I don’t know when I substituted faith for doubt, ‘no’es for ‘yes’es or trust for distrust. Despite the ‘no’es always turning out to be bigger ‘yes’es. I wonder how much proof I will need to reverse this cycle, but deep down know none will ever be enough. As it always is, its faith that matters. And that I find hard to do, because its concerned wholly with being, rather than doing.

Someone once told me about the fear of growing closer to God because it seemed that people who grew closer to God would have something precious taken away from them. And yet to have to still believe when all things don’t make sense and the skies remain closed silent for yet another day, month, year…

Sometimes I do wonder what I’m holding out for.
Sometimes I get angry, impatient and disillusioned.
Sometimes I fall, I falter.
But yet, sometimes I get an answer, so simply profound.
And that keeps me going, I’m here for the long haul.

Door after door, they slam in your face, crushing hope. The higher your hope, the higher your fall from grace. Because it is true, that crisis reveals your true heart condition and relationship with God. Funny how I’ve been called to apply the message I heard 3 days ago on letting go of false securities. I thought that the way to move forward into open doors was with faith, but I guess greater is the faith that has one slamming into the glass doors, hurting but yet picking oneself up, turning around and walking away. Without losing faith that God is in control and that He knows best, even if it seems everything that He has shown or placed me in has begun to change.

I was fixed in all my ways, believing that I would be led the straight and narrow path to where I thought God wanted me to be, with the same people I have always been working with. That comfortability breeds complacency and perhaps I have been blind to an altered direction, blind to the small signs of indicative change, blind to the way this aligns me with the other assured hopes that I felt always unable to reconcile with my perceived calling.

How silly I have been, given God’s track record upon my life. Because it has never been about following a straight, immovable path but rather paths that has always been surprising, alebit shocking. But in its looking back, and realising how things have always worked out for His best, because even as He wrenches me out of the comfort zones of false security that I cling on to fastidiously, because its safe and I am in control. And realising that the difference lies in me simply focusing of what I am capable of now, while He sees the person that I can be, with a small kick in the butt. To realise that given the way I’ve grown and changed, that I need a little rock of my boat.

O, and when the love spills over
And music fills the night
And when you can’t contain your joy inside, then
Dance for Jesus
Dance for Jesus
Dance for Jesus and live!

It’ll be ok.

The soul becomes steadily accustomed to the diet we feed it, the bodily being a mere programme that switches between functions. There is an insatiable need to continually meet demands, to fulfill obligations and to fend off warning accusations. No one stands in the middle of the boxed junction to raise a hand to call for a halting stop.

I find myself exhausted by falling into the ebbs and flows, finding it hard to say yes but even more impossible to say no. Watching 27 dresses produced a momentary epiphany, one of which I carelessly let go, and let that of which slip further. I have much to be concerned about in terms of priorities, more to be balled over by sheer necessities. It roar, it quakes, it thunders – reminding me that this familiar resonation once again came too late.

It’s taken its toll, the firstfruits of each morning hours sometimes are the only assurances that hold me, the only strength and comfort that see me through. Barely, perhaps. I find myself struggling to grasp hold of that center, trying to quell the uneasy disquiet uprising. And so I try desperately to push out at the discomfort with momentum and noise, thinking that a crowd would perhaps make it all go away. It stayed.

The noise. The estranged soul trying to capture an intangible balance. The inner state has forgotten how to be still or silent, but mostly it has forgotten how to listen. It claims it cannot afford the time, but what lies closer to the truth is my inability to bear the cost of active reflection.

I need to tend to my soul before it fades dim to a mere flicker.
Because God tells the man who cares. And I care.

Ironically, from the nation that talks the most about talking comes a push for the right to say nothing at all.

It comes in the form of an American magazine article entitled Caring For Your Introvert by The Atlantic correspondent Jonathan Rauch. Written in 2003, it continues to draw more hits than any other piece on the magazine’s website.

As an introvert, Rauch says, he belongs to one of ‘the most misunderstood and aggrieved groups in America, possibly the world’.

Being introverted does not necessarily mean being shy; it just means that people tire you out.

While extroverts need company like the Energizer Bunny needs batteries, introverts recharge by spending time alone.

COMPANIONABLE SILENCE

If you’re an extrovert, be confident that the introvert next to you is enjoying your company. If he isn’t, don’t worry about it. It’s not like he’s going to tell you.
But Rauch makes it clear that introverts don’t harbour a grudge against the rest of the human race: ‘We love people…We just can’t socialise with them all the time. We want to hold their hand or hug them or just sit quietly and read a book with them.’

What introverts don’t want to do is go to parties and make small talk.

But the world is filled with people who do – and they set the standard for what is considered normal and desirable behaviour.

Some introverts learn to keep up a stream of conversation but those who can’t or won’t tend to get labelled as shy, aloof or arrogant.

Rauch notes that female introverts have a harder time because people don’t usually think of women when you say ‘strong, silent type’.

But whatever their gender, introverts are almost always outnumbered in politics, a field where what you say appears less important than how you say it – and how often.

Japanese Prime Minister Yasuo Fukuda seems to be one of the few ‘introverts’ who have risen to the top. I don’t have conclusive proof that he’s one but I have my suspicions because whenever people try to describe him, the same words keep cropping up: undemonstrative, self-effacing, steady, grey.

According to an article in The Times last September, when a supporter encouraged him to ‘express his personality’, he replied: ‘I have no personality.’

But of course he does. It’s just the kind of personality that’s at the other end of the spectrum from former premier Junichiro Koizumi’s. Though I think most people, and not just introverts, would look dull beside somebody who has a habit of breaking into Elvis impersonations.

But, writes Rauch, ‘if we introverts ran the world, it would no doubt be a calmer, saner, more peaceful sort of place’.

I don’t know if this is true. But I do know that in a world run by introverts, no meeting would last over an hour because they don’t think by talking; they think by thinking.

And I know this because I’m an introvert too. Don’t get me wrong – I enjoy conversations. In fact, I consider them one of the best ways to have fun with another person without taking your clothes off.

But I can’t have them all the time. In fact, I don’t have them a lot of the time, which prompted one friend to say: ‘You’re so quiet I sometimes forget you’re there.’

Ouch. Still, this could be useful if I ever decide to become a ninja. Or wallpaper.

By now, you should be able to work out on which side of the conversation gap you belong. And if you’re an introvert, what can you do?

First, understand what you are – and look after what you are.

If you need time away from the maddening crowd, take it. Fighting this is like resenting your need for sleep.

Rauch recommends helping extroverts to be comfortable with their opposites. It can be hard to relax with another person when silences keep breaking up a conversation. But not if you understand that ‘if someone is being quiet it doesn’t mean they’re having a bad time; it doesn’t mean they’re depressed; it doesn’t mean they’re lonely or need psychiatric help or medication’.

If you’re an extrovert, be confident that the introvert next to you is enjoying your company. If he isn’t, don’t worry about it. It’s not like he’s going to tell you.

So, yes – I think it’s time to raise some awareness. Start by sending this article to 25 people within the next three days. Failure to do so will mean being trapped at 75 parties where people won’t stop talking at you.

But whether or not extroverts take any of this on board, introverts should be prepared to meet them halfway because we are, let’s face it, not the easiest lot in the world to live with.

Having once had to keep a dinner conversation going around someone who sat silent with his eyes down for hours, I can understand why extroverts get frustrated with us.

There are more ways to fit yourself into a conversation than by talking; you can do it by showing that you’re listening. Just looking interested can take you as far as a well-placed witticism because who doesn’t like a bit of attention?

But why should introverts have to go to such lengths, you may ask. Let me be clear about this: You don’t have to do anything, except maybe breathe. But what you do or don’t do will always have consequences.

The trick is to read far ahead enough to see those consequences, decide if you like them – and then act. Come to think of it, you don’t even have to breathe if you don’t mind losing your vital signs.

But whatever you decide to do, I hope you’ll be happy with yourself. And from there, to be happy with others.

The story that gives me the most hope for introverts comes from the unlikeliest of sources: an article about how Japanese men express themselves in love.

Whatever their sterling qualities in other areas, the men of this country don’t have a good reputation when it comes to telling their partners how they feel.

So when The Japan Times reported last March on a magazine poll to find out which expressions they favoured in such situations, the howlers came as no surprise.

But the article ended with a housewife’s story about her husband, who said something unforgettable for the right reasons.

She said: ‘When we started going out together, he nervously blurted, ‘Mari, you don’t talk much, do you? But whatever we do, just being with you is so much fun.”

Sometimes, you don’t need a lot of words to tell a story with a happy ending.

tastingjapan@gmail.com

The writer, a former sub-editor with The Straits Times, is studying Japanese in Kyoto. Rauch’s article can be found at http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200303/rauch

Because it ain’t often that we speak, especially not of ourselves. But here’s to one, and a hopefully, better recognition that we too exist in this world.

I felt so disarmed when she took me aside to ask me what I’ve learnt over this period. She has always been this disarming and I find myself baring without reserve. A while later, I glanced at my watch, only to realise that what had felt like a while was almost 2 hours. I’ve gleaned so much I can’t even put it in words and my sharing probably came out as rambling incoherent thoughts or random revelations that sprung up.

I stayed a while later to give out a few thank you cards and felt suitably upset. The counsellor I was attached to is terrible. She says the most encouraging and sweet things that I was tearing, despite my desperate attempts not to. Her hug and her belief left me in pieces. But I managed to hold it all in till I let myself go in the bus, self-consciously brushing away my tears. The card they wrote just about did it for me. This is why I’m so afraid of attachments and am so bad at goodbyes. But I guess, I’ve learnt from them that it’s ok to be in tune with one’s emotions, because there’s always supportive colleagues who provide shoulders to cry on.

I can’t help but feel that I don’t want to go back to school.
I have no reason to not be grateful.
Someone shared about his regret involving his late father, that he regretted that he did not convey or communicate what he felt while he had the chance. I don’t want that.
I don’t want to live with the ‘I wish I had’s.

My second last morning was spent compiling the terrible 5-page report, re-checking through the statistics and preparing top-notch presentation slides for big bosses that I have not met. Thank God for cheap peanut butter sandwiches and thick, foaming coffee.

My afternoon was well-spent watching Drumline, an excellent show and educational resource, I’m sure. Then, I lazed around reading and doing my own stuff till I was chased to go home. I wanted to linger, seeing that it was my second last day but oh well. It’s kind of sad, cause I feel like I’ve just become comfortable enough with the people and it’s time to leave.

I just got photos of our cell’s newest addition, Baby Theresa. I remember getting the sms during my lunch break and feeling so excited, although in my head I was thinking about what a heavy baby she is. And then after lunch, my colleague randomly showed me her stretch marks post-pregnancy, increasing the see-my-stretch-marks count to 2 in just under a week. I freaked out, I maintain at least for now, as much as I love children – adoption is the way to go. The mothertalk all around me is kind of disturbing. I fear the day when I rave about Huggies and their free gifts.

I met this scholar intern who I met on the first day and I’m only calling him that because I forgot his name and ended up realising that we stay really nearby. We were both on 29, then he spotted me at the 72 stop and was surprised. He spent the entire bus journey enlightening me on several functions and practices of the prison that I never knew about e.g. how to differentiate the uniforms of staff and NSmen. I ended up asking him about joining them eventually and goodness, he must be just about the most well-informed person around. But all things considered, this is already his 3rd internship there. Work has taught me how to be a better small talker, or at least to make a conscious effort to ask the right questions. Most days I know what to say, I just don’t want to bother to keep up the appearance that I’m sociable, when I’m not. I feel extremely bad that I never came clean about forgetting his name.

I’m protective over the people who are close to my heart. Sometimes I wonder how far I’ll go, if enraged. I’ve seen, heard and carried others’ stories so much so I don’t trust men, especially when it seems that all they want to do is propagate their seed. Insensitive idiots.

One of those random MSN conversations that made me think. Made me realise that birds of a feather do flock together.
F:esther, i feel miserable ):
E:why?
F:i don’t know.
E:Maybe you’re just too comfortable with that feeling of being miserable. it’s an easier feeling. you can’t get any lower than that.
F: haha, you’re such an awful friend. what hurtful honesty.
E: i don’t know. maybe that’s just real for me too
F: i think i’m paranoid
E: Please do not tell me you’re feeling miserable because nothing’s going wrong and you’re just expecting something to go wrong
F: i keep thinking something’s going to happen

Wish you were home. Be strong, be well and be sure of your heart. I’ll always, we’ll always be here.

As I share of my reactions, I’m convinced, by others and by my better judgement that I’m probably ill-suited for counselling. I find myself trying desperately to hold back the tears when they share of father’s disappointment or when tears well up in their own eyes. I guess I’ve always been frustrated with the tightrope that the lecturers tell me to tread on. I’m supposed somehow, to show empathy but yet keep my emotional distance. I cannot see how that is real, for one, or possible for that matter. I pride myself on being rational but I guess when I open myself up and let my guard down, I realise why that rationality is by itself a necessity. The area of policy and macro change would probably be better for my emotional sanity. I still want to be an EAF volunteer, even though I know the stories, because they involve children are going to be far more heartbreaking. But I’ll take the risk and fall off rather than toe the line, because I can’t say I’m giving of love if I simply don’t care enough.

The struggle that we experience in the pursuit of our dreams often become the fuel for someone else’s flickering fire. And I guess what we once discussed in cell, about having the speaking right due to our own experience in stepping out in faith, can spur others forward makes sense once again. But I’m glad that this is one of those small things that push me forward despite the sacrifices I’ve had to make along the way, the unending uncertainty and the need for unwavering reckless risk-it-all faith. Because within each of us, we know. We know what our heart has been created to beat for, and to go against it is a losing battle of dissatisfaction and dissonance.

Perhaps what I fear most in falling away is that I lose my capacity for love and compassion. That my heart becomes so hardened, that even pain and suffering fail to break through. Beware, my own tendency to guard.

And I was thinking. What is justice?
Equity or Equality?

Time flies when one is learning and having 3 hour lunches. Don’t worry, there are actually days when I learn quite a lot more. Which is also why I’m really excited about tomorrow, despite it being crazy packed.

Dance was a rather humourous disaster that left me highly amused. I started on dance with the intention of letting go of my inhibitions and my need for control, to do something that I’ve always been afraid to try because I knew I could never be any good. I have a feeling I’m a bit unstrung, because of my tendency to spin and twirl out of control. Instead of half turns and spins, I allow myself to be spun around a full round. Messy chaos is turning out to be rather fun, especially when I have no qualms about making mistakes in front of everybody. That stupid Calvin kept pulling me forward for his silly demonstrations, although I’m probably only good at showing what one should not do. But I am quite impressed with the cool hand tap trick that he played on me. A slight tap on my hand with his and somehow, even my ever-klutzy, stiff and no sense of direction self was able to twirl, twist and spin with ease and clarity. Chris had to be really patient with me, because when it comes to dance I’m really slow. That, coupled with my poor coordination and sense of direction – I agree it is a miracle that we finally managed to master the step. I’m going to actually miss dance if we do not continue. Weird.

Ms Yeow, if you do get to read this, Chris bought dancing shoes from HK, apparently they’re much cheaper there. Buy them there!

Skype is the anti-social msn, without all the fancy extras and with the option to be hidden from everyone else, except those who matter. I’m avoidng the 5000 emails in my inbox, that scream for my attention and action. There is such a thing as being over-excited about doing too much.

How can I find hope in dying, with promises unseen..
How can I learn your way is better
In everything I’m taught to be..
Isn’t that crazy

I have not been called to the wisdom of this world..
But to a God who’s calling out to me..
And even though the world may think
I’m losing touch with reality
It would be crazy
To choose this world over eternity
Crazy – MercyMe

For days much like this, when I’m walking forward, merely holding onto hope. Hope that calls forth not the prayer of little faith but a prayer that calls for unwavering trust in His character.

On Hope (from my fav christian newsletter):
“Hope is learned — it is not a given. You don’t just do it; you don’t just have it; you grope for it in the dark.”

He went on to say, “I can see the shape of hope; it seems so tangible to me that I want to make a place on the chemical chart for it. It has become elemental…. Whether it be disease, prison, a labor camp, poverty or AIDS, the human spirit is wired for hope by a gracious God who says ‘Hold on!’ even when and if the end is near.”

And we don’t hold on just to be battered by life’s twists and turns, as Jarrod was during his last months. We hold on because this journey is ultimately leading somewhere good — Jarrod’s journey, my journey, all of ours. Like small rivulets that flow through rocky places, hope invites us to follow it back to the Source.

“As we find hope,” Jarrod wrote, “We find evidence that He’s just been here. Hope is the bread crumbs that God leaves for us, not just to find our deepest desire or dream — but Him.”

1) Cheerfully greeting the guard at the main gate each day. I’m almost chirpy.
2) Hoping that someone gets in the same time as me, so I can get in. And don’t bashfully have to tell the friendly guards that I don’t need to wait in the volunteer’s lounge.
3) Starting and going through each day with Class 95FM – From the Morning Express with Flying D to Cartunes. The radio is my timekeeper since I’ve never got down to wearing a watch even though everyday at about 11:17am, I tell myself that I’m going to wear a watch tomorrow. But I’m beginning to fall in love with radio music all over again, I don’t even remember what made me stop for years. Plus I’m too old for 98.7FM, while Class95FM has all the songs that I know, the songs that are old-skool!
4) Abstaining from all temptation to snack between meals, especially when the food is crazy cheap. I compensate with my multiple caffeine fixes throughout the day (starting at 6am). I’ve gotten so guilty I now end the day with a cup of Horlicks, so I guess that is good, a step towards positive change or alleviating guilt, rather.
5) Extremely long lunches out, accompanied with just a little shopping, errand-running, self-care or whatever you call it.

The really nice thing about being an intern for such a short period of time is that I’ve completed the tiny project assigned to me and apparently there is nothing else that they want me to do. Except to sit, shut up and look pretty – till I get to tag along for sessions. It’s great though, because I’ve accomplished much reading these past two days. Just today, I was able to plough through more than half of a social psychology textbook, which really doesn’t constitute light reading but I’m trying to at least read stuff that seems related. Although, I’m sure they’ll be fine with me reading anything as long as I don’t bug them or create more work for them.

I got to sit in for one of the mid-evaluation sessions where the facilitator had to translate the questions into chinese, and gosh, it was a next to impossible task. Although I heard that translation for this was easier than the initial evaluation where one of the questions involved translating something about reading a sexy book in Chinese.

Before the session, my supervisor (I think I have two.) was sharing with me about the different groups that she has taken thus far and how often the hardest participants undergo the most change in the course of the programme. She specifically mentioned the language barrier she faced and how she felt guilty for shortchanging them, in terms of the concepts and skills. It touched her when they simply told her that her efforts in trying so hard to reach out and help them, that knowing that was enough for them. It reminded me of CP and how despite the pair of us being so terrible at Chinese, it was our heart, the simple gestures of love and care that made a difference, and paid off last Christmas. I guess I will never have all the right words, never have sufficient knowledge to deal with human complexity but I guess it’s about being genuine, being true and being willing to simply reach out in love. I’m beginning to see the sense of fulfillment that she was talking about.

Social psychology sheds light on the games that we play, of non-zero sum games. Where each is a diabolical social trap that shows how, even when individuals behave “rationally”, harm can result. Simply because there are some things that are beautiful precisely because they are irrational. When I heard of the account of one, who felt helpless upon seeing his wife slip further into addiction and being unable to help, chose the little that he could do – to simply share in the experience of her suffering. However unethical, however irrational, I’ll have to say that it moves me.

I have no regrets that the glass case is shattered. I tried desperately to find that strange protective comfort once again, as I closed my eyes and swung high suspended on the chains of the swing. I won’t pretend that I don’t miss it, but there are some things we grow too wide for. (that probably applies in a physical sense as well.)

And now I have to retire, because I finally succeeded at my 6am mornings, the offering of the first hours, the first fruits of each day and reaping the fruits of simple dedication. I do hope to keep it up and establish a waking time that I can commit to.
Plus, I finally got back to running, after using work as an excuse for my sloth-like behaviour these past few weeks. All in all, it has been a good day for starting over. I know I’m starting late in the resolution department this year, but I do pray to get it right this time.

We played a “Big fish, Small fish” during group today and one member insightfully brought up the point that old habits die hard. That we’ve become so accustomed to using the associated hand gestures to indicate size, that it’s tremendously difficult to change. We become so fixated on a particular behaviour, action or thought pattern that when we are asked to adapt accordingly, we find ourselves unable to break out of that cycle, that cycle that functions in the scheme of addiction. And each of us comes with our very own addictions, cycles that we remain trapped in because as John Mayer sings, its comfortable. Like the destructive thought patterns that tear us down, the repetitive unnecessary routines, the favourable images we try to keep up. For what purpose really?

We rationalize that we’re safe, cautious and near picture-perfect but yet, a dose of reality shatters our apparent perfect little world. And with each blow, we choose either to quit, to relapse or to find a substitute to replace what we take away. Addictions, emptiness expressed in our quirky little ways.

The solemn gravity that grips me has much to do with waste and that same sense of unfulfillment I feel when I listen to Corrinne May’s 33, about it being the age that He died for me.
There is this inner dissonance I’m trying hard not to feed, because I’m clearly acquainted with broodiness and its consequent effect on me. But somehow, today feels a little weightier, as if I’ve magically aged overnight and find myself in slight despair over life wasted and time lost. That in light of our sharings about the past year, amidst laughters over supper and endorphin-loaded chocolate ice-cream prata, I feel this disconcertion looming over.

As if I’m old, or simply older.

Its time to evaluate, prioritise and get my life in order.