Life Outside the Garden

In this city state where I live, more than 5 million people share a mere 721.5 square kilometres of space. There's no denying it - it's crowded here. Running into a colleague, friend, or old acquaintance is easy. Since I work a job requiring close teamwork and collaboration with people all the time, I find myself constantly surrounded by people. My after work hours are blessed with the company of family and friends - people with whom I have chosen to be with. My days are filled with countless interactions with person after person.

Why then, do I find myself longing for connection - why am I not exempt from loneliness? And while  longing for that connection with people, why do I so constantly run away from them, instead seeking out solo escapades and adventures to where I am least likely to run into anyone I know, almost on a daily basis?

The plain fact is this - that being with people simply does not equate connecting with them. Days filled with interactions are simply part and parcel of life in a city. Just imagine how different it would be, if I were holed up in a cabin in the woods (, writing)!

People are not merely flesh and blood. We are spiritual beings, at the heart. In commercial exchanges words are passed back and forth, as are goods and services. Hello, thank you, and goodbye are our accepted manners of speech. At work, so many of us have worked hard at learning the nuances of its language. Like frames of reference, they rescue us from being at a loss for words. They keep the machinery functioning. Yet, they have allowed us to simply go through the motions. We have learnt what to say, under what circumstances, and have found a way to keep our "true selves" quite uninvolved, beneath it all.

This has left me parched, thirsty for the refreshment of friendship - and yet, I have chosen time after time to refrain from letting the real me show. And why would that be a surprise? For so many of us have learnt that our real selves may not always be reciprocated the way we hoped. Instead, we were looked upon dubiously, as though we were foreigners, who did not understand the customs of the land. We resorted to the safety of having become tropes to one another, our stories hidden beneath our  scrupulously-assembled sets and costumes. We stalk each other furiously on social media, and fear not being able to keep up, while acting cool and detached in real life.

We live in the aftermath of Babel, we wander outside the garden. We have chosen to identify with Cain, who chose to pursue his brother with death, rather than love. We live among a struggling creation - so why should we be surprised at the gnawing sense of loneliness?

It has been all too easy to give up the fight for friendship, for the too-often misunderstood gift above all gifts - love. Paradoxically, the crowdedness of life here has made it possible to walk through a crowd, and not see or be seen in return. To choose the life of a recluse is dangerously easy.

Yet, the biblical mandate is to keep on hoping, to keep on loving. We were designed to live in relationship with one another, where although misunderstanding and offending one another are givens, this side of eternity, forgiveness and persevering love are available in greater measure.

Being the beloved, I can rest in the Father's sure acceptance of me, and redeem each precious moment  where paths are truly crossed. I can choose to see people, not with physical, but with spiritual eyes - which though being invisible, make the invisible visible. Thus is my hope. Thus is our hope.

Perfect in all of His ways

You are perfect in all of your ways. What comfort is often brought by refrains of truth, as was brought by these words last Sunday, heard during church service in the song 'Good, good Father'. I had gone to service upset and uptight, but could feel that tension dissipate with those words. I was reeling from a disagreement in which I had finally insisted that I should have my way. I felt I was justified, that I had been wronged for too long - that I had a better way, and that I should be allowed - finally allowed - to do things my way. Yet I felt confused - I had desperately wanted my way to be the right way - but was it really?

Those words made me realise that I could lay down fighting, and rest instead, in God's all-encompassing knowledge of me. In God's overarching plan of wisdom and love, He promises that darkness is as light to Him. He promises His presence, wherever I should find myself. I felt cords unravel. I felt free from the burden of having to go by my way. 

I sensed the invitation to commune with Him - to bring before Him plain, unsanitised thoughts, raw emotions, childish plans in all their honesty. Hiding came with that first bite of forbidden fruit; shame was nailed to the cross. All too often, I have sought to reason with man, or to figure things out myself - knowing that God was watching all of it. Now, I heard His call to no longer treat Him as a silent onlooker. I am beginning to trust that He could, would, and would always be perfect enough to handle all that I throw at Him. Not that He would do things my way - not that I would always understand His way - simply, that I could trust Him. 

And as I lean upon Him, I learn to rest. The many voices which had enticed and confused me fade, and soon, I hear only the steady rhythm of a heart beating - His heart. I become aware of a growing desire to know His ways, and to reexamine mine in the light of His. 

Silent Gems

A writer writes. - Sahara Special, Esme Codell

Maybe so. 

My earliest recollection of the desire to write (perhaps with a capital "W") was of writing, illustrating, and binding my own books when I was a little girl. The desire has stayed with me, through all of school life and beyond. Writing for academic purposes has come easily for me, and I am thankful for that. But it was not primarily for academic, or utilitarian purposes that I wanted to write. I wanted to write poetry, particularly - or just to write poetically. Then I wanted to write books. When I rediscovered children's books, I wanted to write them. I wanted to write beautifully. 

Why then have I, through the years, written so little? I have thought about writing, read about writing, and read others' writing - all at the expense of writing, or so it seems. Had I chance to reencounter those days, surely I would do differently? Perhaps not, surprise, surprise. Were those missed opportunities? I did once see them as such. Yet perhaps I have gained another perspective. Those days, even those days spent not writing, are part of my journey. They colour and paint my current world view, desire, and experience. They are to be treasured, rather than treated as dross. 

So, let these written words be a tribute to those non-writing days, which are gems in their own right because:

.: I see now that writing is indeed a worthy, complex craft. Words are powerful, and hence worthy. Writing is complex, and hence should not be a task undertaken flippantly. Gemstones are weighed by their worth, and so are words.  

.: Writing was pressure, let that pressure now yield its treasure. School’s unrelenting message was, “write well, be rewarded.” And though that meant that writing was not pure pleasure then, it is the measured incisions of the master gem cutter which bring out their beauty.   

.: Gems are measured by their clarity, and so are words. Poetry would lose its essence, if not for the generous space holding words apart. In writing, many words may mar the writer’s message. Hence it’s not the volume of words that matter, but the message.   

.: Yet-to-be gemstones remain hidden deep inside the earth for years and years, working simply on becoming, have shown me the value of silence, waiting, and just perhaps, keeping meaningfully occupied in the meantime. 

Most of all: 

I am reminded again that I am to be the bearer of the message, not its originator. And if so, I do not alone determine what I should write or when. I am to be attentive to that Voice, sometimes still and small, sometimes cedar-breaking powerful. And when He says, “write!” Then, must I.   

A Serious Whim

You're writing this on a whim, you may say, and it would be true. Yet this is in all seriousness. There is a current of compulsion, and for a moment, I do not resist it.

The conditions have not become conducive for writing. No series of objects have come into alignment. This is not a perfect moment. The carriage has pumpkinised, the alarm will ring at 6 promptly, and it has been a long day. I sit on the floor under stark, white light, and my back will not thank me. I have not bothered to make that cup of chamomile tea, accompanied by shiroi koibito (or similar), or even turned on the fan.

Even more notably, I have no knowledge of my destination. I do not know how I feel about the possibility of drifting and not ever arriving. I have not thoughtfully planned, generated and organised my ideas. I have not diligently researched. I have no blog schedule. I have no plan for the next post. I have no audience in mind, and thus will not receive that feedback all writers need with which to improve upon their craft. All I know is:

It's been too long.
Yet it could not have been sooner.
Fruit take time to ripen.
Thoughts brim over - as they do so often. So often, they flow away, far beyond recollection.
Write, I must. 

I skim words upon the surface of this pond - or is it a lake? I try to make each skip, but so many simply dive right in, making splashes of various degrees as they do. Perhaps, like each photograph I so carefully guard from the research assistants of machine learning scientists, my words will end up carefully deconstructed by them, and no one else. Except, that can't be true.

There is one pair of human eyes reading this, even now, and they are mine. They are reading intently, as I am writing, and they shall come upon these words again. And when they do, I shall be surprised again, as I was today, at the power of those words. I read those juvenilesque words, as though merely to taste the waves upon my feet, but I had not known their strength.

They have carried me, and here I am. 

It's time for bed, but the exploring shall start tomorrow.