Tuesday, January 31, 2017

Darkness Falls (Theatre thoughts)


I was about to title this 'theatre review', but not feeling I am a qualified critic (nor having the autonomy and confidence of Anna Larpent to declare myself one anyway) I've decided to stick with 'theatre thoughts'.

Last night, Saltmine Theatre came to Cambridge and put on a performance called 'Darkness Falls'. It was a retelling of the gospel of John, set after Jesus' death and resurrection. John has been imprisoned for his writings on the charge of sedition, but in the prison he is sent to he continues telling the story to his cell mates: Simon the friendly but cynical Greek, Lavinia a fierce but hurting woman, Lucius the 'simple-minded' one and Titus, the tough and violent ex-hitman. Initially distrusting of John, they are drawn into his story and take on the characters of the narrative as they act out Jesus' life on earth. Reality and narrative overlap and become indistinguishable. Their grimy prison water is turned to wine at a 'wedding' between Lavinia and Titus, their meager rations of bread are multiplied and they scramble to pick up the crumbs, the blind see, the lame walk, and Titus-playing-Lazarus is returned from the dead. As the prisoners act out the story of Jesus, each has to grapple with the personal implications of the tale, and what Jesus means for them.

There were just 5 actors and one set - a prison scene of 4 bunk beds and a cage covering a dark chute, a punishment mechanism for wayward prisoners aptly called 'The Fall'.

Lucius, the 'simple-minded' man, role-played Jesus. Alex told me she liked that, the unexpected nature of it, his confidence in his role. He did have the greatest character development of them all, but I also liked how Saltmine theatre unintentionally (or intentionally?) picked up on C.S Lewis's trilemma, which he wrote about in Mere Christianity:

'I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: "I’m ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don’t accept his claim to be God." That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic — on the level with the man who says he is a poached egg — or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God, or else a madman or something worse. You can shut him up for a fool, you can spit at him and kill him as a demon or you can fall at his feet and call him Lord and God, but let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about his being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to. ... Now it seems to me obvious that He was neither a lunatic nor a fiend: and consequently, however strange or terrifying or unlikely it may seem, I have to accept the view that He was and is God.'

At one point, John, role-playing Pilate, screams at Jesus 'What is Truth? What is Truth?' which reflected the intentional difficulty of separating the prison-narrative from the gospel-narrative. Lavinia, acting as the woman at the well, reels in shock when Lucius/Jesus tells her of her adultery, and we are told later that she was put in prison for adultery, but in the moment it is unclear whether her reaction was her invested acting as the woman at the well or the surprise of Lavinia, realising that even her past is something Jesus freely forgives, and her person someone he offers living water to.

The play begun in darkness, and ended with a flash of blinding light. 'In Him was life, and that life was the light of men. The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.'

Monday, January 30, 2017

Some of the simplest things


When I was in SCGS, I used to eat an apple every day. (there was also a time where I'd eat a whole carrot everyday, which I stopped after a while because my palms started turning orange.) But in Cambridge, my apples are almost never just apples. They  are slathered in almond butter, peanut batter, tahini, mixed with granola, baked into crumble, cooked into my porridge.

This week I crunched into an apple just by itself and was reminded that good things don't always require embellishments.

(That said, I just had apple with granola - embellishments are delicious in their own right)

I was reminded of that again when I re-created Chloe's chickpeas, which I ate in Lyon. All it requires is chickpeas, some spices, oil and water and a squeeze of lemon at the end.

This week also reminded me of how much I love skyping my family, and ellis, and how much I miss my constant stream-of-conversation with Emily which whatsapp only marginally makes up for.

Another simple thing I like remembering:

'For God so loved the world that He gave His only son that whosoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have everlasting life.' John 3:16

Sunday, January 29, 2017

28/01/2017 / Poems for Running



I ran 20km today (my furthest ever!). Through most of it these lines drummed in my head,

'God save thee, ancient Mariner!  
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—   
Why look'st thou so?'—'With my crossbow  
I shot the Albatross.'

Flipping love that poem, and I read almost all of it out loud to myself while sitting in my duvet-tent this morning.

Another poem I've been really loving (also nautical) is The Song of the Red War Boat, by Rudyard Kipling. A perfect triumphant, defiant, rollicking rhythm, and -ah- so exciting I stumble over the words as I read it because I get ahead of myself.

And when I think of poems that have rhythm (and there are so many of them) I remember a book I read before coming to Cambridge, The Poem and the Journey, where Ruth Padel, recalls a canoeing trip in which the ellipses of Emily Dickinson's poem Civilisation - Spurns - the Leopard! marked each dip and push of her paddle in water. Now I cannot read that poem without associating it with punctuating physical action, which means it lends itself quite nicely to runs (unfortunately I only know the first 2 lines by heart and so those ones are the ones that repeat themselves, between footfalls)

After the run I had an orange before dinner, which was the most Chinese-New-Year my day got.

Saturday, January 28, 2017

Just a dream / Protection



Such a strange dream.

I was in a foreign country, with a family that I didn't know. We came across a boy in a shop selling rattan chairs and baskets and wooden statues of lions with chipped green and red paint. The boy and I locked eyes and started running, faster and faster, and we came to a place where the earth dropped away into a waterfall, and we raced down that waterfall, jumping from one rock to another, and then ran back and raced down again for the sheer joy of the competition and the tumble.

Then we sat at the base of the waterfall, and he told me about how he wanted to be a fighter pilot, and join the army. 'And everyone knows World War III is just about to happen,' he said, 'and I know that there will be so many people I kill.'

Then a baby was brought up (we were suddenly at the base of the West Road Concert Hall stage, and not a waterfall) and I knew that the baby was going to die, and all I wanted to do was protect it. But I also knew that it needed to die, because it would be reborn and give everyone hope. But the boy beside me didn't know that, and didn't understand how I could sing even when they carried the dead baby away. Then he told me, 'What really scares me is that I don't know if a part of me wants to kill those people.' And all the protection I'd felt toward that baby shifted with sudden force onto the boy, so young and so aware of mortality.

The silly buckets on the deck, 
That had so long remained, 
I dreamt that they were filled with dew;                                      This is the way the world ends
And when I awoke, it rained.                         not with a bang but a whimper. (The Hollow Men)

My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
My garments all were dank; 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
And still my body drank. (The Rime of the Ancient Mariner)

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

24/1/2017 - evening

Credit
Ah, I'd forgotten just how wonderful it feels to write in this space. After a brief interlude of lecture, lunch, class (in which I knocked my head on a pillar), I now sit on my bed, feeling rather exhausted and thankful for my duvet and the solitary nature of my little room, and writing to you again.

'To you' - a funny thing. I never really know who is reading this anymore. Sometimes in conversation I want to retell stories I have already told here but am unsure if the repetition will be laboursome, or other times I withhold a story so I can process it and write it out here with spell check and revision. (In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.) In recent times (according to the stats board on my blog interface) there has been an exponential increase in readers from France, so bonjour.

I wonder how you read this as well - before bed, the blue light of your phone casting a glow on your face, at your desk with your sandwich stowed in your bag, sitting on the toilet with your phone held before you? Does anyone intentionally think 'I will check Miriam's blog now'? The only person I can imagine doing that is Dad (hi dad!) but I am happy for this place to be an after thought.

Anyway, some brief things before I go into the kitchen to paint with Alex, and then a Burns Night Formal:

1) The coconut yoghurt was both a success and not - it succeeded but then 画蛇添足 I added too much psyllium husk in my desire for it to be thicker and as a result it is jelly/thick greek yoghurt thick. Next round (and yes, a next round is possible because yogurt is a living food!) I'll put in far less psyllium husk, and maybe put it in when heating the coconut milk so that it dissolves better into the mixture.

2) I've discovered Nerdwriter, a youtuber who does short informative clips that make you feel very clever after watching them. His explanation of the twisted fairy tales in Pan's Labyrinth made me think harder when watching it, I enjoyed his exposes of Cezanne, Thanksgiving and what's in a film title, and this one on how to understand a Picasso.

3) After watching Pan's Labyrinth, feeling sad but also not quite ready to go to bed, I created a collage of photos to stick on my cupboard door, and whilst doing that I listened to Gandalf recite the Rime of the Ancient Mariner - what could be more perfect than his growly voice for the gruesome twists and turns of Coleridge's lyrical Ballad?

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

24/1/2017 - morning



The whole of last night was that really tiresome state of telling myself I need to sleep nut not being able to. First I thought it was because I'd been lying too long on my right side, so I turned over one way and the other and then remembered that 'tossing and turning' is the definition of a bad night's sleep so I tried to be still. Then I thought it was because I was still wearing my sports bra, so I took that off. And after a while more I realised it was because I had foolishly drunk a cup of tea at 5.30pm and my pathetic caffeine intolerance was acting up.

So I consigned myself to a bad night's sleep, and woke up early and went to the gym. I was hoping there wouldn't be anyone there, but there was a girl doing an ab an yoga workout, which I deeply envied as I did my warm up on the treadmill and then begun speed intervals. But once I put on music it got better - Hillsong is a very good soundtrack for running, although part of me was thinking 'I wonder if playing religious music in the gym is allowed in a secular college?' Abs-and-yoga girl left and I turned up the volume of my music (which was playing out loud because I left my earphones in Grandma's house) Just as the music went into the bridge with a loud and intense 'JEEEESUUUUSSSSS' another girl walked in. God's own comic timing.

So Tuesday mornings will be my interval mornings, and after that I got back and decided to make banana bread and may I say it was the most heavenly banana bread ever - a slightly crunchy 'crust', soft, light crumb and melty chunks of chocolate chip and banana that I didn't quite mash completely. Ah, heaven.

I decided to wear my ostentatious gold hanging leaf earrings to lectures because life is too short.

Sunday, January 22, 2017

Lent Term - First Week Back



I'm currently making yoghurt in my room. Apparently, if you buy store bought coconut yoghurt, put a couple of tablespoons of that in with normal coconut milk, and leave it in a warm place to incubate for 24-48 hours (cue turning my heater all the way up and wrapping my jar of soon to be 'yoghurt' in multiple woolly sweaters) it turns into yoghurt. My fingers are crossed, and I also can't wait for it to be ready because my room is very very warm right now.

My room didn't feel quite so warm a couple of days ago though, when I had a little fever. It came, not surprisingly after I'd stayed up til 1am three nights in a row to finish my dissertation draft (which I then proceeded to shave 5,000 words off). The morning after I submitted it, I had my first lecture and felt like I was burning in the library and lecture hall (and actually started sweating, prompting a concerned Alex to ask, 'Are you sweating?' and after that, 'Your eyes have gone all glassy.') and then in my replacement DoS meeting I almost cried, and was confused because he isn't someone I would cry in front of. Because I was feeling weird, I decided against a run and accepted I was sick, and watched Pan's Labyrinth instead of going to a party (which had a ball pit).

(Pan's Labyrinth, by the way, is an incredible film. It mixes and distorts different fairy tales, weaving it into politics but also makes any cut and dry connections between the 'magical' and the 'political' impossible, and, like the Spirit of the Beehive, has the really poignant idea of the loss of innocence, which oddly in the case of Pan's Labyrinth, is a realisation of your own loss of innocence rather than the protagonist's.)

I'm not doing this re-introduction very coherently, am I?

I got back on Monday. That's a start. I was glad to be back to me room with walls and my notebook where I plan out my days, and my shelves and cupboards and the nice big chest where all the mess and storage can be shoved.

I must push my foot stealthily lest I should fall off the edge of the world into nothingness. (The Waves)

I also got a membership for the college gym, which I have used twice, once in a self-conscious, half-hearted, rushed and embarrassed workout, and the second time alone in the gym, blasting worship songs, feeling strong and capable on the treadmill as I did intervals (half marathon 5 March)

On Tuesday, I cycled with Alex in the sun to the Daily Bread Cooperative, which sells bulk foods an health foods. I bought 5 kilograms of oats.

On Wednesday, the Just Love Folk came over and we prayed and planned. We prayed mostly over Psalm 1:

Blessed is the one
    who does not walk in step with the wicked
or stand in the way that sinners take
    or sit in the company of mockers,
but whose delight is in the law of the Lord,
    and who meditates on his law day and night.
That person is like a tree planted by streams of water,
    which yields its fruit in season
and whose leaf does not wither—
    whatever they do prospers.

We talked about how being a tree planted by streams of water entailed meditating on God's word, knowing what season it is in life and responding to God's call to action or instruction to just sit quietly and know and worship Him. We talked about water and rain, and how waiting for God's rain might be a lengthy process and that we might not see revival in Cambridge, we might not see many people accepting God, we might see the continual destruction of Gods earth and the continual ignoring of his hurting and vulnerable people, but sustained by the promises in His word, we will continue to rely on the stream, and trust and wait and pray. I have the big white piece of paper with a tree drawn on it and our prayers written. It's going to be our last term as a committee. May God move.

Thursday was the day I had glassy eyes and Friday was the day I had my DoS meeting (which I had missed on Wednesday out of sheer forgetfulness)

The only other thing worth saying is that I've developed a deep and unyielding love for grapenuts. They're an intensely crunchy cereal, just bits of wheat and salt really (for the detox, ya know) but so delicious with sweet almond milk and banana.

Sun salutations and the Lord's prayer



My Mum, Auntie Sarah and Uncle Roger have a game they used to play in long car rides together. Someone would say 'Petrol!' and they'd all sit up, arms outstretched to the heavens, and then someone would say 'Wilt thou' and they'd wilt, arms hung and heads down. Auntie Sarah says that the 'Wilt Thou' movement seemed so perfectly congruent on all levels of meaning - a wilting of the body, an abasement of the soul to ask those precious words 'wilt thou forgive that sin where i begun...', a simultaneous gratitude for grace that has and is and will be fulfilling those words.

When I got out of bed this morning, still in my pajamas, I decided to do a 10 minute sun salutation sequence before the day properly began. As one movement was overtaken by the next, I realised how easily the focus and control on the physical leads to a mental and spiritual space that makes prayer:

Tadasana (Mountain Pose) Our Father

Urdhva Hastasana (Upward Salute) Who art in Heaven

Uttanasana (Standing Forward Bend) Hallowed by thy name

Ardha Uttanasana (Half Standing Forward Bend) Thy Kingdom Come Thy will be done

Chaturanga Dandasana (Four-Limbed Staff Pose) On Earth

Bhujangasana (Cobra Pose) As it is in heaven

Adho Mukha Svanasana (Downward-Facing Dog Pose) Give us this day our daily bread

Feet to Hands (Transition) And forgive us our sins

Ardha Uttanasana (Half Standing Forward Bend) As we forgive those who sin against us

Uttanasana (Standing Forward Bend) Lead us not into temptation

Urdhva Hastasana (Upward Salute) But deliver us from evil

Tadasana (Mountain Pose) For thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory forever.

Amen

The downward bends match the moments of prayer when you consciously honour the name of God, like bowing/Or when you ask for forgiveness, like entreating. The upward movements channel the joy of realising the glory of heaven and the power of of God. It all fits, body, mind, spirit, in harmony and worship and maybe that's why yoga feels so good, because it helps me worship and of course, that was what God made me for.

Sunday, January 15, 2017

A Tale of Three Cities: Paris

Three Cities - Munich, Lyon, Paris. A plane, a train, a bus. Warm brown, cool blue, cloudy grey. One friend leaving a place she has come to know as home, one in a limbo between leaving and staying, and one who has made her new city her home.

Paris


Barely 5 minutes on the night bus, and a man asked, 'Excuse me, could you move forward to sit wit that guy? My friend and I would like to sit together and there are no more double seats left.' I obliged, and sat with the guy just in front of me, while the man who had asked and his female friend sat behind us.

Mistake.

Throughout the bus ride, the two talked. And what conversations. The girl was obviously English, the guy was obviously French, and also quite obviously flirting with her. He told her that his different body parts could sense people's deepest emotions, and that talking to her made his heart feel like a rock. Then he pressed her for information about her parents, she told him about her Mum's depression when she was pregnant with her and after she was born. He tried to attribute it to her father, and suggested her father didn't show her enough love. She completely rejected that notion. Good for her. Then they talked about auras, and travelling, and pent up anger and writing.

When we stopped for a short break, and they got out to smoke, I looked at the guy beside me who gave an exasperated smile and said 'Those two...they don't shut up, do they?' When 'those two' came back on the bus, and started their conversation again, I had to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing when the guy beside me turned round and said 'excusez moi,' and then whatever the french is for 'would you please be quiet'.

His plea didn't work, but I did manage to get a couple of interrupted hours of sleep before we pulled into the Quai Bercy Bus Station in Paris, I picked up my suitcase and realised I didn't know where the metro station was. I began walking in the general direction of where everyone else seemed to be going, and was slightly surprised when someone asked me 'gfvskjng metro rgkbksgdns?' (the gibberish is because the someone asked me in french)

Also the someone was the noisy guy from behind me in the bus.

I told him I didn't speak French, but that I was also trying to find the metro station, and he asked in the ticket office for directions and offered to bring me there. (If he hadn't, I would have probably followed him at a distance close enough to keep up but far enough not to be creepy)

On the way, he asked where I was from and when I told him 'Singapore' he said he'd been. I asked him what he remembered of it and he said 'There was a girl. She broke my heart.' After listening to all his stuff about auras and how his heart felt like a rock to the girl on the bus, I almost couldn't take him seriously by that point. But I did reply, sort of. I said 'Oh,' and then changed the subject.

We got to the metro, and after buying tickets and going down to the platform, he asked me what my name was, and I asked him what his was - Antoine, like the author of The Little Prince. He asked if we could keep in contact on facebook, but at that point my train came, so I said 'Sure, if you can find me,' as the doors closed. He hasn't found me.

I got to Pasteur station early, and having received a text from Hannah saying her bus was delayed, and being cold and seeing no Simren at the station, I decided to find Simren's place on my own. I figured that since it was a straight walk one way from the station, if Simren came down to find me she'd have to walk past me anyway, in which case I could save her some walking.

I found my way into her apartment complex, up in a lift with a folding door and outside her apartment door. There were two doorbells, and after a brief dither I pressed the top one, 'brrring', and heard a muffled commotion and padded footsteps and Simren pressed herself out, gave me a big hug and told me that everyone was still asleep and I had pressed the doorbell that sounds in the whole house.

Oops.

We sat in the kitchen and talked for a while, about how she's settling into Paris, and then remembered that Hannah would need picking up from the station, so we walked down, found her, and we all sat in the kitchen with hot cups of tea and talked for about three hours, as quietly as possible to avoid the sleepers. (The sleepers were Simren's house mate Siril, her boyfriend Connor, and the residual dregs from a party they'd had two nights ago - Oskar and Sam.)

I went out to wash up and change, and walked past blonde hair blue eyed Oskar smoking out of the window. Embarrassed about waking everyone up, I sort of scurried past and slipped into the bathroom without speaking to him. After we'd all got ready, I met Connor in the kitchen and we talked for a while about WOOFing, something I really hope to do, perhaps in Easter or Summer.

Hannah, Simren and I went for a long walk - from her place to a croissant shop nearby, then to the Jardin du Luxembourg, where Hannah and I had been in the summer of 2015. They are much greyer and more bare in winter, and I had to remind myself in my mind's eye what they look like when the sun is shining and children and playing with boats in the pond. It reminded me of how I had the impression of Hyde Park as a dreary and dismal place, having only been to it in the drizzle, until I went there in summer with Nat and realised how beautiful it actually is.

I was due to meet Weixin for lunch, and found her at the Hotel d'Ville metro station with the rest of her family as well. We ate at Hank Vegan Burger, and it was probably the best vegan burger I've had (I know I say this every time I eat a burger but they just do keep getting better!) I had my burger with fig jam and a thick layer of melty vegan cheese, because that was the closest I was going to get to a cheese platter in Paris!



I met Simren, Hannah, Connor, Sam and Oskar at the Republique station, after waiting for a while and trying not to fall asleep whilst reading A Journal of a Plague Year. Trying not to fall asleep because every time I shook myself awake and looked around me, there was a man on my right looking at me with a menacing grin as if once I did fall into sleep's clutches he would pounce and eat me up.

We took the train to a place where we were supposed to see one of the best sights of Paris, but it was such a cloudy, drizzly day that we didn't see much, but the rotating light of the Eiffel towel beamed round like the Eye of Sauron.

Then we went to a bar, and on the way there Sam told me about Orwell's novels - Animal Farm, Homage to Catalonia and 1984. Having read Animal Farm and 1984, and bits and pieces of The Road to Wigan Pier, I want so badly to read more Orwell (Summer 2017 plans) starting with Homage to Catalonia, Keep the Aspidistra Flying and Down and Out in Paris and London. 

We stopped to get some spices on the way back in a small shop where the spices were kept in sacks and wooden drawers (I imagine that is how Simren always shops, with the little back alley independent hawkers who over time become her friends, never in the impersonal shiny alleys of a superstore) and then headed back home. Simren and Connor parted from us to find Lebanese bread, so we went back to the apartment first, and also let in a cat which seemed to find that terrain familiar for it automatically curled up on the sofa and submitted to stroking.

Over dinner, Sam, Siril and I got into conversation about colour after I mentioned how difficult it is to describe 'cold'. I was delighted that someone shared my interest in colour and sound and sense - and who knew about the 'wine dark sea' and the two blues of the Russian language. I almost felt we shared as secret, although across the table Hannah said our conversation was too intellectual.

Then we watched Planet Earth II, then we went to bed. Then we rose into another cloudy day, and walked cloudy streets again. But I suppose that is the thing about Paris this time, and oddly despite not doing as much, and the city not being as 'pretty' as it was in the summer I was here first, I found myself falling into a unexpected attraction to it. 

Walking in a city with no particular notion of where you are going, but with someone beside you you love and trust - there is a sense of expectancy tempered with timelessness and perpetual now. In Cambridge I have a notebook dedicated to the future - I write down plans, 8.30am to 9am breakfast, 9am to 10am read The Waves, a programme my life to detail it cannot follow but which provide a written surety that there is something to be done and there is a motivation to do it. But that programming means the future is certain, set, six years bond. It means spontaneity is hushed, experience is tempered with anticipation. But when you have no plan but to put one foot before the other, something awakens. Nothing is boring because nothing is in a state of stasis or waiting for the next thing. The thing is the now is you and the grey stain of chewing gum on the pavement and the iron taste of blood when you bite your lip one time too many, and conversations about Mali, and the rattle of spices in a pull out drawer, and the gradient on an artist's painted mug. 


We walked to a big graveyard - talking about timelessness, what better way than to remember eternity? Death is eternity for me - and tried to find Oscar Wilde's grave, bumping into two men who were trying to find Jim Morrison's grave. Wilde's grave had a glass panel before it, which was covered in lip stick stains, and the words 'The Dandy' scrawled on it in pink. Flowers strewn inside. Mum frowned and said it was a defacement when I showed her a picture, but I think that if he'd been alive, he'd have rather liked it.

For some reason as we walked out of that graveyard, I grew warmer and warmer and took off first my coat, then my jumper, craving the whispers of wind through the wool sweater I had on underneath. Perhaps it was midwinter madness, for Hannah and Simren were cold. But I wanted be bare for whatever was floating through Parisian air (and in truth I was warm).


We found a little bar, and drank tea (except for Hannah, who had a mocktail - alcohol is bad for the voice) and left. Connor was craving noodles, so we went to the nearby Thai restaurant and I had my first green curry.


The next morning, we had blue skies for the first time in Paris, but also knew that the clouds were saying goodbye. We went to the market, I was given one roasted almond by a smiling vendor. I dropped my metro ticket in a tray of paprika. We picked out clementines, potatoes, carrots. And then, like the women in A Thousand Splendid Suns who banished all men from the kitchen for the bonding ritual of cooking, Hannah, Simren and I roasted the sweet potatoes, made guacamole, tossed salad and danced to Bollywood songs like the carpet-tearing parties of our childhood while Connor stayed in the lounge, barred from our frenzy of nostalgia.


Lunch was more refined, the roasted vegetables, salad and guac, with a taste of lebanese bread dipped in olive oil and za'atar. Then we had to leave, not before one last walked round the block.
The metro took longer than we thought, but we got on the coach in time, and drove back under skies scratched with luminosity and I wondered how artists captured light in painting. 


“Now more than ever do I realize that I will never be content with a sedentary life, that I will always be haunted by thoughts of a sun-drenched elsewhere.”
― Isabelle Eberhardt

Tuesday, January 3, 2017

2016 - A year in review

So Last-Year's-New-Year was standing on the cold porch of Auntie Carol's house, watching fireworks shoot over the twinkling golden lights of Bath city below me.

It was going back to Grandma, and reminding her where we'd been.

Oh, Grandma.

Cooking broccoli for her, singing along to Leslie Garrett with her in the kitchen, being secretly glad when she diplomatically turned down social engagements that my Aunt tried to arrange because my own inner grandmother soul also preferred being at home, bustling about doing my own thing. She 'makes me slow down when I'm going at a mental 896 km/h'.

I started Lent Term and begun my long lasting love affair with muesli, and danced my swan song to Ballet in Prokofiev's Romeo and Juliet. Cycling to ballet across Parker's Piece and realising that the sun set later and later, getting Prokofiev's score stuck in my head and writing essays to the strident melody of 'Tybalt meets Mercutio', dress rehearsals and then the final night, where Grandma, Aunty Sarah, Uncle John, Renny and Connie all came, and I slipped over a bump in the stage flooring while doing my pirouette.

Lent Term was me trying to push myself, to try new things, but also finding necessary quiet moments, eating breakfast while sitting on the floor and watching the view outside my window. That tree took so long to burst into leaf again, but I watched it every day and felt that in some measure its growth and return to life was mine as well. Perhaps it was those quiet moments that gave me the inner something that you need to create poetry, because I found the words coming quite naturally in writing this Sestina.

Easter break was waking up on a train to mountains outside me, pine trees rushing by and the sound of the clackety-clack of the train on the track. It was climbing mountains with Bramina despite her sprained ankle, lying by a lake on Ben Nevis in the sun, sliding through snow near the peak, and eating bowls upon bowls Bran Flakes.

I remember a run on a day when the sun had chased away all the clouds and proudly staked its bright blue territory across the whole sky. Spring was becoming an undeniable reality (maybe because it was my first spring, but I almost couldn't believe that everything could burst into life again, so vibrantly) and the fields around me were carpeted in bright yellow rapeseed flowers. I felt joy bubbling within me and I sped up and leapt - a grand jete! - into the air! And that wasn't enough, the joy demanded a cart wheel as well, and I obliged, my hands soaking up the slight warmth of the asphalt beneath them.

Summer hit me when I walked down the back path near the coach house and got a full whiff of manure - the gardeners were fertilising the college flower patches - because for some reason smells are so much more potent in the heat. After the stress of promo exams were the heady joys of Shakespeare, punting in the sunshine with strawberries on board, cycles to Grantchester and talking about childhood memories with Alex. I remember the shock and hilarity after Rosa jumped off the punt into the water because it was just too hot.

But it was also a summer of thinking more about those who suffer. I became personal coordinator in JustLove and every committeee meeting included prayer for issues of the world, for the poor, the hungry, the oppressed. The Mean Bean Challenge was a direct experience with hunger and the dearth of choice and freedom to create as a result of poverty. The Food Justice talk not only meant stepping out of my comfort zone to speak about something I really care about, but also taught me so much more about how God cannot be estranged from what we choose to eat and drink, wear and do, how we live basically.

And yet living in Cambridge in the summer is so comfortable. I sat in the garden with Alex and we painted, and read out bits of Woolf, and watchcd Hamlet while eating chocolate covered popcorn. And then summer edged its way out of term, and after a heady day of Midsummer Nights' Dream magic, I was thurst into the on-the-verge feeling of crying-but-not-quite, before lift off and plunge into a great gallivanting adventure and a wonderful friendship.

Every architectural wonder and point of attraction was heart-lifting and awe-inspiring, but the smaller things too, were special. Listening to the hypnotic music of a steel pan drum, standing and gazing at the Tuscan valleys after chancing upon Jan Faber's art exhibition, watching the plume of foam from the back of a boat as we sped away from Capri, meeting Giovanni (and eating his pasta), whose love and care is unforgettable, stretching on a train, sampling different jams, whizzing down a hill, screaming at a murderous cat, the first bite of Kartoffelbrot, stealing bites of strawberries, stealing someone else's leftover toast, seeing Mum again, lying in the rays of the setting sun, and getting extra bread on the airplane.

Summer was also finding out Grandma has cancer, and knowing although not yet fully comprehending what not having her in her house meant.

And then back home, and beginning work. Both mind-numbing and exciting, especially after admin work ended and artists arrived. Late nights and bright lights of the Night Festival, and a special moment of cartharsis when I was left alone with one of the artist's trees, :Samara.

Nights also meant boardgames nights with the church friends that almost seemed life I had pressed the pause button when I left and the play button when I returned - unchanged was the friendship although cross country communication isn't our strong point. Nights also meant arriving in Pua at dusk, and having our first lesson when it was already dark outside and the children were tired, but the next days meant more and more, for us and for them. Nights also meant that long long conversation with Emily when she slept over (when we were supposed to sleep early to wake up to hike, but ended up sleeping at about 4am, and still going for a hike anyway) and feeling sad that I can't always be there for her like I want to be (our cross country communication is also not strong).

But night dissolves into day and days passed so quickly. I went for a walk with Dad and Hannah along the railway tracks again before we left. We bought food from Real Food, which I'd become a recognisable customer of since it was so near my workplace, and we sat around the table that is no longer the table from my childhood but a new one with sharper corners and a glass top. I packed, I prepared, I flew off on a plane that gave me a spare seat which meant space to meditate because the second leaving is different and the second year is different.

Second year first term, and I found myself unprepared. In my first week back I teared up seeing Grandma in Pinford End. She is happy, but she is away from where I locate her in the mind of my understanding and that shift is hard to accept, when it means accepting that she is limited. Essays I felt I was failing at (contrary to my supervisor's satisfaction with my work - perhaps it was my confusion that what I thought was bad, she still found good, that accentuated my lostness and frustration)

But I have friends who cheer me up - a ceilidh that left me breathless and laughing, a halloween party that was fun and ridiculous, weekly meetings with the Just Love crew which meant prayer and laughter as Neil came up with a serious idea that couldn't be taken seriously what with him holding a black bean burger patty in either hand. Ah, Just Love. In that little kitchen every Monday, I'd always arrive late after translation classes and after a brief wait at the door (will they hear me?) would trip down the stairs into warmth and security. The last Just Love meeting was in Downing Chapel, when Tim found the exact words I needed to hear from God (and funnily from the bible passage we'd done multiple times in church that term) and we sat eating banana bread on a warm floor.

But sometimes this term I didn't feel like praying - once, after a late essay night, filling in for early prayer the next day. I prayed with words I could conjure but didn't truly understand, only hoping that others could find God in them although I felt far from His presence. And then I went out and my bike was stuck and I cried and called Mum, and called Nat, and cried more.

And so there were storms, but now I am in the process of finding peace - and trying to deliberately find peace in God. I am far from it (I wrote in my diary in the middle of term 'I feel like what ever it is, I am getting nearer.' but I still feel far away. Slowly, patience, breathe.) but I am getting there. Step by step, run by run (and in running through the fields I find the mind space to breathe in God).

After Term ended and 2016 so quickly seemed about to close, I slipped out of England and back to June, to Munich and Nat except it was different this time, since Munich was cold and Nat was leaving. But oh, what a lot we did - climbed, skated, jumped, explored a castle, indulged in the Christmas season, and had real conversations about worth and new beginnings and light-hearted conversations about chocolate milk and Jimmy Fresh, and came home to bake.Then to Lyon, where I saw Niki's new world and also her pining for the one she left behind in Singapore, which reminded me of me when I started in Cambridge, but intensified. Then to Paris, where I had to reproach myself for judging it so harshly the first time I came, when I hardly knew it.

From Paris back to England it was a shift, and hearing English voices on the tube sounded harsh to my ears. Reality itself seemed harsh, and less controllable than I liked - and at the same time I felt frustrated at how days were spent often in states of transit, small talk or waiting in limbo while plans were sorted out, which meant wasted time, wasted me, wasting away just waiting. Frustration came out in many ways - mostly tears, also tiredness which exacerbated it.

But despite it all, Christmas still came through - happily with Grandma, again my rock.

Then Grandma fell and New Years Eve was again spent miserably. I got a chilblain.

And so I ended 2016 in not a very happy place, but as I wrote this post I realise again how this year has been a blessing in more ways than one. I've grown, and growing is tiring but necessary. I know there is much left to grow, and much to let go of, and 2017 will somehow make me learn even if I am sometimes resistant to that sort of learning (give me books instead, let me tell you what zeugma is and how it changes meaning, far be it from me that I am forced to change myself. But I will change - in the Potter's Hands.)


Mum, is my face fat?


I was in the kitchen this evening, reading, when Mum came in and I don't know precisely why but I asked her:

'Mum, is my face fat?'
 
Since coming to England I do think my cheeks have got rounder. I remember when Nat and I was flying back to Singapore, I passed a woman from church in the departure lounge, who didn't say hello. When I got on the airplane, I passed her again and she said 'Miriam! I didn't recognise you because...' and she blew out her cheeks and patted them.

And I felt horrified - had I so drastically changed that I was unrecognisable? Was I really fat, something I've never been in my life (apart from when I was the chubbiest baby)?

I know all this sounds terribly vain, and I am often embarrassed that I think of it. But the truth is, girls do think about this often. Why? I don't know. But I wonder how many hours and days of my life I have wasted just worrying about how I look, and particularly how I look to others. It's embarrassing because I so often reassure my friends that they look fine, just being their beautiful selves, but it's difficult to apply the same grace to myself. (I've certainly heard that before.)

It is terrible how, once mentioned, an idea is hard to shake. I couldn't get the notion that my face was fat out of my head. I googled 'exercises for face', 'how to reduce face fat', 'facial exercises for slim face'. I tried different ways of smiling to make my cheeks not go out so wide, or to make my mouth look wider in comparison.

'Of course not, darling,' Mum replied. 'You are stunning,' (being my mum, a certain degree of hyperbole is permissible) 'Why are you doubting yourself? God made you beautiful.'

And of course, as usual, she is right. I don't know why this stupid, vain, time-wasting worry has been rooted in my head.

'Your face is beautiful, but what happens on your face is more important. Your facial expressions. You could be beautiful and smile, or ugly and smile and you'd still be beautiful. Or you could be beautiful and be grumpy, and that's not so nice. You are beautiful on the outside, but more importantly, it is the inside that always needs working on.'

I was glad that she said that, because I might have a beautiful face but my inside definitely needs working on, particularly since I've been feeling incredibly frustrated, restless and sad the past few days. There is a line from a song I used to sing in church long ago: 'Make me, mold me, use me, fill me; I give my life to the Potter's hands. Call me, guide me, lead me, walk beside me; I give my life to the Potter's hands.' He has made me, and knows me. He has called me to greater things that thinking of circumference and diameter of a few square inches of transient flesh. For within that is a spirit that was given life and breath by God to worship Him. Lord, turn my worry and vanity into worship. Let me gaze on your face and not think stupid things about mine. Help me look into the mirror not to try to manipulate angles but to affirm Your power of creation and Your call to live a life that pleases You and spreads Your love. And please walk beside me as I try because I can't do this on my own.

A Tale of Three Cities: Lyon

Three Cities - Munich, Lyon, Paris. A plane, a train, a bus. Warm brown, cool blue, cloudy grey. One friend leaving a place she has come to know as home, one in a limbo between leaving and staying, and one who has made her new city her home.

Lyon

It was an early start from Munich, to get my train from the Hbf to Stuttgart, and then change at Strasbourg, and then on to Lyon. However, at the Hbf Nat and I realised that my first train had been delayed, meaning I would miss my connection at Stuttgart. 

Since Ich kann nicht Deutsch sprechen, and I somehow needed to cross the 657.8km (137 hours of walking) from Munich to Lyon, Nat took charge, bringing us to the Deutsche Bahn information office, and speaking in rapid German to explain the situation. The Deutsche Bahn office was so helpful, finding alternative routes, printing new tickets, and letting me know that for the inconvenience I could ask for a partial refund of my train ticket. I had a few more minutes with Nat leaning against a cold cafe counter, before we had to have the actual last goodbye hug and I stepped onto the train.



My new train schedule meant I had 3 hours in Stuttgart, and on a day like that I couldn't not stash my suitcase in a locker and go for a short run (I needed to get back in time so I wouldn't have to pay extra for the locker use!) I saw a sign that said 'An Open Society is built on playful experimentation' at the schauspiel stuttgart (I don't really know what that means, but it seems to have some sort of association to the theatre) and got stopped by a man asking for directions in German (Ich kann nicht Deutsch sprechen) and exchanged friendly waves with an old man as I passed him twice while running round this little pond, with bits of it iced over. The second time he saw me he guffawed (A word I feel can only be applied to sweet old men with bellies for belly laughs) - he couldn't believe I'd made it round the lake so quickly!

I retrieved my suitcase, but with more time to spare I took it with me to quickly explore the Christmas Market in Stuttgart, which was much the same as the ones in Munich. A man tried to hand me a bible, but my hands were full, which I suppose could be a metaphor for my relationship with God quite often, unfortunately.

The train rides after that were not pleasant, not because of the trains themselves but because I was sitting so long I felt like my very bones were fossilizing and sinking into the seats. I tried stretching my legs, but kept accidentally awkwardly grazing the feet of the passenger across from me so I refrained from stretching unless he'd gone to the toilet (something he did at least 3 times)

I was so glad when I emerged into the Gare de Lyon, and allowed myself to be tugged by the pull of the crowds to what I assumed was the right exit - an assumption confirmed when I saw Niki standing below me as I walked down the steps. Niki is nothing but comforting, and so is her food - we had pasta with an aubergine sauce (thank you french carrefour!) and pumpkin baked very simply with olive oil, salt and pepper, which we had in our pasta and later smashed onto rice crackers.


I woke up early, to find Niki gone to school, and after breakfast I headed to the nearby Carrefour to pick up some food for the next few days. Navigating a supermarket in a foreign language isn't easy, and I checked every packet of croissant, hoping to find a vegan one but no luck. A woman selling mangoes and pineapples let me try some of the mango she'd cut up, and after some hand gesturing and attempts at French, she understood that I'd like 2 ripe mangoes please, and gave me one to eat today and one to eat tomorrow.

Niki's friend Penelope and I went to the Musée des Beaux-Arts de Lyon (Museum of Fine Arts), which is near the beautiful Hotel De Ville (Town Hall) and the Opera theatre, where ballet dancers rehearse in a room that has windows as walls, and the whole city is spread out before them, or so Penelope tells me.


I found myself enamoured with the Medieval art, especially thinking of expressions of piety and devotion, and the other little things I'd picked up from last term. I also loved the section of Japanese pottery, where I could pick out the bowls and cups that had been fixed with lacquer dusted with gold, as part of the Kintsugi (“golden joinery”) or kintsukuroi (“golden repair”) tradition, which sees the brokeness of life as something to be embraced and illuminated rather than hidden.


We wandered into a few shops for Penelope to look at a few bags, stopped of in a bakery where I tried to hide behind Penelope from the cashier to avoid having to expose my inability to even say 'I don't speak French' (Je ne parle pas français)

Before the Fete de Lumiere that night, Niki and I went to her friend Chloe's for dinner. We wandered around the streets for a while, Niki with her phone sandwiched between her shoulder and ear as she tried to explain where we were to Chloe who gave directions. We seemed to be at the right place, but the wrong place at the same time, until we heard a shrill 'Niki!' from above, and saw Chloe waving to us from her window!

Chloe is from Lebanon, but lived in Bahrain (pronounced with a gutteral 'h' that both Niki and I struggled to say) and cooked us a typical Bahrain dish of cumin spiced chickpeas - just chickpeas, cumin, salt, pepper, olive oil and water but it was so delicious. She also revealed to us that traditional tabbouleh has no couscous in it - it is just parsley and tomatoes!


We left to find two other school mates, and then walked Lyon's illuminated streets in the very very cold night air. Hot chestnuts and vin chaud (french mulled wine) were passed around, the hot brown paper bag of chestnuts tightly clutched and crumpled in each gloved hand as a momentary respite from the chill. Perhaps because of the security scares France has had in the past, the Fete wasn't as extravagant and festive as I anticipated, and my chief joy came from talking to Niki and her friends,



Chloe slept over at Niki's place, and parted with us midway to Le Marche de Noel (Christmas Market). The sun was warm on our backs and 'Miri, turn round,' Niki said, and took what she proudly calls her HONY picture of me with the bustling market in the background. I managed to get my own HONY photo of Niki the next day, when testing my camera beside the Rhone river, where we sat and peeled oranges, and talked about home, feeling out of place, and adjusting to new places. Then we waited in a long queue, took a funicular up to fourviere, and looked at the neat squares of Lyon from on high.



We were so cold when we got down, and I was thankful for the crush of bodies on the Lyon buses which meant shared body heat. We picked up a few things from the Asian grocers for the dinner party the next day, went home, and ended the day laughing as we put on face masks.

The last day was first buying food for the part - bottles and bottles of Coca Cola which required frequent stops to rest as we carried them home. Penelope, Niki and I started cooking for the dinner party, but since the sushi Niki and I were making was pretty easy, we went for a walk down the Rhone after lunch.


We made sort-of sushi, since we slightly burnt the rice (or rather, the bottom of the pot that the rice was in) and had to substitute the sweet soy sauce that real sushi comes with with an eclectic mix of sesame oil and soy sauce. But it tasted rather good with the avocado, tofu and cucumber sushi we made.

Marco, an Italian, came early to prepare his pasta carbonara - which he explained to us has no cream ('the biggest lie in history') but is instead made of raw egg and egg yolk, pepper, and parmareggio cheese stirred in to form a thick sauce that is poured over the just boiled noodles to slightly cook and thicken it. Different foods were made by the different nationalities that came to the dinner party - greek food and italian food dominated, some brazilian food too and a german girl who was also (mostly) vegan brought a delicious chickpea salad.

I felt so happy to leave Niki this way, surrounded by friends, loud conversation and good food. Lyon is supposed to be a student city and in that little apartment that night, the rude, sharp and irritable Lyonnais people we'd come across previously were forgotten in the light of the hum (and sometimes loud greek or italian yells) of gathered people. My bus was at midnight - Niki sent me off without wearing her coat, so it was a quick good bye and I sat down, hoping to get some sleep.


You are stronger than you know Niki, and wiser too. And so whatever you decide about staying, or going, you will learn and grow, and go with God.