He who works in us

In my opinion, when I look at something that I have just completed, and I think to myself, "wow, I don't know how I did this, I'm sure it wasn't me."

That's when I know that He has worked in me.

The darkest hours

The clock strikes, it's time for bed
The toughest fight begins in my head
Cluttered mind, racing thoughts
Attempts to undo the entangled knots

Intense soliloquy to my Lord
Put on play like an endless chord
Prayers said and prayers repeated
Of battles won and battles defeated

Pictures drawn and plots unfold
Sorrows buried and stories untold
Letters remain as unsent mail
Be careful not to leave a single trail

The sudden jolts and frequent panics
Pull the trigger for the mind in manic
A shot is fired, the serpent takes a bite
You think it's over, but not quite

Moving out of the enclosed glass
Is a simple task I cannot get pass
The noise gets sharper and louder
As the hours grow darker and colder

The clock strikes again, the night has gone
A bag full of sins I cannot atone
The moon makes way for the sun to rise
Its daylight burns my sleepy eyes

Another day has come, challenges to face
The more I need His daily grace
Grant me Your strength for the rest I lack
So that I may get back on track

Project Prettylines has found a home!

On a small little shelf at Friends, 44 Haji Lane, Level 2!

And all these took merely one week, from last friday night when a friend planted the idea in my head, to meeting an awesome "landlady" (who is so passionate about handmade crafts), to making prototypes, setting up a website, and securing a small space in a shop at one of my favourite places in Singapore!!

It felt almost impossible! Apart from drowning in my real-life work, my other "co-curriculum activities" include stressful driving lessons that gives me palpitation and high blood pressure (as most of you know, I am very clumsy and have major psychomotor deficit), editing my journal manuscript for publication, writing an application for an overseas programme, yoga and this! Not to mention, this has been a emotionally trying week. )): If you ask me how I manage, I'll say I did it with His strength, His joy, His comforts, His mercy and His grace.

No words can express my joy and excitement. This has been such a splendid journey, and I hope it will continue to be. I want to share my journey with you, if you would allow me to.

Now, there is a massive load of work to be done in the next three days. I need a lot of inspiration, a lot of coffee, and a lot of His love to get me through.

Interlude #1

A taxi ride this afternoon somehow reminded me of a book that I read many years back - the Chrysalids by John Wyndham. Today, I had a moment straight out of the book, when a taxi driver interrupted my conversation with a colleague to share his worldview.

The sense of alienation is the most frightening when you feel like a fish, swimming with a school of fishes, and yet you cannot find your own breed. So when you do stumble upon one of your own, the connection becomes so precious, even if it's just for a fleeting moment.

Project Prettylines

Yours truly is embarking on a new project!

Not sure if it will work out, but keeping my fingers crossed.

In the meantime, here is a sneak preview. Will probably be doing more updates there in the coming days. (:

我现在的避风港

一个平静的早晨，我带着轻快的脚步和沉重的心，回到了童年的住家。那里充满了小时候的回忆，小时候的天真，也带着成长过程中的悲伤，泪水和痛苦。

经过那熟悉的住宅区，我发现许多东西都和以前不一样了。以前常见到的面孔已经变陌生了，以前常观光的书店也已经关闭了。以前的旧老板都退休了，经常喜欢坐在路边凳子闲聊的老婆婆们都消失了。一排一排的建筑屋，原本是带着温和的浅黄色，但现在只披着一身耀眼的深红色。

走到旧家楼下，回想起童年的恐惧，日日夜夜的烦恼，和不息的担忧。但我也记得以前莫名其妙的勇敢，和永远得不回的青春。以前虽然艰难，但也比较简单。成长后，虽然已经摆脱了很多童年的困扰与忧愁，却带来一些新的悲伤和烦恼。不晓得小时候的伤口是否比较肤浅，还是因为随着时间的隧道流失了?

地方变了，环境变了，人变了，心也变了。思想变了，理想变了，追求的目标也变了。以前执著的，以前紧紧握着的，以前放不下的，都已经渐渐失去了意义。以前拥有的感觉，也缓缓地淡下了。

尽管如此，我再也没有想停顿在过去的渴望。天真是我们小时的保护衣，小时的安全帽。而现在，主是我的避风港。永远的避风港。

ps: yes! this is my first ever Chinese post! :D

pps: no! I didn't plagarise it! rarrr >(

As amazing as it can get

A small wish had once crossed my mind
a rather ludicrous thought I find
A few weeks later, a door opened
the picture resembling what I had envisioned

You can call it coincidence
I attribute it to Him with confidence
The one who sits on the throne
with Him, you'll never walk alone

He knows our intentions before we act
evil motives, He can easily detect
He knows our heart, the good and bad
despite the disguise that we carefully clad

He knows our needs even before we pray
He gives His grace to get by each day
He knows our desires before we ask
our likes and dislikes we cannot mask

Having received in such abundance,
let me give back in reverence
This is just as amazing as it can get
and I have barely touched the surface yet

Cocoon

Robed in silk from infancy
    the larvae resides, its body idles
It lives in darkness and in reverie
    the sweet scents and bright petals
It knows not of villains and crooks
    of minute pollen grains that hooks -
    to its legs as it savours the nectar
The honey trap of a beautiful flower

Some distance away, a predator watches
    atop a tree on the branches
Waiting for the time to swoop on its catches
    between its teeth a moth crunches
Inside a flower, it spots its prey
    clothed in colorful garment, the butterfly lay
    dancing in joy, drenched in honey
Yet shortly after, the food of a chickadee

Beyond the forest, the story repeats
    end of the food chain, lies the elites
    all beneath them shall serve as staples and meats

Awake, unpeel, shed the cast
    out of your cocoon in a gust
Better be wary while it lasts
    before you return to ashes and dust

Free - Matsi

Lovely song to kick off the day.



everyday is a great day, when you learn to find the meaning.

That's what we are all trying to do

Taken from Life of Pi, a prize-winning novel by Yann Martel:

After the "Hellos" and "Good days", there was an awkward silence. The priest broke it when he said with pride in his voice, "Piscine is a good Christian boy. I hope to see him join our choir soon."

My parents, the pandit and the iman looked surprised.

"You must be mistaken. He's a good Muslim boy. He comes without fail to Friday prayer and his knowledge of the Holy Qur'an is coming along nicely," so said the iman.

My parents, the priest and the pandit looked incredulous.

The pandit spoke, "you are both wrong. he's a good Hindu boy. I see him all the time coming for darshan and performing puja."

My parents, the iman and the priest looked astounded.

"There is no mistake," said the priest. "I know this boy. he is Piscine Molitor Patel and he's a Christian.

"I know him too and I tell you he's a muslim," asserted the iman.

"Nonsense!" cried the pandit. "Piscine was born a Hindu, lives a Hindu and
will die a Hindu."

The three wise men stared at each other, breathless and disbelieving.

Lord, avert their eyes from me, I whispered in my soul. All eyes fell upon me.

"Piscine, can this be true?" asked the iman earnestly. "Hindus and christians are idolaters, they have many gods."

"And Muslims have many wives," responded the pandit.

The priest looked askance at both of them. "Piscine," he nearly whispered, "there is salvation only in Jesus."

"Balderesh! Christians know nothing about religion," said the pandit.

"They strayed long ago from God's part", said the iman.

"Where's God in your religion?" snapped the priest. "You don't have a single miracle to show for it. What kind of religion is that, without miracles?"

"It isn't a circus with dead people jumping out of tombs all the time, that's what! we Muslims stick to the essential miracle of existence. Birds flying, rain falling, crops growing - these are miracles enough for us."

"Feathers and rain are all very nice, but we like to know that God is truly with us."

"Is that so? Well, a whole lot of good it for God to be with you - You tried to kill him! You banged him to a cross with great big nails. Is that a civilised way to treat a prophet? The prophet Muhammad - peace be upon him - brought us the word of God without any undignified nonsense and died at a ripe old age."

"The word of God? To that illiterate merchant of yours in the middle of the desert? Those were drooling epileptic fits brought on by the swaying of his camel, not divine revelation. That, or the sun was frying his brains!"

"If the prophet - p. b. u. h. - were alive, he would have choice for you," replied the iman, with narrowed eyes.

"Well he's not! Christ is alive, while your old 'p.b.u.h.' is dead, dead, dead!"

The pandit interrupted them quietly. In Tamil, he said, "the real question is, why is piscine dallying with these foreign religions?"

The eyes of the priest amd the iman properly popped out of their heads. They were both native tamils.

"God is universal," spluttered the priest.

The iman nodded strong approval, "there is only one God."

"And with their one God, Muslims are always causing troubles and provoking riots. The proof of how bad Islam is, is how uncivilized Muslims are," pronounced the pandit.

"Says the slave driver of the caste system," hissed the iman. "Hindus ensalve people and worship dressed up dolls."

"They are golden calf lovers. They kneel before cows," the priest chimed in.

"While Christians kneel before a white man! They are the flunkies of a foreign god. they are the nightmare of all non white people."

"And they eat pigs and are cannibals," added the iman for good measure.

"What it comes down to," the priest put out with cool rage, "is whether picine wants real religion - or myths from a cartoon strip."

"God - or idols," intoned the iman gravely.

"Our gods - or colonial gods" hissed the pandit.

It was hard to tell whose face was more inflamed. It looked as if they might come to blows. Father raised his hands, "Gentlemen gentlemen, please!" he interjected. "I would like to remind you there is freedom of practices in this country."

Three apoplectic faces turned to him.

"Yes! Practice - singular!" The wise men screamed in unison. Three index fingers, like punctuation marks, jumped to attention in the air to emphasise their point. They were not pleased at the unintended choral effect or the spontaneous unity of their gestures. Their fingers came down quickly and they sighed and groaned each on his own. Father and mother stared on, at a loss of words.

The pandit spoke first. "Mr patel, Piscine's piety is admirable. In troubled times its good to see a boy so keen on God. We all agree on that." The iman and priest nodded. "But he can't be a Hindu, a Christian and a Muslim. It's impossible. He must choose."

"I don't think is a crime, but I suppose you are right," father replied.

Three murmured agreement and looked heavenward, as did father, whence they felt the decision must come. Mother looked at me. A silence fell heavily on my shoulders.

"Hmm piscine?" Mother nudged me. "How do you feel about the question?"

"Bapu Gandhi said, 'all religions are true'. I just want to love God." I blurted out, and looked down red in the face.

My embarrassment was contagious. No one said anything. It happened that we were not far from the statue of Gandhi on the esplanade. Stick in hand, an impish smile on his lips, a twinkle on his eyes, the Mahatma walked. I fancied that he heard our conversation, but that he paid even greater attenion to my heart. Father
cleared his throat and said in a half-voice, "I supposed that's what we are all trying to do - love God."

I just want to love God too.

Senseless sensors

I find it sad that these days, we have to depend on wireless motion sensors to alert us if our lone elderly staying in one-room apartments are well or injured, healthy or ill, alive or dead*.

I don't mean to be disrespect, but these sensors just do not make sense to me. Why can't we rely on our neighbours to check on us, just as we check on them? Why have solutions become so complicated these days? Why has technology replaced what we humans can easily do and should willing do?

Not to mention, this technology doesn't come cheap. I imagine that many, if not most of these elderly survive on public assistance, and $1000 is almost equivalent to three months of PA handouts, which translates to ninety days of food and rental. Although they may not be forking out the money for the installation, I am pretty sure these sensors will need to run on electricity.. don't they?

Plato was wrong, necessity is not the mother of all inventions. Many inventions are unnecessary, perpetuate apathy, and widen the gap between people's hearts.

* Footnote: With reference to "No more dying alone", The Straits Times, 12th November 2010, Prime A20.

Some censorship please!

Channel News Asia did a coverage on the outstanding social workers awards at the Istana yesterday and I am personally displeased with the content of the article.

If I were just taking a quick glance, the impression that I will probably get from the verbatim is that social workers speak really really bad English.

So yes, misconception remains.

Lines, untitled

Stagnant days,
when emptiness speaks
the soul drowns in chardonnay

Chilly weather,
when joints squeak
the body stands at the end of its tether

Insomniac nights,
when tear ducts leak
the heart falls from wuthering heights

Relentless rain,
when the will is weak
splitting becomes a deadly bane

Rapid undulation
object constancy sneaks
each imagination stings with rejection

Unsettling silence,
when borderline peaks
the mind runs amok in frantic cadence

Forgotten story,
when the door creaks,
freeze like a mannequin or be sorry
keep the knife before things get gory

A play long over
stop the hide-and-seek
He has got you under His cover

Plain Facts or Circus Acts

Media is a stage for circus acts
The spectators watch in awe and fear
Few can discern between illusion and facts
Of performances unfolding across the sphere

The ringmasters hide
In a ball of masquerade
All the performers abide
In their crafted crusade

A few men’s call to unwind
Measures that are useless and blind
Leads to packages intercepted in the air
Pee-ye-tee-end they were found to bear

Truth becomes more concealed
By “fresh insights” revealed
Scapegoats are captured
And security guards lectured

Sheep in panick
The accused in shock
Many discerning minds speak
But one voice takes the flock

Were the actions logical?
Does the plot make sense?
Or have we been watching the musical
Through a tinted lens

On the stage lies a platter of tales
That we watch with whimsical muse
Read with prudence, the daily news
To question or not, it’s yours to choose