A Town Called Jejune

Deep into the night. 2 am. An email comes in.

Something about rejection.

My heart sinks to unimaginable depths but almost immediately rights itself. I don’t think I gave my best, and that is the single most frustrating thing I have to work on. I felt in the past few months there was a blockage in a pipe somewhere and the pipe wouldn’t flow. Perhaps think of an artery that has been blocked by fat. Something like this happened to my grandfather before. Why do old men always enter my consciousness? Why are they always magical and have powers? Whatever it was I was stuck and didn’t write a word of fiction for many months on end. It was as if an entire world inside of me had moved out for the winter and left me slightly empty.

The inhabitants only moved in recently, just over a month ago. I’ll call this town Jejune. The Jejunians were a group of soldiers, two old men (one on a wheelchair and another a cookhouse uncle), a young couple and a group of three friends who met in the army. They lived and talked to each other, loved, lost and hurt. As did I. And I gave them what I could every now and then so they had just enough to survive. I didn’t let them die; not on my watch. And I’m proud of that.

In any case the rejection was for a submission I made with a collection of short stories. It could have been worst. It always can be worst.

But at 3 am as I write this I feel a keen sense of revival. I will continue building up this home. I’ll build a wheelchair ramp for the old man on the wheelchair, I’ll take very careful notice of the way it whirrs as it ascends. I will give all the soldiers a face and a house to go back to with parents who miss them. I will make lovers fall in love again and books fall out of shelves. I will plant the trees on that island one by one until from a birds eye view everything looks green. I will imagine children, cats, dogs, pineapples and old hamburgers left to rot and maggots that turn not into flies but grasshoppers and a tombstone of a friend long gone but someone still loves very much.

I will write because, let’s say I didn’t write. It would be imaginable, that’s what it would be.

When a Son does not Return Home: Deaths in the SAF

A full-time national serviceman died on Friday, Sept. 15, 2017, while taking part in a military exercise in Australia’s Central East Coast.

3rd Sergeant Gavin Chan was guiding an armoured military vehicle out of rocky terrain when it turned over on its side, striking him unconscious. He was evacuated by helicopter to a nearby hospital, where he was pronounced dead that evening at 10:36pm. He had just turned 21.

Described by his friends as someone who was friendly and cheerful, Gavin performed his tasks diligently.

His photo was splashed across news websites and on Facebook shares; a young man wearing a well-ironed parade attire, donning a black beret with a Singapore Armed Forces (SAF) emblem shining on it. He was smiling at the camera, a state flag behind him to his left.

Almost every Singaporean who was registered as male took such a photo, the kind where you wore your military best and stood in front of the camera and smiled, or at least pretended to. And then they’d give you a certificate that came with the picture, the symbol of the country’s pride in your service.

This was a photo that I had to take as well. When I smiled, I didn’t expect to die in the next few months, and I’m guessing the same for Gavin. Like the rest of us who served, our smiles were the smiles of optimism, of better days to come.

I am not intimately familiar with this particular case. I have left the SAF for more than three years at the time of writing this, and it’s a part of my life that is largely behind me. Some of my training was dangerous. I had to trudge through dense jungle traversing ridges where two steps to the left or right would result in a headlong tumble into the unknown depths. I had to endure thirst and hunger because our food had to be rationed properly when we were on weeklong missions in the tropics. I had to throw a grenade with my trembling master hand. However, not once did I feel like my life was in any real danger.

The assumption that our sons come back home safe is part and parcel of national service. In peacetime Singapore, anything less would be a tragedy.

Gavin’s parents told the media at the wake of their son, that they had no more tears left to cry. They were both wearing white, and both looked like they hadn’t managed to catch any sleep in days. “He wanted to do social work,” said Mdm. Lim, Gavin’s mother. Gavin had planned on applying to study overseas, as he could not get into a local course. On weekends when he booked out from camp, he would come home to wash and iron his own clothes. “He was a responsible man,” said his father, Mr. Chan. “He knew what he was supposed to do.”

Gavin’s parents eventually thanked the SAF for its assistance rendered to them in such a difficult time. They also thanked the organization for flying their daughter from Wellington where she was studying, to Queensland to retrieve Gavin’s body.

Not every parent who loses their son in the time of duty is grateful to the state.

Private Dominique Sarron Lee died on April 17th 2012, after succumbing to an allergic reaction to smoke grenades during an army exercise. The combat medic attached to the platoon did not have enough experience dealing with allergic reactions of this nature, and by the time he was transported to the National University Hospital he was pronounced dead. It was only one and a half hours after the incident.

Like Gavin, Dominique was only 21 years of age and died days after his birthday. His mother wailed uncontrollably during the funeral service, and his father spoke some quiet words over the grave. His younger brother, Daryl, played an acoustic rendition of Mr. Big’s “To Be with You” during the service. It was one of Dominique’s favourite songs. Posted on a Facebook page set up in the memory of Dominique was a picture of him and his younger brother when they were just toddlers. “It was from you that I first learned to think, to feel, to imagine, to believe,” read the caption posted by one of his friends.

It was later uncovered that the then platoon commander, Captain Najib Hanuk Muhamad Jalal, had thrown six smoke grenades instead of the stipulated two. This was due to unfavourable wind conditions which made smoke cover for the troops particularly difficult to achieve. The excess smoke, however, might have contributed to the severity of the allergic reaction. The lapses in training protocol was what prompted Dominique’s mother, Madam Felicia Seah, to find answers.

Her attempts at justice would later captivate an entire nation, as she attempted to sue one of Singapore’s most powerful organisations for negligence. She would eventually fail. The Singapore high court struck out the lawsuit filed by Madam Seah in 2014 under the Government Proceedings Act, stating that any member of the armed forces cannot be held civilly liable for causing the death of another while on duty. Both Captain Najib and Captain Chia Thye Siong, the safety officer at that time were protected under this law. They were only punished with fines and delays in promotions, and were charged under military instead of criminal law.

“How do you expect me to move on? I’ve tried, but still cannot,” said Dominique’s mother during a news interview in 2013, one year after his death. She visits him every day at his grave at Lim Chu Kang Christian Cemetery, spending an hour cleaning his grave and talking to him. His grave is black and shiny, with an electric guitar at the side of the tombstone and a large speaker on top of it. Placed on and around the grave are various memorembilia, toy cars and miniature jukeboxes, a small vase of flowers and a Hoegarden beer placed at an inconspicuous corner. On the roadside of his grave, the grass is specially mown to form the words “SUPERFLYDOM”, which was what his close friends referred to him as. Madam Seah told reporters that she still cries herself to sleep every night.

Until today, many of her questions remain unanswered.

In a Facebook post early in 2016 that was shared more than 13,000 times, she apologised to her eldest son. “My dearest Dom, my heart continues to bleed for you. It has been 3 years and 10 months since you were taken from me and still, I haven’t been able to get any closure.” In the post, Madam Seah mentions the two officers who were granted statutory immunity despite failing to follow the standard operating procedures. She also had to pay for their legal costs, or in her words, “pay[ing] them for taking away your life.” She continued, “In the past 3 years, I have been worn down, beaten and defeated by the very government I taught you to trust; worn-down, beaten and defeated by the very system I counselled you to have faith in; worn-down, beaten and defeated by the very people I advised you to respect and honour. Dom, forgive me. I taught you wrong.”

The SAF eventually waived the legal costs of the lawsuit. This was after Defence Minister Ng Eng Hen urged the courts to do so, stating in a Facebook post that the legal system “need not add to the pain and anguish of the family of the late [Private] Lee.”

2012, which was the year before I enlisted, saw the death of five men during their service for the army. Dominique Sarron Lee was amongst the five, and by far the most high profile case. It was five cases where a mother’s fear was realised. When sons did not return home.

When I enlisted in 2013, I hugged my mother before walking off with the other enlistees. As I walked off my mother shed a tear, and I remember thinking that she was silly for doing so. I was going to be ok. We were young men who had to serve whether we liked it or not.

I told my parents over late night phone calls that the deaths from the previous year’s incidents had resulted in safer trainings due to reactionary measures put in place. We were not allowed to walk under the rain in case of lightning. We could only wear one layer of clothing so as to prevent heat injury. Anyone with allergic reactions or a complicated medical history had to wear a yellow wristband and be closely observed by instructors.

I could tell that what my parents wanted above anything else was to have me home safe every weekend.

Love is sometimes an act of following a simple routine, to have your loved ones do the same things again and again. Gavin’s parents recalled his simple wish for a chocolate cake on his 21st Birthday. “A 21st birthday to a boy or girl – at that age – is an important day. I wanted to buy him a good dinner but he refused to accept it,” said Mr. Chan. “He just wanted to have a chocolate cake, that’s all.” “Every birthday… always the same chocolate cake,” echoed Mdm. Lim.

In a Facebook post, Dominique’s close friend Timmy Low wrote about their correspondence and friendship. They made plans to go out for drinks the night before he passed away.

“Take care bro, I’ll see you then”
“Will do bud, be safe”

The meet up never materialised.

Perhaps this was why I was determined to keep to my routines when I was enlisted, or even beyond that. I would have at least one meal with my parents upon every book out. I would sleep on my own bed no matter which friend asked if I wanted to stay out late or sleepover. I would not miss any birthdays if I could help it. I would not get into trouble in camp so I could book out on time.

My parents kept up the same end of the deal, fetching me to and from camp without fail. Once on a rainy Sunday evening my family car was knocked from the back, and my parents had to pull over and settle the damages privately. My father got back as soon as he could so he could drive me to camp on time. I could tell that the incident put him a foul mood but he didn’t let it show. They wished me well as I trudged off to camp later, umbrella in hand. Another time my expected bookout time was delayed by two hours. I had already told my dad in advance to drive over, and so he did. He waited two hours in his car outside the gates. He didn’t complain when I got in, but drove me for supper instead. Driving home without me was out of the question. Routine was routine and we stuck to is as a family.

You take whatever time you have with the people that matter because you never know what might happen in the months after, or even the next day.

When Gavin’s parents were asked how they were coping, both broke down in tears. “To lose a son, it’s very painful,” began Mr. Chan. “To lose a good son, I can’t swallow that.” There were a half dozen voice recorders pointed at the parents, forming a neat semi-circle on the white table. Cameras were snapping away.

It is easy to think of death and the nation as abstract notions, forces greater than us that we find difficult to fight. But in the fight lies all the meaning in the world. It is because of the fight that Dominique’s mother had established a new routine, a new way of loving, one that she pursued fiercely to honour her son.

In the years that followed Dominique’s death the nation watched as his mother was pushed to a corner, resigned and defeated, her quest for justice unsuccessful, culminating in an emotional plea. “What we want is justice, what we want is closure,” an exasperated Madam Seah told the media. “After [all these years,] we cannot get any closure.”

Gavin’s parents could only find the strength to thank an organisation that indirectly caused the death of their son.

Perhaps our undoing lies not in the large forces of death and society but in the disemboweled routines and emptiness of the everyday.

Defeat lies in the bed untouched, the slice of chocolate cake left in the fridge for no one to eat. Grief comes in imaginary laundry cycles and clothes never to be washed again, never to be ironed again, never to be placed in cupboards too high for a mother to reach. Bereavement is a father having two glasses of beer to himself, leaving one untouched, listening to his child’s favourite song in the background and for the rest of his life because his child cannot.

All they can do is continue loving.

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References:

  1. Maniar, J., Chander, C., & Neo, S. (n.d.). Facebook. Retrieved October 01, 2017, from https://www.facebook.com/DomSarronLee/
  2. Ong, J. (2017, September 27). Hundreds turn out at military funeral for NSF soldier Gavin Chan who died in Australia. Retrieved October 01, 2017, from http://www.channelnewsasia.com/news/singapore/hundreds-turn-out-at-military-funeral-for-nsf-soldier-gavin-chan-9243622
  3. Officers in Dominique Lee case were punished: SAF. (n.d.). Retrieved October 01, 2017, from http://www.todayonline.com/singapore/saf-responds-online-debate-death-private-dominique-sarron-lee
  4. ‘To lose a good son, I can’t swallow that’: Parents of NSF who died in training mishap in Australia. (2017, September 20). Retrieved October 01, 2017, from http://www.channelnewsasia.com/news/singapore/to-lose-a-good-son-i-can-t-swallow-that-parents-of-nsf-who-died-9233792
  5. Chow, J. (2016, January 19). NSF’s death: Mum still trying to come to terms with loss. Retrieved October 01, 2017, from http://www.straitstimes.com/singapore/nsfs-death-mum-still-trying-to-come-to-terms-with-loss
  6. “where’s the justice in that?”, asks friend of Dominique Sarron Lee. (2016, March 07). Retrieved October 01, 2017, from https://www.theonlinecitizen.com/2016/03/07/wheres-the-justice-in-that-asks-friend-of-dominique-sarron-lee/
  7. Lum, S. (2016, March 20). Court rejects suit over smoke-grenade death in training. Retrieved October 01, 2017, from http://www.straitstimes.com/singapore/courts-crime/court-rejects-suit-over-smoke-grenade-death-in-training
  8. Chelvan, V. P. (2017, March 13). SAF officers in NSF death have ‘statutory immunity’: Judicial Commissioner. Retrieved October 01, 2017, from http://www.channelnewsasia.com/news/singapore/saf-officers-in-nsf-death-have-statutory-immunity-judicial-commi-7994804
  9. (2016, March 17). Mindef explains stance on NSF Dominique Sarron Lee’s death. Retrieved October 01, 2017, from http://www.straitstimes.com/singapore/mindef-explains-stance-on-nsf-dominique-sarron-lees-death
  10. http://www.asiaone.com/singapore/22000-legal-bill-fully-waived-family-dead-nsf
  11. http://www.asiaone.com/singapore/death-nsf-dominique-sarron-lee-officers-punished-fines-delays-promotions

A Dream is a Soft Place to Land: Waitress Review

The story of Waitress is a familiar one: a marriage of convenience, a woman who doesn’t want to get pregnant, an affair with the gynaecologist, and finally a choice: baby or husband. But wow, what a choice.

The lead Jenna (played at that time by the wonderful Sara Bareilles) is, on paper, an average waitress at an average diner trapped in a painfully loveless and low-key abusive marriage.

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Sara Bareilles as Jenna Hunterson

Pie making for her is both nostalgia and prospect. It pulls her back into a time when her mother was still there to guide her through pie making, and then pushes her forward to aspire for more. Pies don’t just make Jenna a living, but narrate her life, with flavour and quality waxing and waning, carefully calibrating yet wildly spectacular according to her moods and fancies. There are pies named after moods, situations, predicaments (most memorable was the banged-up pie). But misfortune aside, Pie making is overall a prospect, the grand tale of the what ifs; but it could very soon become much more than a dream if Jenna is given the right conditions to excel. The ‘right condition’ seems to arrive with a pie making contest that careens around the corner, and she knows, can feel, that this might just be what her life has been setting her up for. Such is the power of pies.

Jenna’s loveless husband Earl sets up a different question; that is, whether commitment is worth being upheld for the sake of it. Being in an abusive relationship, Earl constantly demands money from Jenna to keep up his life of vice. It’s the kind of abuse that you can’t rise above by simply belting out “Gravity”, so what Sara does is that she does (I say Sara instead of Jenna for good reason) the most beautiful and soul churning rendition of “She used to be mine” while half baked from stage pregnancy and sitting on a dirty couch she uses to hide money from her husband. This has the entire row in front of me crying (and not just wipe-a-tear-from-the-side-of-your-cheek-crying but all out bawling). “Leave him” seems to be an acute summary of what the other waitresses tell her, and I can tell that the audience seems to want this as well, the buzz of a pre-riot crowd is always there when Earl is there. And yet she can’t. Earl is obligation personified, something you invest in for years and so holds you hostage for years to come. Something you cannot just quit under normal circumstances, under the monotonous gaze of living. But Jenna is about to have a baby and these are not normal circumstances. The story has a spark.

Dr Pomatter enters as Jenna’s gynaecologist and I die a little because he’s played by Jason Mraz. I am still trying to think of a better actor for the role (there are probably many) but Jason brings a feeling onto stage that is a dollop of happy go lucky with a tinge of outright complexity behind those blue eyes.

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Jason Mraz as Dr. Pomatter.

He speaks with smooth clarity, the kind you hear in his songs and then before you know it (and no one is surprised), the pies that Jenna brings for Dr. Pomatter has him thinking about Jenna all day. And Dr. Pomatter is an avid health freak as well, having never eaten pies for ten years or something to that effect. The moment he eats a pie for someone (in this case our ever growing Jenna) is when a spell is broken. He falls for her. Or actually on her, when the door is locked. And they go at it like teenagers, breaching all protocols both professionally biologically and what not. Dr. Pomatter presents Jenna a choice. Continue with infidelity, or stop. She continues not purely out of lust, I suspect, but because the choice to continue in the throes of passion wasn’t a choice granted to her for as long as she can remember. Their passion on stage isn’t merely a cheeseball cheating session but a way for Jenna to say that she has lived beyond the claustrophobic walls of Earl and the incoming baby .

The character that almost doesn’t get any credit for me is the baby. The baby is largely a concept through the play, becoming a bump and then a plastic doll (I don’t think it’s legal to use a real baby for plays) when she is finally born. As something that spends most of her time as an idea, there’s pretty strong Juno-esque feelings of hate turning into slowly-nurtured love. It is right at the start when Earl finds out about her pregnancy that she asks Jenna: who are you going to love more, me or the baby? And Jena reluctantly replies: You. But then gravity sets in. Life grows within. There is the pie contest that cannot be entered if her savings are used on a crib. Yet there is Earl who doesn’t get any less abusive in a time when she needs him the most. Pommater continues to be her gynaecologist through it all, inspecting her before eating her pies.

The baby is at the centre of it all, and urgency grows as she grows. And then with childbirth comes clarity. The waxing and waning welcomes another life to this earth that emerges slowly, then all at once. It is the kind of clarity that renders a spoiler alert necessary at the start of this article which I have not done. But all I can say is, with childbirth comes a reorganisation of priority: sentiments are split over many issues: Me or him? Baby or self? Stay or go? Give up or fight on?

Crib or pie contest? Which dreams to you withhold for the realisation of others?

I was out of words at the end, the way people probably feel after a stellar massage or when news that their loved ones are safe comes through the line. That’s the kind of being that Waitress casts you into. Forget about emotions, think a mosaic of those emotions forming a larger pattern and perhaps you’ll know what I mean.

The play succeeds due to the many elements of it coming together swimmingly at the end, as if all heading down a single stream of newfound consciousness. We have this consciousness with the creation of life, steaming, crying life in the hands of Jenna. Any play that can arrive at a singularity without seeming contrived has done its job, giving the audience a soft place to land, rest their heads, weep, and then ultimately: feel a bit better.

The Checklist Syndrome

 

I was on a bus in Europe with a friend that took me from the airport to his university apartment. It was 11pm and we were both pretty tired.

Before we talked about the general shape of our lives, he gave me an epic takedown of his time in Barcelona, where he had just flown in from. I told him a bit about Germany. We were 23, in the prime of our lives. Best friends on the road. An exciting 5 days awaited.

The bus continued meandering down Irish streets. I looked out of the bus and noticed that there were more bars than anything else. An impeccable gloom permeated. The conversation veered violently to the topic of travelling. It all started when I asked him if he was tired after 4 months of being in a foreign country.

“Sometimes lonely, yes. But tired? No. I think I’ve managed my travels well.”

“Is there a not managing well?”

He smirked at this point. The streetlights hit the raindrops on the window, forming ominous dotted shadows on his face.

“I’ve come up with this term called the Checklist Syndrome,” he said after some thought. “It refers to when people just travel to as many places and do as many things as they can in the span their exchange allows. I’ve seen a lot of it in my time here. A lot of my friends just hop week to week, country to country.”

I told him that this shouldn’t be surprising. That Singaporeans especially don’t have so many chances to go out there and see this part of the world because of the distance. “It’s like going to a buffet,” I said. “You save up for it with cheaper meals then you stuff yourself full.”

“But it gets pretty tiring, doesn’t it?”

The bus was on a highway now. Around us a perennial silence.

“I think it’s ok if you know why you’re doing it,” he said.

What did he mean by “know why you’re doing it”? I was about to go on my own exchange in the following semester to the East Coast of the United States. I felt like this was something I should listen closely to.

“You’d notice during your time in Singapore that your Instagram feed is flooded with photos of your friends on exchange.”

I nodded. I could already name quite a few.

“It all looks damn good right? The whole hopping from country to country thing.”

I had to admit that it did. Looking through the Instagram feeds of my friends was like stepping into a tourist brochure. Mountains of Germany, snow in Austria, Martian landscapes of Iceland, Mussels in Brussels, Canals of Amsterdam. I could see all that Europe had to offer from a classroom in Singapore and it all looked fantastic. More than just fantastic, it all looked flawless.

“The sights are amazing for sure, but the thing about Instagram is that it makes these sights seem like all there is to pursue in a foreign country.”

I asked him what he meant.

“As tourists I think it’s inevitable that we come to an unfamiliar place and pick out the highlights. But I think a lot of us forget that we aren’t exactly tourists but are here on a semester-long exchange. We have more time to just look around. There’s more to any place than good scenery.”

“So by knowing why you’re doing something it means…”

I thought about what I wanted from my own experiences. Something special to take home after it was all over. I wanted the scent on the place to linger on my sleeves. I wanted some inspiration that Singapore could not give. It was all so vague. I felt honestly disarmed at that point, unsure of why I really wanted to travel halfway around the world for. He looked at me and went on.

“To me it means that you settle down at where you’re living, and you really get to know the place. The history, the people, the culture. The sights look pretty, and anyone can see that. But not many people can tell you why a church was constructed the way it was, or what geographical phenomena created that sea cliff, why the people have certain accents or why a dynasty ended, what led to the end of it. An Instagram picture cannot help you understand these things. You need a keener eye in order to truly understand. You need patience, the ability to stay still. I’m talking about reading up, talking to locals, walking around places on your own and just putting your phone away when you can to just look.”

“So, stay put in a place is your solution?” Sounded a bit too extreme to me. When I think of staying still I often think of tunnel vision, something lacking entirely in spontaneity.

“No, I think for me, to be in a place and really understand it does not mean you forsake travelling around. To me, it’s all about pacing yourself and going where interests you. Aim to leave a place you’ve visited with a better grasp of it so when someone asks you in the future ‘what did you learn?’ that you can confidently tell them a good number of things about the place rather than, the sunsets are nice, or the glaciers are spacious, or that it snowed.”

Perhaps to him that was the spirit of travel and it has since rubbed off on me in little ways. To him travel was about knowing something and bringing that in depth knowledge home. It was about interacting with a place to the extent where that knowledge gained becomes imbedded, the way you cannot familiarise yourself with seeing as much as you can with doing. I think my philosophy slants a little away from this but leans towards the same sun. When I travel I want to keep an eye out for the insignificant, the often overlooked. I see a cobblestoned street and notice its pattern the same way I like it when snowflakes fall on my cotton gloves and struggle to stay solid. I think about the abandoned suitcases in Auschwitz labelled “Kafka” more than the Arbeit Macht Frei sign. I walk around alleyways because the dark and quiet is more conducive to thought. That’s just how I do things (but I try not to walk around dark alleyways anymore because I almost got robbed once). I look for little things because for some reason I still don’t fully understand, I want to grant these things a story. I want to find a way to weave these into a larger narrative and I do so in the only way I know how.

The bus jerked as it made another turn.

“The whole problem is not that people don’t have the right mindset when they travel for months on end,” he continued. “The problem is that with social media it all feels like an imitation game, everyone ticking one destination off their checklist and then another until they finally feel like they’ve been to all these places. I’m not saying that this process is meaningless for everyone but I wonder, really, just what everyone learns in the process. We focus on the exhibition rather than the experience.” (I do believe at times that the exhibition can be the experience but perhaps that’s for a different piece.)

The bus pulled up at the University, and we scrambled off. Outside the cold bit my ears. All around it was dark, and it was just my friend and I walking down a narrow path to his apartment. We walked up and down different paths, stone, pebbled, concrete. And then we arrived in a room smaller and cosier than I had ever known. There was nothing to tick off a checklist here. No marvellous sight. No Instagram post. He cooked instant spaghetti and terrible packet udon, the kind of food Gordon Ramsey has nightmares about. And yet. It was quite something to behold. Everything. The entire situation of us and the moment, and the time that stood still. If there was anything to understand about a moment like this, it’s to allow the moment to come and go. And reflect. And appreciate your being in that foreign place.

There is no checklist because in the moment, you do not chase. You know why you’re doing what you’re doing and the feeling remains.

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Wave after Wave

I walked past a beach today and as the waves pummelled the shore I noticed how persistent it was in the monotonous push and pull, always crashing, never ceasing in its mindless churn. There seemed that nothing governed this motion but something deep within the Earth, invisible to the eye.

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Something that kept all things grounded pulled the water to the Earth, and a floating object in the sky moved the water around. Something grounded, something drifting. The consistency of waves as the final result.

What I learned last year that I want to bring into this year is that life is all about this sort of balance. There will always be people telling you to be as grounded as you can be, to stay near family, to be in touch with yourself if you can. No reason to be floating around. Then there are those who’d say that discovery and being free of any chastening thoughts, spaces or cultures is the way to go about life, just figuring it out through being a free agent, unaccountable.

I think to achieve some harmony and consistency in your life requires a bit of both.

It’s important to be stable, to have a place to be, to come back to. I firmly believe in this because time and again when I’ve ventured out of my comfort zones a small part of me has gravitated to what I know constitutes my core, be it home, my close friends, my burgeoning interests etc. I come back to these things not stubbornly, as if holding on to something afraid of it disappearing but because I want to hold on, I cannot help but do so. These core aspects of myself are too deeply ingrained to surgically remove.

I think you can never be too grounded in anything that is wholesome and productive to your life. The problem is that it’s often difficult to see what’s good for us at the age we’re at. It’s easy to say that our feelings are correct at the moment but we never know what can change, and the thing that grounds us in the first place, be it a hobby, a job or a person, can also change as we do as well. It’s important to question the assumptions we have about these aspects of our lives by seeing them through different lenses. For example, as I leave on an exchange program this semester, I will question what home really means to me, and whether I can find another one halfway around the world. If the answer turns out to be no, then at least I know with more certainty where my heart lies.

We often fantasise about stability. For the most part, people want to be stable at the end of the day, not spending their whole lives looking over their shoulders and wondering what’s next. Career, family, home. A macro aim of sorts. At the same time, a lot of us in our twenties want to be surprised and enthralled in the current. We create micro aims to rock the boat now and then. We are the least tied down we’ll be in our lives and go looking for adventure, to get out there, to thrive in whatever environment we are put in. To be tired is something our youth can afford.

With a bit of perspective I don’t believe stability and excitement to be mutually exclusive. When we consider the wave, what we see is repetitive and deliberate yet in constant motion. It is this motion that physically defines the wave yet symbolically it is defined by its constance. To be out and about exploring the world constitutes this motion, but the spirit and mindset you take to your exploration should be the underlying constant. We bring on our adventures our own character that will always interact with the environment in a certain way and be shaped by it, and belying the aching need to be free should be a lighthouse in the distance that pulls you in steadily towards some future clarity, of who you want to be or what you want to do. In that way, we take ownership of our experiences.

As the waves crash on shore and fizzle out in silent whimpers just remember that it does so not in vain, but in worship of the larger forces that ensures its existence. As the wave withdraws from shore it has nowhere else to go but where it has come from. There’s something comforting about that.

Sitting on the Airport Floor

I’m sitting on the floor of an airport arrival gate using my phone as it charges and watching energy drip slowly into my phone exhausted from the day of travels, constantly lingering at the zero to 20-something percent range depending on how long I sit at each charging point.

The days exhaustion is no accident. I missed my initial bus stop to the airport I flew out from, and missed the connecting bus by seconds. I took another bus back and then a train and by then it was already pretty late. My mistake cost me 7 hours out of a nine hour transit time. In any other situation I would have missed my flight.

This is as much a reality of travel as is that picture perfect melbourne filtered post of the alps. No one is going to argue that travelling isn’t about pursuing these moments of magic, but travelling is also that mind numbing layover and the missed bus stop, money lost and leg hairs being tugged mercilessly by the heattech warmer and body screaming for sleep.

But no one wants to talk about these things because travelling should be all about self discovery and seeing the world. And that discovery seems to come without baggage, a carefree notion so divorced from toil.

But every vacation does come with baggage. I’d say a lot of how we choose to handle ourselves from our travels comes not from that amazing sight or insane experience but from the little setbacks that we face. That cancelled flight, the midnight drive to a car rental return at 6 am, the waiting, the yearning, the adventures turned into mishaps that became adventures anyway.

An amazing sight presents itself so readily; ever so bright and fuzzy with hashtags and geotags and likes and comments. A plane wreckage Iceland, a perfect triangle of a pyramid, a castle on a hill. However in the lonely moments sitting on the airport floor was where things really made sense to me; tired, lonely, not a single photogenic opportunity around me. And yet I knew then, exactly what I wanted.

I didn’t need to go so far after all.

Strong

Today’s workout was simple, yet gruelling, six repetitions of 1.6km, at 1 minute 28 seconds per round. That would be an 8:48 2.4km pace, with 1 minute and 28 seconds rest between each set.

The first set is always the easiest. Sure, you tend to go out too fast, but by the time it’s over there’s still plenty of gas left in the tank. the first set is always the easiest. Remember that.

The second set comes with it’s own challenges, but by and large it is still manageable. Four rounds around the track come and go. I feel a little breathless at the end of it but no alarm bells are ringing yet. Still, I can walk around without a grimace on my face. My eyes are on the ground but my spirits are slightly higher. I think I can do this.

My watch tells me it’s time to go again. Third set. No looking back. After this it’s the halfway point. I run but mid-set my legs feel heavier than I last remembered, and I feel like I’m pushing a bit harder to maintain the same pace which felt effortless in the first set. One round, two, three. I imagine the final bell ringing and maintain a good pace and finish the fourth round. I make it on time but I’m really feeling it now. I’m not sure if I can do three more sets. More often than not it’s at the halfway point that people begin to doubt.

But there’s no time to doubt because time seems to move faster the more tired you are. My watch shows that the rest is almost up. I try to catch my breath and just manage to get my heart rate low enough for yet another pounding.

the fourth set is the second toughest set of the workout. It’s when you’re too far from the finish to really appreciate your suffering, but yet not totally depleted yet so still have some energy. But make no mistake, that energy is running out. I try to maintain my form. I try focusing on my training buddy’s back. I try to look at the floor. I try to look at the sky. I try anything I can to make the time I spend exerting myself feel less than it actually is. But it seems to stretch on for eternity. If set three is about doubt, set four is about trying. When set four is over I try by best not to put my hands on my hips. I go to my bottle and take a small sip of water. This, too, is an act of trying. I prepare myself for the toughest set.

Set five. It’s everything you don’t want from a set. It’s like the problem child, the obligatory vegetable dish, the typo in a blog post. It’s too far from the end for you to hope for anything yet you’re already almost depleted and you just know that you’ll be dead by the end of it. I want to stop. My legs feel deliriously heavy and I’m not able to breathe comfortably by now. I’m almost gasping for air but surprisingly I still go on. I do all I can to put my fatigue on hold and just keep myself moving forward. I cannot stop. Once I stop then everything is ruined. My previous four sets would go to waste. By entire semester would come crashing down. Stop, and the entire world ends. No. Stopping is not an option. Stopping is for people who don’t become better. I need to be better. And so I continue. I continue not because I necessarily chose to or because I’m crazy. I continue because I’ve primed myself to believe that there simply is no other choice.

And so set five is over. Set six. I’m dead by now but set six is the most magical set of all. It’s the set that comes with the light at the end of it. It’s the set that comes with the promise of the end. It’s the set that you won’t stop even if you tried to. Because you’re there, and nothing can be in your way. I run the sixth set with confidence. It’s tiring as hell, but once you go through set five, you don’t think too much about that anymore.

I finish my workout five seconds ahead of schedule. I walk around and feel like a large heat pack has engulfed my body and it’s burning all around but I couldn’t care less because I had finished what I set out to do.

I am not a strong person. I get distracted very easily. I lose motivation here and there, and I don’t follow up with things as well as I’d like to. I’m terrible at doing things that can actually help my life. I procrastinate more than I should. I lose things easily and forget important dates and timings and am always five minutes late. I try to change but sometimes I wonder if it’s enough.

But when I run, I put all of that aside. I am as strong as I can be. I don’t give up just because things get a little tough. I don’t have very strong motivations, to be sure. I just like running, I guess. I don’t think I need any more reason than that to run. And so I keep it up. I go for every training. Sometimes I’m five minutes late. But I arrive. I keep going. Halfway through the set it feels like death but I keep going. I tell myself that it’s all for some imaginary greater good. I tell myself this strength is what makes the world go round. I also tell myself that if I conquer this then I can conquer anything.

And conquer everything in my own strength as well. I tell myself that I’m definitely enough on my own to just do something I can be proud of. That I’m better than reliance and all that dependency bullshit. That I’m really better than any uncertainty that is around me. Much better. Even if it’s just for one hour during a Thursday evening workout.

I tell myself that that is enough.