zeCyjNfAFYGeMhtXPPuEi05Fk/w640-h445/IMG-20230621-WA0017.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Since I hadn't dived for over six months (when I qualified for open water diving), I took a refresher course with Nyoman where I went through a few basic theory classes with Jacob, Izzy and Mark and then some skills in the calm and shallow waters off Jemeluk beach. Unlike my diving course in Tioman, which frontloaded the theory and then had a few intense days of actual diving, the course Jacob, Izzy and Mark did with Adventure Divers interspersed theory and diving. On that first day we took a slow, wobbly dive around Jemeluk bay and saw lion fish, stone fish, goat fish, shoals of bright blue damselfish, angelfish, and in the far distance a small turtle, like a ghost. </span></div></span></div><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" dir="rtl" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFIlVUvjZipoWB1iNO89uJb11INQG5wb_NPy78t43npnc8hTPVdNZNSyuNC8DL14468kPDGvNufIipyq9VXgn6QfTGNPkH4Qdrz0PIKKcJtNBdPxclR5SzJ_03rN7gBsf1RFKAjw8k5uS3ZlJHIxZVctIqRYf18fmDXrYx03rVCwsRfGVe-Q0Dr3EUZUPo/s1600/IMG-20230617-WA0001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1600" height="560" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFIlVUvjZipoWB1iNO89uJb11INQG5wb_NPy78t43npnc8hTPVdNZNSyuNC8DL14468kPDGvNufIipyq9VXgn6QfTGNPkH4Qdrz0PIKKcJtNBdPxclR5SzJ_03rN7gBsf1RFKAjw8k5uS3ZlJHIxZVctIqRYf18fmDXrYx03rVCwsRfGVe-Q0Dr3EUZUPo/w640-h560/IMG-20230617-WA0001.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>When you're underwater everything is silent, and you don't have the normal soundtrack of life shadowing each experience. No music through headphones creating an emotional tint, no traffic or city bustle drowning out your thoughts, just the white-noise roar of the sea drawing breath. That is what I love - so much peace.</span><p></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">On our second day I dived with Coco, a marine biologist from Sicily who was doing a course on coral conservation. This was my first boat dive, and we set off in a jukung (a thin, indonesian fishing boat) across calm waters under blue skies. Before we dived you could see the bright colour of coral through the surface of the water - it was so clear! </p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">We dived around Jemuluk West, passing coral that looked like large goblets or meadows or small antlers which fish darted in and out of. Diving is slow business; you fin along to keep yourself buoyant, not to move faster. To move fast would be to miss the world around you, and sometimes I would try to stop at one place, so I could observe a dancing family of clownfish or the lattice of a sea fan. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5jktbaZuCWh_FfE5WTZ4iMZfRXKJrVDSZTGhVfDy3_KgOSHyumKZszYGGSwUuGcD48KrLZRFfUETBJCVCZl7jAS5AcaBtPF8jCsEWd_uIjtaC0StaSzq7cCetxgJWeT-7x5tbOkMA7wdgN-trtZviksudGPldbZTlB5y3RFgVuKN3ny0iXOe6xZ41SK-8/s1600/IMG-20230617-WA0006.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1600" height="560" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5jktbaZuCWh_FfE5WTZ4iMZfRXKJrVDSZTGhVfDy3_KgOSHyumKZszYGGSwUuGcD48KrLZRFfUETBJCVCZl7jAS5AcaBtPF8jCsEWd_uIjtaC0StaSzq7cCetxgJWeT-7x5tbOkMA7wdgN-trtZviksudGPldbZTlB5y3RFgVuKN3ny0iXOe6xZ41SK-8/w640-h560/IMG-20230617-WA0006.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">My heart's wish had been to see a turtle, and I was happy on the first day to see the silvery image of one in the distance, but I was not prepared for the abundance of turtles on this diving day. We saw turtle after (hawksbill) turtle, close enough to see the algae growing on their shells and the wrinkles around their dark eyes. </p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">A very different sort of encounter occurred later on in the first dive. During the dive we finned near an unusual looking starfish. Coco pointed it out, and we stopped and stared as was the etiquette for when we saw something unusual or beautiful. This starfish was the orange of a highlighter, and had vicious looking spikes sticking out all over its body. After looking at it for a short while, our dive instructor took out the metal stick he used to point at objects and drove it through the fleshy middle of the starfish! I was shocked - Coco later said she saw my eyes go wide - and for the rest of the dive the starfish hung, impaled on the metal stick which the dive instructor held gingerly away from him. </p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">When we surfaced, Coco and the dive instructor explained that the starfish was a <a href="https://www.nationalgeographic.com/environment/article/crown-of-thorns-sea-stars-coral-reefs" target="_blank">Crown of Thorns sea star</a> - a carnivorous predator that feeds on coral. They aren't bad in and of themselves, but because many of their predators (larger carnivorous fish) had been overfished by humans, there are too many of them and they feed on coral. The dive instructor had impaled it - which wouldn't kill it, as these starfish are remarkably hardy and can regenerate when injured - to prevent it from further feeding on the coral. He also took pains to avoid touching it because they are highly venomous; they told me the story of someone who'd buried a crown of thorns star beneath a tree, and came back to discover that the tree had died! We left it in a sunny spot to dry out and die. </p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">On our last day we dived the Tulamben wreck. There were more divers here and visibility wasn't as good but it was an exciting day because it was the day Jacob, Izzy and Mark would complete the last of the three open water dives necessary to get their license! Swimming through the wreck was slightly discombobulating; things appear closer and larger in the water and so it would seem like the gaps in the ships hull that Nyoman swam through were impossibly small until we followed suit and wove through the wreck with no problem. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBico-VWvqmbW3Z59V0MPjn1tIAbOWoT5Jbzy_Nc8ur4b73d_GaZ14z6iVh-Y-fCNx4YL92ZRY47Sl4A_39LF3A-8RV-2cU83Rru6WL7_Wu7rkZLxVNTLmXbnSfmpdeV1lvNZuKToG3UcvI7UnUl29qsnEKoKpSV8V6RmpehaA9DevkHs20Wf1RpFQIUJ/s4608/20230619_081540.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBico-VWvqmbW3Z59V0MPjn1tIAbOWoT5Jbzy_Nc8ur4b73d_GaZ14z6iVh-Y-fCNx4YL92ZRY47Sl4A_39LF3A-8RV-2cU83Rru6WL7_Wu7rkZLxVNTLmXbnSfmpdeV1lvNZuKToG3UcvI7UnUl29qsnEKoKpSV8V6RmpehaA9DevkHs20Wf1RpFQIUJ/w640-h480/20230619_081540.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>The next leg of our journey was to Ubud, the apparent 'cultural centre' of Bali. In all honesty, I did not love Ubud and don't wish to return. It was crowded with tourists, so much so that when you walked the streets the few local faces you saw were shop owners, touts, or drivers, and this made me feel like I was part of a problematic part of tourism where a place becomes a contained for tourists and a home for its own people. What I did enjoy were the little things, like seeing the offerings placed on the ground each morning, filled with flowers, incense, and sometimes little biscuits or cigarettes. I think I was also feeling the after effects of the intensity of the past few months, and I felt teary and fragile on that day in Ubud.<div><div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirKYhsydWL_5bS6sfKePEOVisG6md2s8VsNJ06jNsGg0Zp8_1u7GiWYEuGHO0DwKUVKREd6iRXwb8TY-3-nVNuJgl41osWq_YpxM2QWnPVEM-g813D0BqIptn9DHXoINFwngscBe5BYuDxZcVKprxQDPOT2c-OPDtllzpjUTVzeZIzFXWn0gYYKVO74SYW/s4032/20230619_082030.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirKYhsydWL_5bS6sfKePEOVisG6md2s8VsNJ06jNsGg0Zp8_1u7GiWYEuGHO0DwKUVKREd6iRXwb8TY-3-nVNuJgl41osWq_YpxM2QWnPVEM-g813D0BqIptn9DHXoINFwngscBe5BYuDxZcVKprxQDPOT2c-OPDtllzpjUTVzeZIzFXWn0gYYKVO74SYW/w240-h320/20230619_082030.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjky34dkpXuJcne50ZJsoJvO-V6oO_BQUFWN6ViIps8ghBSr0LIxGpiGLyTzEcMB0dj773e7ygrzipmAv1EqyLJKAthoj2w3bkLBkwC1FUZrO8zsmCMhn_AogUQttPAv6XLjTQGLtNvvfF-_asiwor8oIKBl5cD01RpR1apctIFIKBG1ddETm2-fTpO9BKc/s4032/20230620_085838.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjky34dkpXuJcne50ZJsoJvO-V6oO_BQUFWN6ViIps8ghBSr0LIxGpiGLyTzEcMB0dj773e7ygrzipmAv1EqyLJKAthoj2w3bkLBkwC1FUZrO8zsmCMhn_AogUQttPAv6XLjTQGLtNvvfF-_asiwor8oIKBl5cD01RpR1apctIFIKBG1ddETm2-fTpO9BKc/w240-h320/20230620_085838.jpg" width="240" /></a></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div></div></blockquote><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So it was a relief to escape to Munduk the following day. Munduk is in the North of Bali, and we were hiking a mountain there. We met our guide, Nalom, who used to be a journalist and was inspired to set up his own travel company to provide a more authentic experience of Bali. He partnered with Komang, a village chief in Munduk, whose home we stopped by for breakfast (also where we met the sweetest little kittens.)</div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div></div></blockquote></blockquote><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We were hiking Mt Lesung, which requires a local guide and so halfway through our drive there we stopped to pick up Putu, a pint-sized woman who we later found out was agile as a cat and could out pace us all on the steep and slippery slopes of the mountain. She pointed out coffee plants, avocado trees and all manner of plants as we walked. At one point, where I was clinging on to my hiking stick for dear life as we trod on loose soil and slippery leaves, Putu calmly stripped a single palm leaf off a tree, and after about five minutes of folding and weaving, had turned it into a hat! What a legend.</div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZKdWQxuO-JjlhVAz8N6Tb2cd_Xvtb0Vle6rz-UP6l4oWSBS8izUptZiBwb6iyXUFc-76EKiC4BK5mwn9st14VBsnTlOGvbC5QyLXb0MObsMb3MdVxM6pEjL7V_MAnYUzvnskKseECQaJcBI3pzugfgpUlcDTaHHGwLROKBljvEFS9Br2884W8OP78Y1x5/s4032/20230620_134922.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZKdWQxuO-JjlhVAz8N6Tb2cd_Xvtb0Vle6rz-UP6l4oWSBS8izUptZiBwb6iyXUFc-76EKiC4BK5mwn9st14VBsnTlOGvbC5QyLXb0MObsMb3MdVxM6pEjL7V_MAnYUzvnskKseECQaJcBI3pzugfgpUlcDTaHHGwLROKBljvEFS9Br2884W8OP78Y1x5/w640-h480/20230620_134922.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZtVNEjwn91z8RtdnrraDSThK-NOuk_ar3jET7Iq3uu1yta1oCbmVlaG-LSP5owwpLt2jRCp3vZM5s4to8EHbkEXulXtzs9POIB6Qsgu4iFUcYbNkCcWuk8WcLYNK9uY-L73E_Vzn9lk1zmefIRufqkK4RaQ1mt9lXmQanRGkpYZNG72krcrEkFx-Ofd7Q/s4032/20230620_145553.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZtVNEjwn91z8RtdnrraDSThK-NOuk_ar3jET7Iq3uu1yta1oCbmVlaG-LSP5owwpLt2jRCp3vZM5s4to8EHbkEXulXtzs9POIB6Qsgu4iFUcYbNkCcWuk8WcLYNK9uY-L73E_Vzn9lk1zmefIRufqkK4RaQ1mt9lXmQanRGkpYZNG72krcrEkFx-Ofd7Q/w640-h480/20230620_145553.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></div>After descending the mountain we kayaked across Tambligan lake while the clouds threatened to pour above us, and had lunch under the shelter of a seven hundred year old tree. Before we kayaked, Putu explained the Balinese naming system to me. In Balinese families the first born child is usually called Putu, or Wayan, the second born child Made or Kadek, the third child is named Nyoman or Komang, and the final child is usually named Ketut. If more than four children are born in a family then the names just repeat in the cycle! This way, you'd know the birth order of a person just from their name. So our diving instructor was the third born child of a family, and Putu was the oldest child among her siblings.</div><div><br /></div><div>The final stop before our long ride back to Ubud was by the entrance to a waterfall. We walked many steps down and got changed into our swimsuits and approached the water. "Is it cold?" I'd asked Nalom. "It's...fresh." he replied. I dipped my toes in and it was <i>cold, </i>but there was nothing for it but to wade in. Jacob took a few steps and dove in, whole body, emerging with the biggest grin on his face and his arms out wide. I took swam, frog style, for a little while, gasping with the cold. We took turns standing under the thundering weight of the waterfall, letting it pummel our shoulders and backs. Then we walked out, humbled and feeling, like Nalom said, fresh. </div><div><table style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; border-collapse: collapse; border-spacing: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: rgba(31, 31, 31, 0.74); font-family: "GT Pressura", sans-serif; font-size: 0.9em; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: justify; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; width: 755.406px; word-spacing: 0px;"></table></div>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-13531172327368869522023-11-18T12:56:00.002+08:002023-11-18T12:57:46.579+08:00Rituals<p>(<i>written during Lent 2023</i>)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7DMXkgb0gzUxYYisnzl-u0rTc_nvE44Gb0oWiz6fPMebCzJfvZnPZKHjXv-9iyYnAxnx9XGJXq2Q86bfXD0brCtJe8ENPtyxmqcXnrMYVXwdsg94HBvz0xuvin0FQ91s_O8VI3-PXNY1mLsKuD5T92I60yPQLMLJH8YTzYs5D-3ff5ga73acNR2VZt7H2/s4032/20230317_224110.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7DMXkgb0gzUxYYisnzl-u0rTc_nvE44Gb0oWiz6fPMebCzJfvZnPZKHjXv-9iyYnAxnx9XGJXq2Q86bfXD0brCtJe8ENPtyxmqcXnrMYVXwdsg94HBvz0xuvin0FQ91s_O8VI3-PXNY1mLsKuD5T92I60yPQLMLJH8YTzYs5D-3ff5ga73acNR2VZt7H2/w480-h640/20230317_224110.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>1 We wake up </p><p>and hold each other;</p><p>it is the beginning of another day.</p><p><br /></p><p>2 You go to the toilet,</p><p>I go to the toilet,</p><p>then we sit in the lighted room and pray. </p><p><br /></p><p>3 Like tides we drift</p><p>in and out of rooms</p><p>unearthing keys, clothes, and books.</p><p><br /></p><p>4 Under the same sun</p><p>we cycle from home, </p><p>along the old railroad, along the river,</p><p><br /></p><p>5 until like homing birds</p><p>we feel the pull </p><p>to return to the blessing of each other. </p><p><br /></p><p>6 When darkness comes, </p><p>you place your arm over my side</p><p>and in our darkened room we pray.</p><p><br /></p><p>7 Then we rest.</p><p>We hold each other</p><p>it is the end of another day</p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-39311506655461096062023-11-18T12:49:00.003+08:002023-11-18T12:49:17.822+08:00The Prayers of our Father<p>Earlier this year Jacob and I tried to write a poem a week (or was it a day?) for Lent. I found myself returning, over and over again, to my father's stroke. One that I wrote (which I haven't included here) was based on the one of his early prayers, when he was struggling to find words but which resulted in prayers that were, often, just right.</p><p>Here are a smattering, of what I think will be a larger project of processing the strange grief of someone who Is there-but-not-there, himself-but-not-himself:</p><p><br /></p><p><b>If a Tree Falls in the Forest, and There's No One Around to Hear It, Does It Make a Sound? </b></p><p><br /></p><p>That night you didn't snore so loudly</p><p>and later they found a blister pack for panadol </p><p>in the rubbish bin</p><p>that masked the throbbing in your head.</p><p><br /></p><p>In another room your wife was sleeping.</p><p>Your son was out.</p><p>I was on the other side </p><p>of the world, frying courgettes for a dinner party.</p><p><!--StartFragment--></p><p><br /><!--EndFragment--></p><p>How can it be</p><p>that a blood vessel bursting</p><p>does not make a sound?</p><p><br /></p><p>I play it over and over again in my head</p><p>the moment you fell</p><p>in a noiseless world.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>Grace before a meal</b></p><p><br /></p><p>Father, thank you for this provision</p><p>and may you always be</p><p>a source of investment for good food</p><p>Amen</p><p><br /></p><p><b>The butterfly</b></p><p><br /></p><p>It was purple</p><p>the butterfly on a green leaf</p><p>The woman on my left took out her phone </p><p>and flicked her finger across the screen</p><p>conjuring a camera</p><p><br /></p><p>and all the time I was afraid</p><p>to enjoy the miracle before me</p><p>because I knew that when you don't expect it</p><p>a butterfly can fly away.</p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-69610986644900749192023-11-18T12:31:00.002+08:002023-11-18T12:31:32.981+08:00Little moments of joy in July<p>Sniffing perfumes in the National Gallery shop, and being surprised and tickled that my favourite scent is Pepper and Tobacco (followed by Earl Grey).</p><p>A bright yellow envelope, like the sun in my postbox.</p><p>An evening trip just to get ice cream - but <i>what </i>ice cream! Blue pea flower studded with matcha sponge, and black forest with decadent brownie pieces swirled in. </p><p>After giving a presentation at 1am (time differences), I climbed into bed and Jacob - fast asleep - put his arm out and wrapped it around me. </p><p>Hearing a friend say "we're <i>officially</i> close friends!"</p><p>Long slow evening runs on Sundays.</p><p>Reading.</p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-41612995407606435532023-11-18T12:25:00.001+08:002023-11-18T12:25:19.315+08:00Running home<div>(<i>written a while ago</i>)</div><div><br /></div><div>I was cycling home on Tuesday when the idea to run home from work came into my mind. I often cycle to and from work and by the time I get home, I feel far too tired to go for a run on top of that, or if I do it's usually not a very long one. But I love running; it is a barometer of where my heart is, a reminder of the physical nature of my body and the natural fact of limitations, and almost always reacquaintance with joy.</div><div><br /></div><div>So yesterday I closed my laptop early, changed into my running clothes, and began. I felt invincible and agile, able to hop over curbs and rough paving stones or dodge people walking in the middle of the path easily. </div><div><br /></div><div>Once I got to about half-way through I was tomato-faced and tired. I stopped and walked, looked at my phone and realised I'd gone much faster than I thought I would, probably because I was comparing myself to the pace I am familiar with: bicycle pace. I was used to the world passing by me much faster and when running I felt awfully <i>slow, </i>so I pushed myself harder as a result. </div><div><br /></div><div>I tried to ease off a little to take things at a more sensible pace, but my internal drive for glory kept pushing me faster. I got home 10 minutes quicker than my goal time, partly because of this competitive streak, partly because of Cece Winans singing, and partly because the route was slightly shorter than I'd initially thought. </div><div><br /></div><div>Would I do this again? Yes, more slowly. Running often reflects my internal state, and the relentless speed I kept driving myself to reflects an attitude I've been taking at work. Today I won't be running home from work; I'll practice slowing down until I can trust that my next run will be more measured. </div>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-90101355318402756522023-11-18T12:22:00.000+08:002023-11-18T12:22:06.209+08:00Is the world still beautiful?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgknbOZyejs0UbF8YC6MZbRZe3erxbKi1YWmmELNLzOp6myPsEparzGvbDiwrmIR57m26Q-IUwF8yQNv9umuIawU6IfQUvEzbg6yuE6K7Svo19Pufw4c4oJbjMDXygwDABOiclexZNGwFU3PcryZrGyWCsAImOdnn7ziuukuue8ownQvMu2LiLFbgCMSSk/s4032/20231001_164420.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgknbOZyejs0UbF8YC6MZbRZe3erxbKi1YWmmELNLzOp6myPsEparzGvbDiwrmIR57m26Q-IUwF8yQNv9umuIawU6IfQUvEzbg6yuE6K7Svo19Pufw4c4oJbjMDXygwDABOiclexZNGwFU3PcryZrGyWCsAImOdnn7ziuukuue8ownQvMu2LiLFbgCMSSk/w640-h480/20231001_164420.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>First - an explanation. The whole of this year, I have felt like a bad writer. I half write things and then stop because they sounds trite, moralising or just not-very-interesting. I have also noticed myself apologising for what I say, often. </p><p>When I was in university, writing here was easy but writing in my diary was hard. Somehow the digital world seemed like a place of experimentation and the occasional update with no bonds of chronology or form. Whereas I felt guilty for leaving spaces in my diary - I would leave pages blank for the days I missed with the full intention to go back and fill them in but I never did because my memory would fade beyond the precision and exactitude I held myself to, in order to detail a day.</p><p>"I don't want to be someone who is particular about things," I told Jacob last night, which I what I told myself back in those days and wrote on a page in my diary, in a big black pen that spilled through the pages, "I will write anything in here and it doesn't have to be perfect".</p><p>So here comes a series of imperfect, half written blog posts in no particular order, but I feel that only in getting things out can things start afresh.</p><p>(<i>written a while ago</i>)</p><p>Yesterday the trees were shedding pollen. It fell like tropical snow, creating a light layer of specks on our window sill. I was lying on my back on the sofa, feeling the hard edge of the arm rest under my head. So many times I have thought that this is one of the world's least comfortable sofas, with pillows that slouch toward the center and hard, angular, wooden arm rests, but on that Sunday it was the perfect place to watch the golden pollen against the leaves. It was so beautiful; this world is so beautiful.</p><!--StartFragment--><!--EndFragment--><p>When I was younger, I went to a Bible study on a Wednesday night. We sat round in a living room and talked about the book of Ruth, and how it starts with a famine and ends with a harvest. One evening we were asked to share of one word to describe the world. After spending some time in thought we went around the room.</p><p>"Broken."</p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> "Chaotic."</span><br /></p><p><span> </span><span> "Sinful."</span><br /></p><p>When it came to me I said the only word that had thrummed away in my head like a heartbeat: <br /></p><p>"Beautiful."</p><p>I believe it still, but last week I felt at moments a sense of dread at the way the world is, the way that animals and ecosystems and rivers have been destroyed to make room for a manmade picture of progress. I'd be walking around and suddenly think something like: "I don't think I'll ever have grandchildren" and a big wave of sadness would settle. </p><p>On Sunday we went to church, and sang these words: "Your plans are still to prosper, you have not forgotten us. You're with us in the fire and the flood. You're faithful forever, perfect in love. You are sovereign over us." That was comforting. </p><p>I painted the view outside my window the week before when Jacob was away. It began as a silly thing - on children's drawing block paper and using paints I'd found discarded at a dustbin - just a way to be creative with no accountability at the end of it. I made leaves purple and blue underneath their green, and tried small dotting strokes and long swishy ones. Then I got invested, and stayed up painting till 10pm to recreate the beauty I have all around me every day. </p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-64279168410495975942023-05-17T10:37:00.004+08:002023-05-17T18:59:29.715+08:00Finding joy in flour<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4y0OMc_QO0v6FZF1refiBDw4UD6L8wOduXNpSlo6j0p67od09l5Nn9L0OIBaF_WYo65fsCkhGnake6Q_Kv48-TDk8yISUU-bBMVOOa3gXYJ99FKdCr7J4t0OPCvnJfCgGx_2gZ9AwvuqgXWG05x7zk_81kTnri4VxCpscPxzF4whg39HUUwxslNObw/s1200/download%20(1).jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="797" data-original-width="1200" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4y0OMc_QO0v6FZF1refiBDw4UD6L8wOduXNpSlo6j0p67od09l5Nn9L0OIBaF_WYo65fsCkhGnake6Q_Kv48-TDk8yISUU-bBMVOOa3gXYJ99FKdCr7J4t0OPCvnJfCgGx_2gZ9AwvuqgXWG05x7zk_81kTnri4VxCpscPxzF4whg39HUUwxslNObw/w640-h425/download%20(1).jpeg" width="640" /></span></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At Lucy’s wedding in April, amidst the joy of seeing friends, dancing and celebrating a beloved marriage, someone asked me what has been bringing me joy these days. It was over a month till the exhibition then but it has been a stressful time. I was feeling so tense at work that sometimes I found it hard to eat at lunch time. I’d sit down and look at my lunch and feel sick and miserable.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So it surprised me that the first thing that came to mind was baking and cooking. Last year I felt tired and sad so often that cooking became a functional chore. Making anything that took more than an hour and multiple pans felt impossible and I stuck to dishes I knew were simple even if they weren’t the most exciting. I only baked when it was a birthday or special occasion. I also stopped tasting my food before serving it; the miniscule adjustments of salt and spice and heat just did not seem worth it. In the grand scheme of household chores I much preferred cleaning: the ruthlessness of it, and how satisfying that I could so easily make something disappear with one swipe of my hoover. Cleaning was predictable and straightforward, while most cooking seemed to require a creative organ that seemed, in me, to have failed temporarily. So Jacob took on a lion’s share of the cooking, I did most of the cleaning, and life went on.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But at the end of the year at Christmas, the first Christmas with Dad post-stroke, I gave him a card that promised lemon cake on demand and I meant it. I baked <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://thecakemum.com/2018/08/31/lemon-drizzle-loaf-cake/&source=gmail&ust=1684375922104000&usg=AOvVaw0P5rPNS_EmwegTVpL1gbxY" href="https://thecakemum.com/2018/08/31/lemon-drizzle-loaf-cake/" rel="noreferrer" style="color: #4285f4; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">a lemon cake</a> for his birthday soon after, and then experimented with a different lemon cake recipe for Easter, and made <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://domesticgothess.com/blog/2020/01/15/vegan-scones/&source=gmail&ust=1684375922104000&usg=AOvVaw2TJXY298RcZbGkbupektMe" href="https://domesticgothess.com/blog/2020/01/15/vegan-scones/" rel="noreferrer" style="color: #4285f4; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">scones</a> too for good measure. For Jacob’s birthday I made a <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.lazycatkitchen.com/vegan-coffee-walnut-cake/&source=gmail&ust=1684375922104000&usg=AOvVaw0iza0Q8ezONFUDb2pbg_lP" href="https://www.lazycatkitchen.com/vegan-coffee-walnut-cake/" rel="noreferrer" style="color: #4285f4; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">coffee and walnut cake</a> which we ate while playing a murder mystery game and cry-laughing at how intensely everyone got into their characters. Then we went to Desaru and I packed along a chocolate brownie which he declared the best vegan brownie he’d eaten. These were all recipes I’d made before in some form or other, like faithful friends who I hadn’t spoken to for a while but who reappeared without resentment as part of my life.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Perhaps a catalyst to all this was that at some point at the end of last year, Jacob and I watched <i>Julie and Julia</i>, a film that I’ve watched possibly four times now. At one point in the film Julie writes: “A horrible day at work. An old grandma who looked as if she wouldn't harm a fly called me a pencil-pushing capitalist dupe. But then I came home and cooked chicken with cream, mushrooms and port, and it was total bliss.” The tiredness and sadness I felt last year was my critical-grandma, along with other factors like work stress and the usual critic in my head that picks on everything from being bloaty to saying hello in too-high a voice. Baking felt miserable because of that but this year, while the sadness ebbs and flows, and the critic in my head pipes up now and then, I’ve been able to return to some of that bliss. So much of the baking this year has involved laughter and celebration which is an universal antidote to many things.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My latest triumphs have been from experimenting further with new techniques or recipes. I stirred up a tangzong (a flour and milk mixture that makes any dough far more soft and pillowy) right after breakfast and used it to make <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.kingarthurbaking.com/recipes/super-soft-vegan-cinnamon-rolls-recipe&source=gmail&ust=1684375922104000&usg=AOvVaw1eBa6_4kngS00saVsD-By9" href="https://www.kingarthurbaking.com/recipes/super-soft-vegan-cinnamon-rolls-recipe" rel="noreferrer" style="color: #4285f4; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">cinnamon rolls</a>. They were heavenly and are <i>the</i> thing I’ll make again after my exhibition opens and I have a bit more time. Family gave them a 11/10, except for Dad, who doesn’t like cinnamon. He gave them a 5/10 but still scoffed the entire thing. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><u></u></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Last week I conjured up orange biscuits were stuffed with chocolate, altering a basic shortbread recipe to make it vegan and chocolate-containing. I remember eating these first time I ever visited Jacob’s home. His mum baked them, and they were still warm when she put them on the table. In the same afternoon I was introduced to the fact that Jacob’s family drinks tea out of the biggest mugs I’d ever seen.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On Monday, I made a <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.how-tasty.com/eggless-japanese-strawberry-shortcake/&source=gmail&ust=1684375922104000&usg=AOvVaw3NjJsPBFdHDkZc9dnxeV6-" href="https://www.how-tasty.com/eggless-japanese-strawberry-shortcake/" rel="noreferrer" style="color: #4285f4; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">light, fluffy Japanese strawberry shortcake</a> for Hannah’s birthday. Most vegan cakes I make have a satisfying heft to them, which works for a chocolate cake but is really not the right texture for a Japanese cake. This recipe created a really light sponge, but to make it even better I substituted half of the oil for vegan butter (for flavour) and also used the <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.kingarthurbaking.com/blog/2022/03/09/what-is-reverse-creaming-and-why-does-it-make-great-cake&source=gmail&ust=1684375922104000&usg=AOvVaw1awI_LeH1DZ7XNv1Xo3dWQ" href="https://www.kingarthurbaking.com/blog/2022/03/09/what-is-reverse-creaming-and-why-does-it-make-great-cake" rel="noreferrer" style="color: #4285f4; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">reverse creaming technique</a>. The science-y explanation for that is that fat coats flour first to prevent gluten development, but my motivation was emotional: I wanted to replicate the delicate sponge of the strawberry shortcake from Four Seasons bakery that Dad would ask for every birthday.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There was a lot of whipped cream left over from that cake, and Jacob finishes his reports this week...it might be time for another celebration!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJoTvlVkJBtTx02vOfh9ZfGTUOTdT2CTgk6EFngdaR298kzQb1R3WiYy9P2NY_1C4CZU_f4lBhI2tEKCoxKCEQPAzQ7lqm-l9ujy6Wlx6-S_z_1MAHdijfbNfODvF1mWf-fMeAMWkCnqLIH_TO9xPp9vPuuTwTXfm09zRnmZv-KP5XyeWhVSASzjdjRg/s4032/20230501_141837.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJoTvlVkJBtTx02vOfh9ZfGTUOTdT2CTgk6EFngdaR298kzQb1R3WiYy9P2NY_1C4CZU_f4lBhI2tEKCoxKCEQPAzQ7lqm-l9ujy6Wlx6-S_z_1MAHdijfbNfODvF1mWf-fMeAMWkCnqLIH_TO9xPp9vPuuTwTXfm09zRnmZv-KP5XyeWhVSASzjdjRg/w150-h200/20230501_141837.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_tCJZ9qYnBRC3UdAqtBQJAmqJw9PdvQeoYWPOzLKU0N4Z28BYYwP1qXXJise9cNJ87JwYP4pBCW1UGNOoBTT04LP1CNJkrZDXPdoOb6mIBnVRZe5UQEUDyNRJpwVi0S3JdhFwrKhKpSKYQDWhB4lTX0IuhZc2wWSdNVkkYPEV9e4i7VMQtpHOrRXrsw/s4032/20230516_210213.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_tCJZ9qYnBRC3UdAqtBQJAmqJw9PdvQeoYWPOzLKU0N4Z28BYYwP1qXXJise9cNJ87JwYP4pBCW1UGNOoBTT04LP1CNJkrZDXPdoOb6mIBnVRZe5UQEUDyNRJpwVi0S3JdhFwrKhKpSKYQDWhB4lTX0IuhZc2wWSdNVkkYPEV9e4i7VMQtpHOrRXrsw/w200-h150/20230516_210213.jpg" width="200" /></a></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-6396415737132937062023-04-13T09:34:00.001+08:002023-04-13T09:34:34.929+08:00On cycling to work<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvNhIGdd4Wnh-YB26mIvvh5-MRXflKNHgiAFne0fkBsH8tmJc7BUIC9XD4fR3VVBviOXNhgAAv1tot-UFWMviikCnaSfkEyhYAADPdU9SE5V5alnIIZLgTaaxBo9wDo46HbxQWrBP5MPstFcKY4-tmFRQWLdqBRKjTtOYCbyWRk7bPArJmMshiyA0gsg/s1024/IMG-20230318-WA0009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvNhIGdd4Wnh-YB26mIvvh5-MRXflKNHgiAFne0fkBsH8tmJc7BUIC9XD4fR3VVBviOXNhgAAv1tot-UFWMviikCnaSfkEyhYAADPdU9SE5V5alnIIZLgTaaxBo9wDo46HbxQWrBP5MPstFcKY4-tmFRQWLdqBRKjTtOYCbyWRk7bPArJmMshiyA0gsg/w480-h640/IMG-20230318-WA0009.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Before the pandemic I would take the train, or the bus, to work. Some time in 2020, after our lovely neighbour gave me his 20 year old bike, I began to cycle to work. Initially I'd been hesitant. It seemed awfully troublesome and I wasn't sure of the route. Our neighbour described a simple path along the park connector, but I couldn't quite figure it out until Jacob rode it with me one (non-work) day and after that I had no excuses. I became a cyclist-commuter. </p><p>Cycling to work has its downsides. I've fallen off my bike twice, once after I crashed into another cyclist speeding round a corner on the wrong side of the path, and another when I swerved to avoid a woman who jumped into my path away from a monitor lizard. That second one gave me a bruise the size of a large orange on my thigh. I took a photo of it and sent it to a friend, proclaiming that it looked like a galaxy. I also get to work sweaty, and skulk through the (usually quite empty) office in my shorts and sports bra to the shower. Every time I walk back in my work clothes, clean and smelling like jasmine soap, I feel like saying "Look! What a transformation!"</p><p>But oh, the gladness that it brings. I've come to recognise some of the characters along my cycle, like the woman who kick boxes on Tuesdays and the older woman who does some sort of meditative martial art/qigong with a <i>sword. </i>Lately a whole group of women have been meeting early in the morning to do tai chi, and as I go past them I hear a tinny voice coming from a speaker, saying, "hu.....xi.....hu....xi...." and I try to breathe along with the rhythm. Close by stands an older man with a forlorn look on his face, and I'm never quite sure if he wants to join the women and is trying to muster up the courage, or if he's someone's husband or friend and is just waiting for the whole thing to be over.</p><p>The cycle is usually intensely satisfying. It shortens my commute significantly so that within 35 minutes, or less if there aren't many people, I'm locking my bike up and walking into the building. If it has been a long day at work, the effort of peddling home flushes out the tension is a good reminder that I have a body that can move me places, including away from there. </p><p>Sometimes I see things that fill my heart. This week I saw a boy, walking along with his mother, holding a leaf up to his eye. He seemed to be peering through the leaf like a monocle or a magnifying glass, looking out into the world. Occasionally otters make an appearance at points along the river. The sky regularly shows off just how masterfully it can blend its colours.</p><p>So I am grateful for the cycling, for the newness and familiarity brings, for exerting my body and soothing my soul.</p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-14488004914926217052023-02-20T09:34:00.002+08:002023-02-20T09:34:44.721+08:00Valentine's day, or thoughts about love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1FhMNtF15Q6MolaavKzh_WgNCqeuhQpkQzesVeUAiYtkKBxpStLu6Iv6NvR7anc4dqA6ASuhhIPhVHM08uL-YU9fGx2AxNeH9Mq0Hl4OR1BnDBK6fS3l3oKfAJqlu4Lsyx-Rxnv9mcDSUi6aFSKT3qHHGKI2CRM0vlX6rVClsFarPfvGc88aVZu3VsQ/s2154/8.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2154" data-original-width="1400" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1FhMNtF15Q6MolaavKzh_WgNCqeuhQpkQzesVeUAiYtkKBxpStLu6Iv6NvR7anc4dqA6ASuhhIPhVHM08uL-YU9fGx2AxNeH9Mq0Hl4OR1BnDBK6fS3l3oKfAJqlu4Lsyx-Rxnv9mcDSUi6aFSKT3qHHGKI2CRM0vlX6rVClsFarPfvGc88aVZu3VsQ/w416-h640/8.png" width="416" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div>On Valentine's day morning I went out for my run. I passed a neighbour who is a trauma surgeon on his way back from (presumably) an overnight call. "Hello!" I called and he smiled and gave me a high-five as he passed me on his bike, which I took to mean that whoever it was he operated on stayed alive.</div><div><br /></div><div>--------------------------------------</div><div><br /></div><div>That run was perhaps not a great idea, because later on that day I began to feel weak, tired, and was sneezing constantly. So I took the next two days off work and in bed (and cycled through a total of three toilet rolls blowing my nose - sorry trees) and decided to read through some of my parents old letters. </div><div><br /></div><div>A few years after Mum and Dad started dating, Dad moved back to Singapore while Mum stayed in London (with a short stint in Spain). They flew to see each other on a Russian plane service called Aeroflot which was notoriously unreliable but worked for their budget, but between visits they would write (almost weekly, it seems) and send each other cassette tapes of their voices which I like to think of as the ancestor to the Whatsapp voice messages I send to friends in Britain. Almost all of the letters I have are from Dad to Mum rather than the other way around, and reading them have shown me a different side of him. Growing up, Dad was always loving but usually expressed that in acts of service rather than words. After his stroke, when he began to get his words back, "I love you" has been a hard one to get hime to say. Sometimes I sit by his bed and our conversation goes like this:</div><div><br /></div><div>M: "I love you, Dad."</div><div><br /></div><div>D: "Thank you."</div><div><br /></div><div>M: "I love you, Dad."</div><div><br /></div><div>D: "...Thank you."</div><div><br /></div><div>M "I <i>love </i>you, Dad."</div><div><br /></div><div>D: "Love you."</div><div><br /></div><div>In his letters, however, he expresses his love for Mum earnestly and freely. They have pet names! He also writes passionately about politics (which is something that didn't really change), with paragraphs about the dangers of communism. </div><div><br /></div><div>Reading that and realising that was part of Dad that I never got to experience has been helpful and healing as I continue to think of how Dad behaves post-stroke and how there are parts of him that used-to-be and might-not-be. He changes, like all of us. The stroke caused a very sudden and extreme change but just because he is changed doesn't mean he is not <i>him</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>My family often talks of "pre-stroke Dad" and "post-stroke Dad" almost as if they are two entirely different people and to be honest, that is how it felt and does sometimes still feel: like my Dad died when he had his stroke and was replaced by himself-but-not. I still miss the Dad I knew, because there are things you learn to love and love involves growing deep roots of habit and familiarity. These are not things that heal easily when they are so suddenly cut off. </div><div><br /></div><div>I believe though, that in the way my Mum was in love with this letter-writing man, and continued a complicated but love-based relationship with him even when he no longer wrote letters and sometimes the language they spoke seemed to be entirely at cross-ideals, so love grows and changes. If you ask me if I love my Dad, of course I'd say yes (and I remind him of it often). It is a different love than we had, in part due to a shift in the balance of power and a new dynamic of care, but it is still love and familiarity is budding again.</div>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-19560377173273911602023-02-07T16:01:00.001+08:002023-02-07T16:01:53.775+08:00Do what you want<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH3qQThRDnxNW3OxkxTbjDRx5w4v1fwZMEXyBfHxXHjnGgaMeJmLiwJbxftjj7oYkpgdw9D_e2pR7uMnNFgPGQfGWhOT1Hk-N61Tvak5nMKvryr60pXb1YHJBJIjNuJB6l9w92UMcqj-Lcs9lXT2QfHBAvtHqp8wAlg9GII5lcp2SvayyPQoyncb1IcQ/s400/tumblr_43d24149c9d3a4e1ebb7d0866e0fbe38_c22afb81_400.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="400" height="638" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH3qQThRDnxNW3OxkxTbjDRx5w4v1fwZMEXyBfHxXHjnGgaMeJmLiwJbxftjj7oYkpgdw9D_e2pR7uMnNFgPGQfGWhOT1Hk-N61Tvak5nMKvryr60pXb1YHJBJIjNuJB6l9w92UMcqj-Lcs9lXT2QfHBAvtHqp8wAlg9GII5lcp2SvayyPQoyncb1IcQ/w640-h638/tumblr_43d24149c9d3a4e1ebb7d0866e0fbe38_c22afb81_400.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>It is no secret in my family that I am a physical affection person. I love big bear hugs with Tim (which I used to request, usually fruitlessly, but which he now offers - thank you therapy), and holding hands with Mum when we're in bed and talking about everything under the sun, and putting my head on Hannah's shoulder, and giving Dad a very light peck on the cheek because he doesn't like wet kisses. </p><p>The person who is on the receiving end of most of my physical affection, however, is Jacob. (As it should be!) And so last week after we had dinner with Dad, as he was about to leave to go home while I was staying for night duty, I said "Can I have a kiss?" and he laughed and said yes.</p><p>Then, feeling happy and cheeky I said, "Can I have another one?" And he laughed and said no.</p><p>So I went up to Dad and whispered in his ear "Dad, could you ask Jacob to kiss me?" And he laughed and said nothing.</p><p>After I repeated the request, he looked at Jacob and said slowly, "Jacob, you do....what you want....with Miriam." To which Jacob walked over and gave me a hug and a kiss. So all's well that ends well really.</p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-64632366338462747682023-01-24T11:13:00.008+08:002023-01-24T11:13:57.856+08:00Looking back, looking forward<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPEtXdJbMHYY2vAMxupW63e6GVIaU1rXlwzTSwGaht61H4RBT0OBCsCwog68RezRVRWOYJ0O-9BzvSPYDfs1mu-Wy6z7VXNZb_cOXhgn0bRR60NJTIduqsoA587WpcJeGLyEHSS8oF6IsOUTsLRdYQy-HO7hUrrO-HRYgZNt_28IWXrnqJ-RTwGL7yOw/s5086/Jacob-&-Miriam-wedding-487.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3391" data-original-width="5086" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPEtXdJbMHYY2vAMxupW63e6GVIaU1rXlwzTSwGaht61H4RBT0OBCsCwog68RezRVRWOYJ0O-9BzvSPYDfs1mu-Wy6z7VXNZb_cOXhgn0bRR60NJTIduqsoA587WpcJeGLyEHSS8oF6IsOUTsLRdYQy-HO7hUrrO-HRYgZNt_28IWXrnqJ-RTwGL7yOw/w640-h426/Jacob-&-Miriam-wedding-487.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />"There are gaps in the mesh of the everyday world, and sometimes they open up and you fall through them into somewhere else. Somewhere Else runs at a different pace to the here and now, where everyone else carries on. Somewhere Else is where ghosts live, concealed from view and only glimpsed by people in the real world. Somewhere Else exists at a delay, so that you can't quite keep pace. Perhaps I was already teetering on the brink of Somewhere Else anyway; but now I fell through, as simply and discreetly as dust sifting between the floorboards. I was surprised to find that I felt at home there.<p></p><p>Winter had begun.”</p><p>― Katherine May,<i> Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times</i></p><p>-----------------------------------------</p><p><span id="quote_book_link_45712900" style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;"></span></p><p>Two days after Dad's stroke last year, Lucy gave me a book called "Wintering", by Katherine May. I started reading it on the aeroplane as we flew home, earlier than anticipated, to join my family for a sober Christmas while Dad was housed in an ICU unit with a 30% chance of living. It helped me understand that the year ahead was going to be different, and was going to require a different approach to the usual. Things that I'd often pushed aside as something I could do after the more exciting thing was done were going to be crucial to getting through each day: rest, reflection, vulnerability, hard conversations, prayer, boundaries. Those uncomfortable things that are antithetical to a world that says you can have it all were necessary now, but they also meant that me and my family were going to move at a different pace to the rest of the world.</p><p>Sometimes it's difficult to remember just what those first few month were like. I was working from home and during lunch breaks I would cycle to the hospital to sit for 40 minutes with Dad, then I'd cycle home and start working again. Dad was sometimes conscious, sometimes not. He hated having his left arm bound (to stop him from removing his tubes) and he didn't know my name. Sometimes I saw, or thought I saw, lucidity, like once when I was crying and he fixed his one good eye on me with a mixture of curiousity and reflected sadness, or when he said very clearly 'no!' to me putting on his wrist restraint again. Then when COVID measures tightened and hospitals closed to visitors we'd zoom call at 5pm most days. We saw him learn to eat, and slowly words came back, some smiles, and once or twice he sang back when we sang well known songs.</p><p>Dad returned home in March, thin and curiously looking at the new house fitted with ramps for his wheelchair and a hospital bed. We started a new rhythm of exercises to maintain Dad's mobility, medicines to manage his pain and night duty to bring him to the toilet in the night time. We also quickly got tired, and there were different ideas of what was best for him, a combination that meant more conflict as well. </p><p>In May Tim started in the army, felt miserable, and went in to see a psychiatrist. He came out with a diagnosis for depression and suddenly so much of his past behaviour made sense - how did I not see it before, that my brother was not hormonal and sullen but depressed? He started going for therapy, and more quickly than I expected we saw change in him.</p><p>When we flew to the UK again in June, it felt like a milestone moment. We could mark already the progress Dad was making since we last left. We were there to celebrate our first year of marriage with our friends and family in Britain, and though the day began rather fraught after we found out Jacob had COVID, after everyone rallied around us it turned out to be a wonderful day. Perhaps it was some magic, spun out of friendship and love that day but the rest of the trip was golden. We spent 5 days in the Lake District walking and walking, eating sandwiches and chocolate, walking some more. The days grew sunny and hot and me and Izzy swam in the Victorian bathing pool and went to London for brunch, and then I went home while Jacob stayed a while with his family. </p><p>The magic must have extended back to Singapore because when I got home, like the grandparents who exclaim how tall their grandchildren have grown, I was awed by how much Dad had improved. He spoke so much more fluently, and could walk a little way <i>without his stick. </i>He continued to improve over the year, learning to shave, brush his teeth, use the toilet and change all by himself. By the end of the year he could walk around the block without his stick unassisted, a far cry from the man who couldn't stand up by himself in March. Another seeming miracle was seeing a gynaecologist who listened and understood my menstrual pain, and being able to work with hospital for a treatment plan that (so far) is working. The relief of not fearing crippling pain each month is immense.</p><p>At Christmas time Jacob' Mum and Izzy visited, then Tejin, and we felt what it was like (good) to host and give generously after a year of feeling limited in that area. The combination of holidays and showing them our world opened the world up to <i>us </i>afresh. When Tejin suggested we watch the fireworks at Marina Bay on New Year's Eve, a year ago my instinct would have been to say no and hibernate, but this year I thought - yes, I want to welcome the year in with celebration. This year feels like hope, renewal and life. It feels like the time to be brave and say yes to new things. Jacob has started playing football and I've joined a choir. In February we have three weekends in a row where we have a social occasion (which would have been foolishness last year but is so good now). The lessons of care and rest remain, which is why I'm typing this on a slow Tuesday morning after pancakes while it rains outside, but now it feels like rest coexists not just with coping but with exploring and embracing something new.</p><p>2022 began as one long, hard winter after Dad's stroke.</p><p>2023 feels like the beginning of spring.</p><p>-----------------------------------------</p><p><span id="quote_book_link_45712900" style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;"></span></p><p>"We have seasons when we flourish and seasons when the leaves fall from us, revealing our bare bones. Given time, they grow again."</p><p>― Katherine May, <i>Wintering: The power of rest and retreat in difficult times</i></p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-6953429917643811362022-12-23T12:07:00.001+08:002022-12-23T12:07:15.843+08:00Lost voice<p>I lost my voice over the weekend. What started as a searing pain on Monday while swallowing turned into a tickly throat, a dry cough, and a voice that faded away by Friday night. Miming was difficult, particularly words about time (today, tomorrow, later, just now, before...) and certain people (how do you mime mother? What is the essence of mother? I was reading the superb poem <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50975/the-lanyard">The Lanyard by Billy Collins</a> which reminded me how insufficient all we do for our mothers are, and the immensity of their love).</p><p>In time I found myself feeling isolated, with so many thoughts that usually tumble out in what my mother calls a 'burble', with what I sometimes cannot believe Jacob listens to while smiling at me affectionately, with all the words that I've collected over a little lifespan of reading and which I love. There wasn't enough time in a conversation to write out a full thought, and miming broke momentum. My words, written on paper, were functional with a little bit of wit at best. </p><p>On Sunday we hosted friends for an advent poetry evening, reading out and reflecting on poems that brought us closer to the waiting and longing that advent stands for. There were beautiful poems, plenty of them, and Jacob read out the two I'd chosen, and the reflections I scribbled about them. And yet I felt separate from the group because I couldn't speak. </p><p>It made me wonder about Dad, still sometimes struggling to find the words he wants, often shaking his head and saying in his muffled voice "I don't know." Does he feel left out of the conversation when it speeds by? Does he feel frustrated when he has something to say but the words don't come or we don't perceive what he's trying to say? On Sunday we remembered the first year anniversary of his stroke, and each shared something we are thankful for this year. On Dad's turn, he said "Mother law change." and no amount of questioning got any closer to the kernel of his meaning.</p><p><br /></p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-63426554356481738302022-09-08T09:40:00.002+08:002022-09-08T09:40:39.101+08:00Absence makes the heart grow<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCVAcJpcU3DS3J3xXo145KgzmX1V3zOFDgzcs_BHAR5xdIpIjc5S2BM9UAwGN6z8JWWJmR0YG9Qivc5O2vCtmu6Q_xrHQ5081fQj9m7xeZKCEQ5pjj6vAPFwntEZ9sm_b9abXq8EFeyNjcNxuQmMwKvlLAVGG_laO_lKJYlTxKDmR5u4aq20HZTA_aeA/s1113/tumblr_b28067226eea5d706413597126de40e6_cb7b4ecb_1280.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1113" data-original-width="1077" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCVAcJpcU3DS3J3xXo145KgzmX1V3zOFDgzcs_BHAR5xdIpIjc5S2BM9UAwGN6z8JWWJmR0YG9Qivc5O2vCtmu6Q_xrHQ5081fQj9m7xeZKCEQ5pjj6vAPFwntEZ9sm_b9abXq8EFeyNjcNxuQmMwKvlLAVGG_laO_lKJYlTxKDmR5u4aq20HZTA_aeA/w620-h640/tumblr_b28067226eea5d706413597126de40e6_cb7b4ecb_1280.jpg" width="620" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>I went scuba diving over the weekend (a story for another time), and it was the longest time away from Jacob since that one week we'd lived apart after our time in the UK this summer. Then, he'd filled his week with family; picking strawberries with his mother, playing a tiny organ in a little church, going to thrift stores with Izzy and eating the best strawberry sorbet in his <i>life</i> with his father. I had my week full too, although with no strawberries. I'd had grand plans to make that week my week of living liberated, seeing friends and having <i>all </i>the solo dance parties. Instead, I contended with the layer of dust that had built up in our house, threw out a couple of dead plants, wiped away as much lizard poo as I could reach, and started work again, all while missing Jacob.</p><p>The day he came back I felt a bubble rising in my body, from my belly to my throat. I tore an old bed sheet and painted big red hearts on it and a wobbly 'Welcome Home Jacob!', and wrapped it, paint still slightly damp, in plastic before driving to the airport in an anxious sweat (it was my first long drive!). Seeing him come out of the arrival hall in his green jumper and slightly rumpled hair made my heart swell. It was so good to be together again and the world felt a little more in place. I'd made japchae to say "I love you! I missed you!" since food is a language we both understand. </p><p>---</p><p>Before I left for Tioman I had an anxious feeling, like the first day of going to school. I was going with some friends who I've known for a long time and yet don't know very well, to a place I'd never been, to do something I'd never done. To quell my fears I bought travel insurance and read <i>Olive, Again</i>. It turned out to be a fantastic trip. I had the independence of decision that you willingly lose when you get married. If I wanted to do something (read a book, go on a walk, etc.) there was no thought of how my action might impact Jacob, I could just <i>do </i>it. I spent the second evening reading and sitting and looking out to sea, watching the sky turn from blue to purple to dark. </p><p>By the time we were on the bus back, and I'd finished <i>Olive, Again, </i>I was very much looking forward to giving up my newfound freedom and returning to the freedom of being around someone who knows and loves you even when you abandon him for a scuba diving trip. The trip bag was arduous-ish, with long queues at the checkpoint. Since vegan food at Tioman is not yet a thing, I was very hungry. When we got back, finally, to the Kallang pick up point, Jacob was there. He gave me a big hug and a tupperware of still warm black bean soup to say "I love you! I miss you! You need to eat more!" </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-47965827031332483022022-09-08T09:32:00.003+08:002022-09-08T09:32:37.137+08:00Two funny bits for a grey day<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin-7mCiSk5TG7OEnjaB0w5Hl8bEizufsB0XoDRTclp1sXryUFQcikCYjY9zPUw4uu7gvUXQ4MRhP8R3PWY_wz7mI-VMma7ejZ-cFlhamjdCbzQpr7pvfSqr0UQzZ0oW4czeAZaFBlmzED5ipAsWrGy-kwdNPZVeOaoVmMeXMQTVoSrvn97sGFJpjOhPQ/s541/tumblr_p3ldlo7KdD1wftuoeo3_540.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="541" data-original-width="540" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin-7mCiSk5TG7OEnjaB0w5Hl8bEizufsB0XoDRTclp1sXryUFQcikCYjY9zPUw4uu7gvUXQ4MRhP8R3PWY_wz7mI-VMma7ejZ-cFlhamjdCbzQpr7pvfSqr0UQzZ0oW4czeAZaFBlmzED5ipAsWrGy-kwdNPZVeOaoVmMeXMQTVoSrvn97sGFJpjOhPQ/w638-h640/tumblr_p3ldlo7KdD1wftuoeo3_540.jpg" width="638" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>1. Sometimes Jacob does very sweet things that make me fall in love with him more, and sometimes that happens utterly unintentionally. One night last week we were in bed, and Jacob had prepared lunch boxes for us both tomorrow. "What are we having?" I asked, and he said it was very simple fare, just black bean stew and..."Buckwheat!!?!?!?!?!??" It was like a magic word, I got so excited. Jacob laughed and laughed and said, "I should cook buckwheat more often!"</p><p>2. After his stroke, Dad has struggled to communicate because part of his brain (the language part) was damaged during the bleed. This is called aphasia, a "communication disorder that makes it hard to use words. It can affect your speech, writing, and ability to understand language [...] it doesn’t impair intelligence. People who have aphasia may have a hard time speaking and finding the "right" words to complete their thoughts. They may also have problems understanding conversation, reading and comprehending written words, writing words, and using numbers. People with aphasia may also repeat words or phrases." (<a href="https://www.webmd.com/brain/aphasia-causes-symptoms-types-treatments">source</a>) </p><p>This can be hard, for him and for us; he gets frustrated with the inability to convey what he wants to while we long for unimpeded communication with him. But it has also led to some funny moments. Yesterday we went over for dinner and I asked Dad where Mum was. He gestured to their bedroom and said "Mother is doing...her steroids." (She was in fact working on the family finances.)</p><p>Pre-dinner prayer is also a choice moment for aphasia bloopers. For instance, Dad has prayed:</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">"Lord. It's only vegetables. That is all. Amen."</p></blockquote><p>and</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">"Lord. We promise. Headlights. We promise headlights. Amen." </p></blockquote><p>Sometimes though, his words work just like they used to. Yesterday he said "What time is it?" and glanced at the clock, "10 o'clock already! I am surprised!" Since words sometimes mean what they don't mean directly, we understood that it was time to go.</p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-15809928764252929012022-05-26T13:47:00.003+08:002022-05-26T13:47:52.096+08:00One line only<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ8__-mBS-KiGEGs2cv5Xw2RDWqXwVVln1p3eF3wUQ2hvdw8dpzBSyzo4BYqdPRIdHnFVcMoS10FNRJLjedUEuVGvw2lih9Ai8FE9n3nIThpDEj0lHwAtUxQy-ZTsXE1obIVw2AXxui3beXXRbZvc5M1h5uy7PYMWACqEOPlcl57OVDXsZuZqr4TSR3A/s1280/tumblr_pf1j4eqrGG1sgzhgyo1_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1035" data-original-width="1280" height="518" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ8__-mBS-KiGEGs2cv5Xw2RDWqXwVVln1p3eF3wUQ2hvdw8dpzBSyzo4BYqdPRIdHnFVcMoS10FNRJLjedUEuVGvw2lih9Ai8FE9n3nIThpDEj0lHwAtUxQy-ZTsXE1obIVw2AXxui3beXXRbZvc5M1h5uy7PYMWACqEOPlcl57OVDXsZuZqr4TSR3A/w640-h518/tumblr_pf1j4eqrGG1sgzhgyo1_1280.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>In April I thought I was pregnant.</p><p>I expected my period on the 8th of April, the day before Jacob's sister arrived. Initially when it was late I didn't notice but after a week I began to feel afraid. I googled "pregnancy symptoms" and "basal body temperature high pregnant" and "how do you know if you are pregnant" and "week five pregnancy baby". Apparently it is the size of an orange seed. I cried easily, afraid of yet another change to this life that I love and grieving the life I imagined for us, which didn't include a baby for a while. </p><p>I kept the secret inside me until I couldn't bear it and told Jacob on Easter Sunday. Just a few weeks before that he'd told me he was dreaming of being a father and listening to music with our child. But that night when I told him we both felt afraid: so young, so beginning, and overwhelmingly unprepared for parenthood. He stroked my stomach and I wondered if it felt different, and felt strange that I couldn't judge that.</p><p>And yet while I felt horror I also felt an amazement and awe that within my body something could grow - an orange seed! You can see that. It has form and body. Another website talked about 'bud limbs' and in my mind's eye I saw a human tadpole, with little toes protruding out from its soft, tadpole body. I wondered what it would feel like to hold the baby. What would it smell like? What colour would its hair be - dark like mine or blonde like Jacob? Oh, it would be so beautiful and I felt heartbroken because I wanted it so much and didn't want it so much.</p><p>Before this in my mind there had been two kinds of pregnancies - wanted, and unwanted. I imagined the wanted pregnancies in homes where a woman was married and stable and in love, and the unwanted ones in women that were unmarried or unhappy or unloved. That binary broke in April. Was I selfish, I wondered, for not wanting a child when I could provide a good home for it? Was it a sign our love isn't strong enough, or doesn't have room for another? The answers to those questions were 'no', and yet. I couldn't fathom it. </p><p>On Tuesday a packet of pregnancy tests arrived in the post and Jacob and I had a last supper and pretended they weren't there. The next morning I woke up and shakily took the test and waited. When it was negative I didn't believe it and took another - negative too. Oh, I was so relieved. The days after felt so normal. I smiled at everyone because I was not pregnant and also because I knew, inexplicably, that next time if I was it would be alright. It was as if I had to grope through the terror and know that feeling afraid was alright; that fear always cling to love but love outshines it and casts it away. </p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-29948102306365490422022-05-26T10:19:00.001+08:002022-05-26T10:24:03.876+08:00oh mercy<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoI6tQ0RlFfYCQw9lvWrXeM5lWksY4RXIZyEY23c6fcZNc1_Z3-Gf1IPjABXcxVZ7tt17smGlWd7ls5qissawPj0oxkv33iu3VCc7qCbp3W9Pvd8_jOodbRZ_ZCm4DhHxA1lsLOmUxv5pM/s4160/IMG_20211011_183354_1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoI6tQ0RlFfYCQw9lvWrXeM5lWksY4RXIZyEY23c6fcZNc1_Z3-Gf1IPjABXcxVZ7tt17smGlWd7ls5qissawPj0oxkv33iu3VCc7qCbp3W9Pvd8_jOodbRZ_ZCm4DhHxA1lsLOmUxv5pM/w480-h640/IMG_20211011_183354_1.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><!--StartFragment--><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>But what could you do? Only keep going. People kept going; they had been doing it for thousands of years. You took the kindness offered, letting it seep as far in as it could go, and the dark remaining crevices you carried around with you, knowing that over time they might change into something almost bearable.</i></div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><!--EndFragment--></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A strange week.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On Sunday Jacob and I marked our first year of being married. I woke disoriented from a terrible dream in which I comforted Saoirse Ronan whose husband and two lovely babies had disappeared off the ship we were all on. Jacob kissed my shoulder and pulled me in, and could tell from my heartbeat that I'd had a nightmare. That's one thing about marriage: your nightmares are never yours alone to bare. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'd written him a letter which I took out from under my pillow and gave it to him to read while I lay there, looking at him reading what I'd written the day before. Sunday mornings are so sweet - we wake up with nothing to do, but go on a walk if we want to and eat breakfast if we'd like to. Always the choice is ours. We always choose a walk and breakfast, even if it pours with rain. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We spent the day playing boardgames and drinking tea and eating ice cream in the sun. It had been a hard week before with Jacob's reports due, and it was a hard week coming up with his end of term marking and final preparations for flying to England, and this day felt like an island of joy in between. Our Sabbath.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">-</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On Monday I went on a short morning run, which felt like freedom after period pains wracked my body in the last run I'd done on Friday. I felt strong, although I didn't push it, and I enjoyed my breakfast, graded lots of artefacts, and worked from my family's place in the afternoon next to a very sleepy Dad.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">- </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On Tuesday I went for a haircut in the evening. I felt so happy and free on the way there, cycling in the business district past people in suits and heels while I was on my bicycle in shorts and the exercise top that Jacob bought me. In the hairdressers the stylist looked at my hair and sniffed. "You've never done anything to your hair?" he asked and I said no, I hadn't yet. "It's very plain," he said. "So boring," he later said. I sat there while he cut my hair and dried it, and curled up inside. While I cycled home I cried - plain and boring - and then cried again with frustration at how much I let myself be affected by the words of a nasty stranger. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">-</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On Wednesday Dad prayed before dinner, unexpectedly honest and lucid: "Father, we are grateful....for this life...that is...confused." He paused, then laughed, "I don't know what to say!" We all laughed then, and I started, "For health, and strength," "and daily bread. We thank you Lord. Amen." he finished.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">- </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This morning I got to work early and finished off Elizabeth Strout's <i>Amy and Isabelle</i>. I hugged the book when I finished it, and then got up to get more water. A goodreads review of the book said " I find it somewhat obscene that this was a debut." and I wholeheartedly agree.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I should go to Mass," Dottie was saying, directing the statement to Amy, who had no idea what to saw and so only smiled back at the woman, shyly, from the other end of the couch.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I s'pect God would rather see you eat a pancake," called out Fat Bev from the kitchen, and Isabelle had a sudden, intense desire to be Catholic.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If she were Catholic, she could kneel, kneel and bow her head inside a church with brilliant stained-glass windows and streaks of golden light falling over her. Yes, oh yes, she would kneel and stretch out her arms, holding to her Amy and Dottie and Bev. "Please, God," she would pray. (What <i>would</i> she pray?) She would pray, "Oh please, God. Help us to be merciful to ourselves."</div></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I finished the book and then I read about the Texas school shooting and cried as I imagined the children and their parents trying to identify them from a line of little dead. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">What the actual fuck a million times over, and which way is up and which way is down, and where are those 19 children and two teachers now, and are they at peace?</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">[...]</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">My younger son is in elementary school, like the kids in Uvalde. He’s the kind of third grader (like every third grader?) who is always wiggly. He either runs or dances down the street. He sleeps sideways in bed, head firmly off pillow. He likes jumping over the back of the sofa; he drums his fingers on the dinner table; he asks us to watch how fast he can run. I think of the Uvalde children: were they wiggling in their chairs five minutes before the shooter walked in? Were their feet kicking along to a song they were softly humming? Were they thinking about lunch? Were they writing with No. 2 pencils? Were they stacking blocks? Were they laughing? They were breathing, I know that. They were breathing and almost definitely wiggling.</div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">After dropping my dancey little boy off at school this morning, fear in my throat, I came back and looked around the house and thought of the parents returning home alone last night. They would fumble with their keys and open the door. They would step over small sneakers, sneakers that probably had Velcro because tying shoes was still hard. They would see crayon drawings taped on the wall. Honey yogurts in the fridge. A wobbly stack of board games. A colorful toothbrush still damp from the morning. The little bed with tousled sheets and the half-full water glass on the bedside table and the fifth book the child had asked to read but it was clearly too late and they were being silly and sneaky and they needed to get sleep for the school day so they could learn and grow and laugh and play.</div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The gunman in Uvalde had a handgun, an AR-15 assault weapon and high capacity magazines, reports CBS News. After the rampage, among the carnage, parents had to line up to identify their dead, disfigured children. The child might be unrecognizable to everyone else — a bullet from an AR-15 creates a hole the size of an orange — but a parent would know. By their body, their hands, their look, their energy, their slouch, the way a parent knows. Maybe a scar, a birthmark. They could always look at their feet. I would know my child’s foot among a million others. I know the way his toes slant. I’ve clipped my eight-year-old’s nails every few weeks since the summer morning I pushed him out of my body and fed him from my breasts. More than 200 times, I’ve hunched over those little feet and cleaned and cut those little nails. Sometimes he would fuss, sometimes we would chat, sometimes he would watch TV and absentmindedly pat my back.</div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I would know. Those parents knew. (From <a href="https://cupofjo.com/2022/05/uvalde-school-shooting-what-to-do/">cupofjo</a>)</div></div></div></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Oh please, God. Help us to be merciful to ourselves.</i></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><!--EndFragment--></div></div><p></p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-49318776091213286372022-02-22T10:18:00.003+08:002022-02-22T10:18:37.667+08:00Our wedding - seeing God's goodness in unexpected circumstances<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE-dUOd-U2TKxyGFt1xVuviPhtO9oNyfkxsPwZGj8IrFLtNSIn44jJ0Zfxv3Gy-6p9CjlgzWlmh5iaqAej7qxi1bCvJ_95TWZjqcm8F63hpw9mfXm0um3rbdMN6J-flaXjMCX659AGfPMw/s2048/DSC09595.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE-dUOd-U2TKxyGFt1xVuviPhtO9oNyfkxsPwZGj8IrFLtNSIn44jJ0Zfxv3Gy-6p9CjlgzWlmh5iaqAej7qxi1bCvJ_95TWZjqcm8F63hpw9mfXm0um3rbdMN6J-flaXjMCX659AGfPMw/w426-h640/DSC09595.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><i>Plans gone awry </i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Our wedding was meant to be on the 5th of June, 2021, in Oxford. Planning a wedding abroad, during a a pandemic when most borders were closed, meant countless anxious prayer and voice messages, emails apologising for <i>another </i>change of plans or asking for patience as we waited for more news. About a month before the wedding, we heard with joy that Singapore would allow long term pass holders like Jacob to return from abroad, removing our last obstacle to flying to England. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A miracle, we thought, all our prayers were answered. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Just a few days later on the 8th of May days we found out that there had been another development that meant that if we flew to England, Jacob would not be able to fly back. Initial disbelief gave way to frantic resistance: calls with border control, so much time spent looking on long regulation websites, but all to no avail. We'd have to marry in Singapore, and that meant getting married just over ten days later on the 22nd of May when we'd initially planned to register our marriage in a small, family-only, administrative service. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">How does one plan a wedding in ten days? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I told our Pastor, who made it possible to have the wedding service in our church sanctuary, and then said that his wife wanted to make salsa pots for all our guests which made me cry. I asked a friend if I could wear her wedding dress and she said yes - and her mother-in-law altered it to fit me in two hours. One week before the wedding Jacob and I went kayaking and on the way there I texted someone I'd worked with in the museum, asking if they might be our photographer. They said yes. We went kayaking, and Jacob got the worst sunburn of his life. I asked friends here if they might be bridesmaids, and they said yes. We asked fifty people we loved if they might come to a wedding in a week's time, and all of them but two said yes. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The day before the wedding, the bridesmaids came over while I phoned our pastor to hear what exactly would happen the next day. We practiced 'walking down the aisle' by walking down the corridor leading from my bedroom to the living room, we ate dinner and then I tried to sleep. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><i>The morning of the wedding</i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I woke up, my usual time, and pulled on an old t shirt and shorts and walked to the living room. Dad woke up soon after me, and seeing me getting ready to go out he asked: "Going for a run?" "Just a walk today," I said. "Then exercise, after?" he asked (I'd often do some strength exercises after a walk in the morning) and then he teared up and pulled me in for a hug. I met Jacob on the Green Corridor for a walk, and to pass him some shoe polish. We talked about Philippians 4, the bible passage we'd read that morning, which speaks of joy, peace and contentment:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">“Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice... </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">...The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">...I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content."</div></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Despite all the changes to our plan, I felt so content that morning walking with Jacob, my hand in his. It was a little moment of quiet and contentment before we headed back to our separate homes and begun to get ready.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Back at home, I took on the roles of quiz-creator, baker, hairdresser, photographer, and bride all at once. Emily arrived and did make up for Hannah, herself and me, and I ate some peanut butter on Mum's bread machine bread, and some of Hannah's salad, and then hopped into my dress, braided my hair into a bun, and stuck some flowers into it. I think I really felt like a woman on her wedding day when I picked up the bouquet Mum had (with much stress and loving kindness) arranged with our florist. It had beautiful Juliet roses, peonies, </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Uncle Marcus was driving Dad and me to the church, and after we set off I realised I'd forgotten my tracetogether token (this was <i>definitely </i>a pandemic wedding) and we had to go home to get it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b><i>The wedding service</i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Weixin and Emily were there at the door when I arrived, and they pulled me in for a hug. Dad and I walked into the ante-room behind the sanctuary and I felt slightly overwhelmed by the knowledge that I was about to leave my family and join Jacob as his wife. "Dad," I said, "Can we pray?" I don't remember what he said, but I do remember he sat with me and prayed for me, and that I knew he loved me very much.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The Arrival of the Birds started playing, and Weixin, then Emily, then Hannah walked into the sanctuary and finally, Dad and I did too. Our guests were sitting in pairs (to fulfil government guidelines) and there were beautiful flowers up and down the aisle, but in that moment I only had eyes for Jacob. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The service passed in a blur. Listening to Pastor Rodney's challenge (words that have echoed through our first eight months of marriage) with Jacob's arm around me, making our vows and feeling so deeply the power of those time-tested words, seeing faces from England read scripture and pray over us, nervously trying to say thank you to everyone when words couldn't quite do gratitude justice, throwing my bouquet in the air with the bridesmaids in joy, and standing with Jacob as Leonard and Jonathan prayed a blessing for marriage over us. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b><i>After</i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">After the service, Uncle Marcus drove us in the golden sun to Ama's house, where we served tea to Ama, Uncle Tom, Auntie Alice and Bee in a tea set Uncle Tom had bought that morning, after Dad said, "Oh, don't you think it could be a good idea to..." Ama was in her usual soft button-down shirt, but she's combed her hair very neatly and she smiled and smiled when she saw us. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Back at home, Tim had ordered Indian takeaway, which we ate with Prosecco. I wore a batik apron over the white dress to avoid curry stains. We called Catherine and played a quiz between our families of obscure (and not so obscure) facts about our relationship. I'd set the quiz so I didn't play, and Catherine won, beating even the groom (although to be fair, Jacob gallantly abstained from some questions that he knew to give others a fair chance). Then we had tea and the wedding cake Hannah and I baked in the morning: a chocolate hazelnut cake that had been on the cards for one of the tiers in our UK wedding cake. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Still dressed in our wedding dress and suit, Jacob and I said goodbye to my family and walked back to Jalan Hang Jebat along the green corridor. Cyclists on night cycles went past us (one of them saying "Wah! You scared me!" - possibly interpreting the white dress as something more paranormal) their lights zipping through the darkness. As we walked, we noticed little flickers in the distance, not quite bike lights. When we got closer we saw they were candles in peanut butter jars, lighting our way to our new home. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Nothing happened as we planned, but God provided in miracles great and small. In the eight months we have been married we have faced trials we never saw coming. The words we said on our wedding day - that we would hold each other in sickness and in health, for better and for worse, and that we would love and cherish each other - have become realities. Perhaps the greatest miracle is this simple one I've known for a long time. Jacob loves me with the deep abiding love that comes from God, and that is enough. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKlcY9YQ5-rqk_RZXs4UQguSLEuQTEarTq28uSOhyphenhyphenhDkpbst-1tNUYNVbAkvmFK_gLU2S2YxsFIqEdY2bevJhSbMUSR5nmd5HFWfqDjot2bTgByTnPb0zZ_cz5IFut4QWv-Pf52l3libZ3/s2048/DSC01284.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKlcY9YQ5-rqk_RZXs4UQguSLEuQTEarTq28uSOhyphenhyphenhDkpbst-1tNUYNVbAkvmFK_gLU2S2YxsFIqEdY2bevJhSbMUSR5nmd5HFWfqDjot2bTgByTnPb0zZ_cz5IFut4QWv-Pf52l3libZ3/w640-h427/DSC01284.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-32811332697986405642022-02-17T22:15:00.000+08:002022-02-17T22:15:18.744+08:00Admin is not my strong suit<p> </p><p>I've been covering another colleague as the secretary for our senior management meetings, and over the course of the last two weeks I've noticed that admin is really not my strong suit.</p><p>In emails I've numbered things "1,2,3,4,5,7", or "1,2,3,5,4". I don't even know how that happens. I use two different font sizes in an email (I also don't know how that happens) which I don't notice - but other people do. </p><p>Today I sent out an email to everyone in the museum, saying (in response to an admin email):</p><p><br />"Dear ______,</p><p>Please may I request one glue stick!</p><p>Thank you,<br />Miriam"</p><p>One glue stick?! What a stupid thing to say!</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-12988245271595540372022-01-26T16:45:00.005+08:002022-01-26T16:45:35.021+08:00West Side Story and climbing fences.<p><span></span></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2qqWzP8E-uxbEYUiY9Pd8K9AOpw4RVXJ7JjiUBVF8Fy_SAWMz9l6IB9bEiAuZ03GHSa-ZrvROOVoPLBzP6aS5SFP8xTI5SLAuOEZhxdCSjEbwLhFC0edWjO-HBF7TZDFJUPaD8Q8-qZTq-7XitfhOVKpNnZAk9QUuNyJMZAIRPVKvNhOhVsB95wz67Q=s760" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="428" data-original-width="760" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2qqWzP8E-uxbEYUiY9Pd8K9AOpw4RVXJ7JjiUBVF8Fy_SAWMz9l6IB9bEiAuZ03GHSa-ZrvROOVoPLBzP6aS5SFP8xTI5SLAuOEZhxdCSjEbwLhFC0edWjO-HBF7TZDFJUPaD8Q8-qZTq-7XitfhOVKpNnZAk9QUuNyJMZAIRPVKvNhOhVsB95wz67Q=w640-h360" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><a href=" https://theswaddle.com/do-problematic-classics-like-west-side-story-deserve-remakes/">credit</a></p><p><span></span></p><p>On Wednesday, Jacob brought me out to dinner after both our first days back in our respective workplaces. After over a month of being together almost 24 hours a day, seeing him after being apart for a day felt like a first date. We ate Vietnamese food, talked about tackling discrimination, and took a bus to the cinema to watch the new<i> West Side Story </i>film<i>. </i>On the way home, we realised that our usual path was blocked by a steel fence for a new construction site and so instead of walking to the detour path, we decided to climb over it. There was a rickety ladder which we propped up against the fence, Jacob used his gym clothes to cushion the sharp top edge and did a pull up to see if it would take his weight, and then climbed over. I passed out bags to him and climbed over too, landing giggly and shaky because it felt like such a naughty thing to have done, and so exhilarating.</p><p>When we got home it was late, almost midnight, and so naturally because of our exertions we decided to have a midnight snack, eating milky cereal out of a tea cup in the kitchen. </p><p>I loved the night so much - it was so free, and fun, and adventurous. It made me feel like a child again, when the last month has felt like I've had to grow up differently.</p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-19365902235807834462022-01-14T16:25:00.003+08:002022-01-14T16:25:25.127+08:00After Dad had a stroke<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjq08enbMUzHUEE4kRJAqLe1VZZYhG1TP4vX2kP2_12XkDnLoJGJMivoJlMviR1mmHxYt0uI9q8SQFAhOAiugic9HQuh4ZFeFbh1krracarqPd448-nNamyWixMS_26F5HzMVZXQyrJRxZzPaV5OaOhfEHr6u4v2jrejpniI-6IxAhgfd8uDwz3LCwikg=s4160" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjq08enbMUzHUEE4kRJAqLe1VZZYhG1TP4vX2kP2_12XkDnLoJGJMivoJlMviR1mmHxYt0uI9q8SQFAhOAiugic9HQuh4ZFeFbh1krracarqPd448-nNamyWixMS_26F5HzMVZXQyrJRxZzPaV5OaOhfEHr6u4v2jrejpniI-6IxAhgfd8uDwz3LCwikg=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><!--StartFragment--><span style="color: black; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Grief is existential testimony to the worth of the one loved. That worth abides. So I own my grief. I do not try to put it behind me, to get over it, to forget it… Every lament is a love-song." - </span><span style="color: black; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> <i>Lament for a Son, </i></span><span style="color: black; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nicholas Wolterstorff</span><!--EndFragment--><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><p></p><!--StartFragment--><b id="docs-internal-guid-b0a0c694-7fff-d8f6-dde0-6ef514b66686" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On December 17th, midway through dinner with Jacob’s family and two friends in Oxford, I received a phone call. It was my Mum, and she told me to prepare myself, which meant she was about to tell me something you can never prepare yourself for. She told me that Dad had had a stroke in the early hours of the morning, that he had fallen, that my brother had found him and that he was in hospital now and was about to go into surgery. “So please pray,” she said, her voice breaking, “because Dad is in the valley of the shadow right now and there’s a chance he might not get through.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So I prayed. I knelt on the carpet floor of the staircase landing and asked God to save my Dad. I cried and prayed, and cried, and recited Psalm 23 with Mum. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dad had what is known as a hemorrhagic stroke caused by an aneurysm, which means that a blood vessel burst and blood flooded the surrounding areas of the brain. The blood in the brain causes brain cells to die. There can be warning signs of an approaching stroke - including a headache, problems with vision, problems with balance and coordination, and slurred speech. Before Dad went into hospital Mum noticed that someone had been taking painkillers, but assumed it was Hannah or Tim since Dad never takes pills if he can help it. Neither Hannah nor Tim had taken any. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I put down the phone, I stayed on the landing for a while in shock. In some part of my mind I saw myself on the landing and below me the family, Jacob’s friends, unaware. A decision lay before me - do I go downstairs with my grief, or do I go upstairs to our bedroom and hide? I drank some water from a glass that I don’t think was mine (grief is thirsty business) and went downstairs, told them what happened and asked if we could all pray together.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Over the next few days I went through various iterations of grief. First, there was the anticipatory grief of possibly losing Dad. Then, there was the grief over everything changing, and grieving who he was and how that might no longer be the case. There was also denial, where for moments of the day I wouldn’t believe that Dad had the stroke. Not him, so active, a non-smoker, a vehement denier of canned food and “processed junk” and daily walker. And then (and this one made me feel ashamed of myself) irrational anger. Why did Dad have to have a stroke? Now life would be different, and we’d have to make a decision about flying back early, and we wouldn’t be able to spend Christmas in England. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Three beloved friends came to stay that weekend, all of whom had lost someone (for one of them it was a cat, which is arguably a something but was a someone to her) that year. We talked about our grief openly, and I was grateful that they didn’t shy away from asking me about Dad. They were generous with the wisdom they’d gained from their experiences with grief and healing. I witnessed the grief of Jacob’s family as well as they faced saying goodbye to Jacob earlier than anticipated. I saw Jacob’s grief at things changing so suddenly and as he confronted losing Dad as well and wrestled with the decision of staying with his family or flying back with me.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I also saw love as if someone had magnified it a hundred fold in those fragile days. My loving friends prayed with me, let me sleep on the comfy bed in the attic while they were on the airbed, and stayed up late for dinner and games. On a walk to see the local church carol service, which Jacob and his Mum were both in, Jacob’s Dad turned to me and said “I’ve been thinking about it. Jacob should go with you.” This man gave Jacob a bear hug every night before bed; I could see the sacrifice in him telling me that. Jacob’s sister brought me a cup of tea and a Moomin book with the inscription on Jacob’s ring on a post-it note one morning when I was finding it hard to get up. Jacob’s Mum made the entire Christmas day happen early on the 22nd so we could celebrate together before we had to go. Jacob held me every night. Jacob lovingly told me when my grief was pulling me away and made it safe for me to return to him. And Jacob chose to fly back with me.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"> </p></span></b><!--StartFragment--><!--EndFragment-->Now we are back. How do you return to a world where everything has changed? Something we say to Dad over video calls, as he drifts in and out of consciousness, is "慢慢来", or take it slow.<!--EndFragment--> It is a mantra for us as well. So we go slowly, holding space for generous lament and generous love. <!--EndFragment-->Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-68326221189438611182021-08-22T15:02:00.001+08:002021-08-22T15:02:18.006+08:00courage in the face of noise<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDs73ecVmbps-J4aGultZUarOiXylqmyrdU8Us8fqouZab00M_-HgiEAk-H-7LGWVHLz6oTTxByAHDhVLrV-Xy1nTZS8XZTTc3VZIzIdGBXHvDA_Kd70BJHSnhhltN9htwJok6YYbAjQ0/s992/7122b9b5-d1aa-4d55-a531-f6ee5f9df2e4_Breeder%252BWeb%252B5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="992" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDs73ecVmbps-J4aGultZUarOiXylqmyrdU8Us8fqouZab00M_-HgiEAk-H-7LGWVHLz6oTTxByAHDhVLrV-Xy1nTZS8XZTTc3VZIzIdGBXHvDA_Kd70BJHSnhhltN9htwJok6YYbAjQ0/w516-h640/7122b9b5-d1aa-4d55-a531-f6ee5f9df2e4_Breeder%252BWeb%252B5.jpg" width="516" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>A few weeks ago I was calling a dear friend, who sounded exhausted by life. I remembered dancing with her in a frenzy of freedom at a May Ball, diving into cool water with her and clinging onto her back as she cycled with me pillion, both of us laughing through the cobbled streets to make it to choir practice.</p><p>I didn't blame her for her exhaustion. I mirror her now. Life, as it turns out, can be very exhausting. This last month I've often looked at the sky (a habit I retain, thinking God is somewhere among the sometimes fluffy sometimes foreboding clouds, when I know in actuality he is all around us and inside us. But it would look a little odd if I literally navel-gazed, and the sky is much better looking.) and thought "Can you just <i>lay off </i>for a couple of months, God?"</p><p>This month has seen us battle with mental illness, appendicitis, heavy work loads, loneliness and homesickness and lack of motivation. I wish I could say we peacefully submitted to this series of unfortunate events but in truth we've blundered through it railing and staggering, not understanding and not being okay with that. Appendicitis was potentially the cherry on top of the cake - I mean, God, why did you create a <i>useless part of the human body, </i>which just causes pain? </p><p>At the same time I must confess that in the midst of this I've found strength I didn't know I possessed. It hasn't been the stalwart strength of a saint, often it's quite a desperate "I-must-finish-the-mopping" sort of strength, but it has carried us through all the same. Thank you God.</p><p>I read this prayer by Nikaela Peters and felt it in my bones: </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">'<span style="background-color: white;">Give me courage in the face of noise. Bring me to my knees so I can better look bravely, each day, into the [faces of those I love]. Reveal order running parallel with the chaos. For it does, doesn’t it? Discipline is not the opposite of desire, but the refinement of it; order is not the opposite of chaos but the measure of it. I crave solitude and silence because I imagine them refining and freeing me, but doesn’t this Greek tragedy life do just that? My soul might end up feeling just as trapped by silence as does is by the uproar. I may end up being just as distracted by cleanliness as I am by grit.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">So my fantasies change: Do not give me silence. Do not give me cleanliness. Thank you for this thunder and this burden; [...] So it is not through the fulfillment of my fantasies that I am fulfilled, but through the realization that the obstacles between them and me are their fuel. Thank you for my fantasies and their impossibility; for the wild freedom within this form. Thank you, because my response to quotidian pleasure is sharpened and I am emptied, finally, of myself. “</span><em style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); box-sizing: inherit; line-height: inherit;">So we struggle and we stagger down the snakes and up the ladder, to the tower, where the blessed hours chime</em><span style="background-color: white;">”. Amen.' </span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">- <i>Nikaela Peters, A Mother's Prayer</i></span></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">P.S. Art above is from Luke Edward Hall, whose art is currently my inspiration together with Maaret Söderblom's drawings - I think they are so full of life, colour and fun, and I'm in a drawing mood with the pencils Hannah gave me for Christmas and the paper and paint from my birthday (thank you Hannah for fuelling my desire to be in some small way, and </span><i>artiste</i><span style="background-color: white;">)</span></span></p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1666634051333667440.post-43205533543337564452021-06-12T16:50:00.002+08:002021-06-12T16:50:32.763+08:00No one eats a scone in a rush<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8AFr96lPjQFtsfPqc0hZxJZaxOcJxlWGFFNyUxdwhExqvgfx3Lrly6NRLg7WcMZl1lzWykTg5cJM2A0rKjtk10z1OTeT47cZWGxCzu0tHNkvr6IOeM7pS-3C5GBrAfuibuu-XFHyB0yi4/s4160/IMG_20210318_171919.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8AFr96lPjQFtsfPqc0hZxJZaxOcJxlWGFFNyUxdwhExqvgfx3Lrly6NRLg7WcMZl1lzWykTg5cJM2A0rKjtk10z1OTeT47cZWGxCzu0tHNkvr6IOeM7pS-3C5GBrAfuibuu-XFHyB0yi4/w640-h480/IMG_20210318_171919.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /><br /></p><p>When Jacob had a week off for the March holidays I took some time off too, and we made scones (recipe <a href="https://www.lazycatkitchen.com/vegan-scones/">here</a>). I put the cream on first just so it would look more beautiful in a photograph, even though I think that jam first is a more practical move. </p><p>No one eats a scone in a rush. </p><p>The <i>really </i>beautiful thing about afternoon tea is that it's a promise of time. Time is something me and Jacob both find difficult to move through slowly. I'm a chronic multi-tasker and I like things <i>fast</i>. A few months ago, David and Rosie told our small group about a podcast called 'Fight hustle, end hurry'. In the episode 'Slowing down', John Mark Comer and Jefferson Bethke talk about how Jesus, who had an ultimate goal and was fixed upon it during his time here, also gave himself time for interruption. He let a woman touch his robe and turned aside and spoke to her. He spotted a man up a tree and said, 'Let's have dinner.' He was hanging on a cross and took the time to speak to the men sharing his suffering on either side of him. This is my God. We don't need to relentlessly use up every inch of our time, we can have time to spare. </p><p>-</p><p>It's now the June holidays, and we've been married for three weeks (that's a whole story for another time). Already, slowing down has become a necessity and a pleasure. It means that I notice the birds that lace the trees around our home, and notice one which comes back consistently to say hello in the morning. Pancakes taste better taken slow, as does porridge, and toast with faux-butter and raspberry and fig jam. Slowing down is part of how I love and enjoy Jacob, it honours him when I take the time to say what I'm about to do, or when I do something slower but well so he doesn't have to pick up the pieces of the fall out of my rush.</p><p>One day last week, we went separate ways - Jacob to pick up a bicycle, and me to get some bits and pieces for the house. When I wasn't around him, like a boat that lost its mooring I felt untethered and went back to speed. I tried to do too many things, using the countdown timer on the washing machine as a 'deadline'. I ended up falling down the stairs, and bruising my elbow. I also ended up exhausted and teary later on when Jacob came home. I was just trying to do <i>a lot </i>so he'd be proud of his wife and his nice clean home. But I realised that what Jacob wants is not what I do, he wants me. He wants to hold me and love me, laugh with me and be with me, not have my mind race on all the things I can do <i>for </i>him whilst actually not being <i>with</i> him.</p><p>-</p><p>This morning as we savoured our toast, we talked about making scones and inviting people over for tea. We imagined the games we'd play. I listed about five, and Jacob laughed and said we wouldn't be able to do all of that over tea and scones. I relented; how ever many games we had time for, that will be enough. There's no need to rush.</p>Miriamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04191361122873014108noreply@blogger.com0