Scenes of a memory

I have a friend who waits silently for rain. Her eyes fixed upon the grey skies, imploring the heavens to let go of those crystal drops for water. For her, rain means a dream uncaught by mortal hands but can only be felt by a lonely heart. A dream to stand next to someone who’s heart is like the fleeting wind. Blowing here and there, resting a while but never setting his feet down on the ground.

As the rain cascades down from the shadowy sky, my friend runs out to greet the droplets of her dreams. With outstretch arms and open hands, she tries to grasp the tiny crystals of water. Her hair is now wet, dropping down in front of her face. The rain mixes with her tears, masking her sorrow of a longing unmet. But at least she can smile in the rain. She can taste the crisp fragrance of the moist wind. And her burning heart is cooled by the gentle drizzle.

She realises, with tragic reality, the futility of trying to grasp the rain water. Yet she rejoices in being able, at least, to feel the cool sensation of being wet. If the rain cannot rest inside her heart, she can at least bask in the sensasion of its presence. For she knows that the North wind will carry the clouds away, and the rain may not return for another day. But inside she knows that she has experienced the fleeting moment and she will forever cherish those scenes in her memory. All that she takes with her are all that he’s left behind. Memory shares eternity, even though they may live in two different lives.

Dawn ceases to break as the dark clouds of winter march in, bidding omens of despair and melancholy. A change of season does not come with warnings but arrives with its cold authority sending shivers even into the most cozy corners of our hearts. People change as well, as they seek to shelter their warmth behind a colder facade reinforced with dark cloaks, hats and flowing scarves like multi-colored water flowing in the wind.

Here I am stuck in this change of season. Unprepared, I feel the brunt of the cold despair that the North Wind brings as gifts for us all to share. Yet it is not a feeling that I am alien to. Even here, half way around the world, I recognize the distant yet familiar face of Melancholy greeting me again with open arms. A familiar companion that with a strange morbidity has become a regular guest in my heart. I identify with it, sometimes using it as the shield from the wider challenges of human life. A feeling that I can comfortably pick up at any occasion, like a dark heavy coat that I put on and go to the mirror to see myself and say, "This is me. This is a part of who I am."

In contrast, I see that Melancholy does not bring good tidings to others. I see The Miracle and The Sleeper sitting distraught under the cold glass moon. Her angelic wings frozen by the invisible hands of the North Wind. She shivers under the blanket of frost that Melancholy has draped over her to subdue her vibrant and summer nature. Yet when I try to comfort her, I then realize what Melancholy has done to me. As I try to reach out my hands to her, I saw how my melancholy has rendered them faint and transparent. She sees and yearns for my human touch, yet all she can feel is a cold shadowy sensation as my hands cannot gently caress her skin but slip through as the specters they have become. And my voice has been choked into silence, my lips moving but she cannot hear what I say. In my frustration I thought of setting ablaze a lake of fire. I realize, however, that this will not only free her from her frozen state but could also burn her in flames.

So now I struggle with all these winter feelings. For so long I have easily slipped into the frost for reasons of emotional security. Now, I struggle to regain and keep my human touch. And I feel that the change of season feels so much colder when you are warm and human. Nevertheless, I must trudge forward even through the darkest of winter to keep that hope alive. The hope that one day, once again The Miracle and The Sleeper shall spread her wings to rise to the heights of heaven to paint the sky in a brighter and happier shade of blue.

The first step in life is to breathe…
And so with this I plunge into the world of blog. This is my first entry so please forgive me if I do not convey the right essence of this genre called blog.

After some 60 odd days in Holland, as a stranger in a strange land I write down my experience. To at least erect a hodge-podge gallery of the scenes of my memory, or at least write down what happened this week.

I recall standing on the docks of Scheveningen, all lost and bewildered watching hundreds of Dutch people carrying their children on their shoulders, holding the children’s hands, all in anticipation for the arrival of Sinter Klas on a boat. In a secular and modern country, it was strange to see how these people were all smiles and laughter, dancing in front of their children to try to incite them to joy. In contradiction to the Dutch serious disposition, here they were with radiant faces as if unaware that they were caught being childish, silly, being fun. Even behind their distant smiles, I see the glimpse of how joyous family can be. For I, being alone, could not feel the warmth of their smiles and the hugs and kisses of their loved ones.

I remember sitting in the general course as the lecturer (TD Truang) explained about gender. I could hear the murmurs and restlessness of some of the men. Before long it was clear that even though you can pitch advance theories about modernity, development, economic growth, sustainability, equity, which everyone was eager to plow through, gender was that barrier that challenges to be crossed. A topic that is not rooted in the clouds of policy, governance, capitalism, but rooted in the everyday relations we have. Everyday relations with our family, friends, colleagues, lover, spouse, children, even with that anonymous person you smile to on the bus. Yet it stands correct that the personal is the political. It is these banal yet personal contexts of gender that make it seem so difficult for people, even in its most general form as development policy. I guess it is easy to analyze and deconstruct a situation, but difficult to do so if those things are present also inside of you. The situation indeed posed an interesting academic contradiction (which is not a rare thing): here are these intelligent, conversant people yet they cannot open their minds to this issue that strikes into our very personal being.

Yet today I face this situation myself, this time with how to read and make notes. I’ve always considered these things as part of my individual expression. Something that I feel I haven’t fully mastered myself, but now here is this lecturer of academic skills (Peter) who advises to switch to another system. So now I feel the same resistance, which I am yet to make a choice about.

In retrospect, in addition to all 5 assignments I have already, the usual bulk of readings, and the rush hour schedule of classes, I somehow glimpse a ray of hope that there is still so much more out there to be learned and experienced. On the other hand, I also feel the nagging pull for me to start, to take that first step. To finally step out of my solitary shell and take my first breath of fresh open air. Coinciding with my first blog entry, I realize that for all of this time, with all the slips and achievements, I am learning to live.