The Unsung Heroine

I have not written any article dedicated to anyone before. So this is one dedicated not to a classical hero but an unsung heroine whose sacrifices and the surmountable battles she faced throughout her fight with Neurofibromatosis (NF) 2, crowned her one. NF2 is an illness of the nervous system that causes numerous benign tumors to grow in her body and which deteriorate her body functions including her hearing.

I thought she is one biblical hero. Not withstanding the reality that more clusters of tumors are growing in precarious locations in her brain, spine and nerves, I can’t describe more the emotional and physical turmoil that NF has put her through. What put me in awe and inspiration is that during her current and supposedly lifetime struggle against the illness, she still manage to spread humanity. Her innate goodness and divine spark made some classical heroes who pursued success, power and wealth, a washout in comparison.

Can you imagine waking up each morning knowing these unknown tumors are living and growing in your body? Sorry to pose such a question. The fear that arises far outweighs my imagination. For that matter, I know I will cowardly choose not to wake up and sleep forever. She does not.

In Elie Wiesel’s book, “Night”, the Nobel Prize winner writer depicted in one of his horrifying surviving scene in the Nazi concentration camp of Auschwitz, where together with thousand of prisoners, they were supposed to move from one camp to another on foot in heavy snow storms. The troops of prisoners are commanded to run as fast as they could to reach the destination or face execution and death if they stayed behind.

Thousands of them ran along, slowing down would mean one will either be trampled on under the moving herd matching behind or froze to death in the bizarre winter.

Ran Elie did, without stopping for his mercy life. Despite days without proper food and an unhealed surgery on his foot, he sticked close to his beloved father whom he is determined not to leave behind. In his masterpiece, he brought forth the agony, anguish, injustice, and the delusion he faced during the prolonged ordeal.

As the only holocaust survivor in his family, he went through a life of darkness and extreme cruelity in a death camp, stripped of dignity, faced hunger, fought depression, seen living people being thrown to the fire furnaces and burnt to death – including his mum and sister. All these memories made clear his decision to write “Night” as a memoir. Although it was difficult to write, he is convinced that “what happened must not be forgotten.”

I see Yvoone Foong running a similar amazing race for survival, though facing a different adversity. I believed she never felt lonelier in her race, despite being cheered on by many of her avid readers of her blog and book. Yes, her vision flickers sometimes along the journey, but the inner light that she shines is unwavering and certain.

As a young adolescent, she has accomplished many and eludes righteousness and goodness in helping others.

She set up the Heart4Hope campaign.
Champion for her fellow unfortunate friends who needs help as much as she does.
Wrote a brilliant book and blog.
Endeavored to be a psychologist to help others.
Earned a Scholarship to study psychology.
'Ran aside' her beloved senile dad. She is the only child.
Started a medical fund to support her expenses.
Read her own lengthy medical reports and searches her own treatments.

I really can’t find better statements to articulate her story but I know she is one quiet heroine who partakes in God’s words and turn them to evergreen fruits while fighting for her life every day. This is the kind of heroism I honor. I hope the wonderful savior will bless her with infinite strength and crafts a path for her.

Read her story on http://www.yvonnefoong.com/


Help in anyway, if you can. Thanks.

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. It's not just in some of us, it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

The Juxtaposition of Love

I thought I am an idealistic but as years passed, I realized I am bottled full of realism. Symptom of aging? I must defend this with full fledge abstract intellectual and grim determination. Truly, I used facial cream more than lotion now to combat the gravity lines (hitting too close to reality) but being a realistic has no correlation with aging.

It is just that this realism is heightened recently with a deep nudging feeling that the “love book” article I have written, only portrays some tiny neurons of idealism present in my cells and some where in our everyday life, the pictures aren’t really that lovely.

In the Victorian web, it says that unlike Platonism and Philosophical Realism (or Idealism), Realism assumes that reality inheres in the here and now, in the everyday and emphasizes the importance of the ordinary, the ordinary person and the ordinary situation.

A friend of mine often sent me a message that says: “Please pray for J today, he is undergoing treatment.” The messages are pretty straightforward. Her husband has been fighting cancer for unbearable time. With each treatment her husband undergoes, her message seeks a prayer. The messages often arrived impromptu in the morning, and being a bed potato I am, I try as faithful as I can to respond timely. In the midst of all sleepiness, I often felt the pain for my friend who inadvertently is afraid and sad. She is an ordinary lady, with a lovely wonderful husband I met once in a company retreat. One of her sons is a special kid, with a low intelligence quotient yet wonderfully pleasant boy. I like her stories of courtship when young, how she met her husband and survived poverty and become self sufficient as years goes. As I write this, I reckoned J and my friend are still battling another set of breaking news from the doctor - he has nine months left to live.

The last message I got from her was: “My life will change but I will go on.” I no longer received the prayer request message from her since but she is receptive to anyone getting in touch with her.

Deep pain, fear, hurt, loss and many other dire emotions we dread to experience, these are the juxtaposition of love. I always felt compelled to discern the causes behind all these emotions.

Another day I sat listening to another lady spoke bitterly of life. She is still coming to terms of the demise of her husband who passed away a year ago in a heart attack. Bluntly, she swears of no existence of any higher divine in the universe, she ridiculed the need for prayers. “Why pray? What is the use of praying for comfort or strength? If God created everything and peace, why then is there suffering?” There is absolutely no religion present in this world and I can tell you I met a man who taught me this, there is no need for any religion or prayers because one reap no benefits from them. She went on to talk about her special son and lamented about the difficulties in bringing him up.

There are tears in her eyes. I am sad that she is unable to grasp the goodness of life after wading through the muck and mire. I shuddered at the extremity of thoughts that is so stubbornly and deeply embedded in her. I see the dark night of the soul, the soul that after going through turmoil and pain becomes a shriveled shadow that lost belief or any faith in the higher divine and the universe.

Both ladies having same child who require special needs, one losing her partner, the other was left without. Both reacted differently; one claiming life will go on heroically, the other completely devoid of spirituality but filled with bitterness. What juxtaposition of love.

I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.

Walt Whitman - Song of Myself

Love book

What is this? A book of love letters dedicated to your boyfriend, husband or that Romeo or Juliet admirer of yours?

Nope. This is a love book specially dedicated to just yourself.

Imagine you will to start from scratch, a blank scrapbook for yourself, how would you fashion it into your own love book? Let your imagination takes the rein.

Fill it with all beautiful things, right?

What gives you comfort?

It can be visual. The pictures of white majestic clouds that my friend Linda has recently fell madly in love with. “Look up.. “ She echoed in her blog, depicted with lovely pictures personally taken of the skyline. I believe she meant to convey the sense of openness that met the eyes as one embraced the horizon above. This is the way she relaxes by gazing at the sky, she said.

Often, I noticed she includes the street lamp in her pictures. I wonder the lamp symbolizes her guiding light of her soul - brighter than any stars in heaven.

I remembered my last assignment in a consulting firm located on the fiftieth floor of a tower, when my colleague pointed to the window to slow me down in my fervent work, I stared out to see wispy fluffy clouds floating by right at my eye level. I recalled exclaiming in delight at sight. At the moment, nothing else matters except the quiet beauty that captivates my heart. Just like what God did, in my walk with him.

Even staring at the animals in discovery channel as you switched the TV to silent mode can be therapeutic too, another of my friend added. Okay.., this is something new.

Hot bods? Abercrombie and fitch models? Well..you can. But please don't develop it into an idol book.

It can be auditory as well. The harmonious singing when you pause to listen during worship singing which I did purposefully sometimes, to immense myself in the melodious caroling of others in church, searching deep in meaning the verses spoken and the hymns sung. The rhythmic beat of the drum coupled with elegant notes from the classical guitar and sassy saxophone all adds to the rigor of my love book as the church band play.

Tune in and listen to nature’s orchestra too. The falling raindrops on the pavement, the rustling of leaves in the wind as you hurried to work. Pause and enjoy God’s creation of wilderness. Yes, I mean really PAUSE. Try it.

Conversation with people around you is inclusive. Words of love and praises for encouragement. Jokes for the lighter moments that bring hilarious laughter even if it is short life. Stories and tales that inspires your heart, keep them up-close in your love book.

Your love book can record kinesthetics too. Good deeds from other people that touches you. Simple daily acts of kindnesses that bring joy and comfort. Like tonight, I thought I will be pressed for payment when I ran out of value in my concession while boarding the bus home. Contrary to my perception, the bus conductor smiled and refuse to accept my two dollar note after a sheepish confession that I lacked coins. How lovely. What grace.

There are rules of the book of course. No traces of deception and immorality allowed but clothed your love book with humanity, compassion, gentleness and love. The former will only made your love book elusive to you and rendered it a useless doctrine. If you are frostily depressed sometimes, overwhelmed by whipsaw emotions or need a spiritual therapy, your love book will be the chicken soup for the soul.

Why wait, start improvising your love book now and don’t forget to share them with me.

The 'Great' Physician

I am chasing my tail these days, I feel I may get my legs entangled and tripped myself off life’s pavement. Then I imagine myself sitting dazed on the hard ground as I watched the stars wheezing past me. After clearing off a list to-do tasks, I inevitably find myself facing another long list of tasks and errands to run. Coupled with the insanity of work, relocation of office and rental place, I can hardly have time for a breather to prepare myself for the upcoming US trip two days later. Maintaining my sanity and optimism everyday amidst the insanity of life was never a breeze but an arduous task. Surviving every day is an ongoing challenge.

I decided to head to the general practitioner today for some medicine as a precautionary measure, in case I need them on the trip. I intend to visit the clinic located near my old house where I used to stay. About the doctor, anyone who does not appreciate him will think he is weird.

He is petite, in his fifties I reckon. Scarcely eight stone, skinny and his head barely the size of the rugby ball. He wore a pair of gold rimmed spectacles that is dramatically oversized and precariously hanging from the tip of his small nose, making you feel the urge to adjust it for him. The moment you sat opposite to him, his eyes will stare at you blankly, waiting for you to speak your mind. This is how he handles all his customers; his behavior is awkward in contrast to the average doctors’ approach to a patient. In normal cases, doctors will initiate the conversation and express concern about your illness. He does not. He will sit and literally look at you, waiting earnestly for you to speak. People who do not know him will think he is mute. If you get use to his style, you will knock his door, greet him, sit down and immediately fire off your symptoms. This is what a typical type A person like me does, in order to avoid any awkward or embarrassing moments of silence. If I paused to search for words and find ourselves looking at each other, my last weapon is to smile silly. It definitely pose a feat to any patient who does not know him. I imagine the patient and doctor staring at each other.

His clinic is simple, downright plain and dull and looks like an aged old hospital room in the eighties. A greyish fan hanging from the ceiling, chairs that form a line just like what you see in a colonial hospital. No tint of technology is present as the receptionist handle records using primitive paper and pen. Two short cabinets for records storage and shelves with countable packs of medicine are all this clinic has. Non glamorized image of the eighties. If I had with me a radio playing oldies or retro music, anyone will be disillusioned to believe that they are back to the past. In the doctor’s room, things have not been simpler. You can count with your ten fingers the instruments he had, all laid out neatly on the table. I used to stare at the table with wonderment. Yes, I am not appalled, but amazed at this doctor’s works. He charged 16 dollars for almost every consultation and prescription I have five years ago. Five years later and now, he charged 18 dollars. If you think this is low cost strategy in marketing terms, I absolutely have no doubts about it. In fact, I felt he is doing charitable work. His works speak humanity, love.

I found out that he attended the same church as I am when I discovered him sitting in the front row during last Sunday’s sermon. Now when coming to singing hymns, our church goers are a spontaneous and joyous lot, we resemble a collective choir when we sing in spirit, joyfully clapping widely and raising our voices and occasionally, our hands in exuberance. In between singing the hymns, I stole some glances to observe his actions. He can hardly sing or utter a word or open his mouth. The distance between his hands as he clapped looks like a pathetic five centimeters apart. He seems slow in his action. He holds a bible so old that the pages are yellow. He looks restricted in his movements that invite numerous sympathetic looks from people who sit around him. No one knew he is a doctor. Nevertheless, he was in his Sunday best. Once I saw him drove an old tattered car.

I wonder how he sustains his practitioner work. Somehow or rather, after a tired day’s work and hogging around to complete my errands, I need a little inspiration. I decided to ask him a question I had on my mind while walking towards the clinic today. I wonder how he survive and correlate his works to God’s works.

I knocked on the door as usual when my turn comes. In a militant way, I sat down, look at him and started my impromptu script of the symptoms I have. With a greeting to start off with,

Me : Hi doctor, I saw you at the church the other day! {He hardly smile but I learnt that the mention of church will lit him up}
Doctor : ....(Chuckled) {It is AN achievement to see him even smile}

Me : I am going for a US trip, so can you prescribe some sleeping pills for me for the flight in case I have a jet lag and do you have the 5 mg or 10 mg type. Also I have been having sore throat lately.
Doctor : ………..(looked at me)

Me : So you have the 5 mg type? I will take the smaller capacity ones. I need ten of them. For sore throat, what prescription will you be providing? Antibiotics?
Doctor :……….lozenges. {He don’t usually encourage antibiotics}

Me : Okay, but I think I need antibiotics.
Doctor: …………(looked at me, then proceed to take down notes)

Me : Doctor, uh..how do you think god sustain you in your works?
Doctor:………….(He looked a little stunned and confused by my question)

Me: Hmnnn..I mean, how do you think God helps you in your work, you know, it is so competitive in this industry. {Actually I mean to say, with the way he is running the clinic like a charitable house charging patients low cost , how the hell can he manage to survive for years given the important focus on first impression and presentation as some of the pertinent factors for business going concern and revenue. The clinic and his demeanor hardly conveys}
Doctor: {This time I manage to get two words from him}…..you mean?

Me: {I swallow hard and summarized everything I have asked, trying to be as polite as I can} I mean what is your belief in God that he will help you?
Doctor: Ah.. (chuckle again) {This chuckle and expression is a breakthrough}
Doctor: Well…………………Because I believe GOD is the PROVIDER!

Me: { I persist to ask again, fumbling for words in too conscious an attempt} You mean? {I sound like him before, this is obviously a silly question..}
Doctor: WELL, I mean GOD IS GOOD! No DOUBT about it! {I stared at him, not expecting such an abrupt answer}

Me: Ohh..true.!!{I actually know these facts but facts coming from a man of few words like him seems magical enough to inspire me for that awkward moment}

Suddenly satisfied by his answers. I stood up thanking him before I leave, feeling utterly proud that I have asked him the question. Before I reached for the door knob, I turn again.

Me: Doctor, I will get the 5mg medicine I want right?
Doctor : …………….. (He looked at me and nodded. This time he is back to his solemn self again}

****************************************************************
To me, he seems noble and ‘great’ in his own contribution. A good man who is admirable by his determination to do good works although he does not communicate or publicised his intentions.
Isn't that God want us to do?

After I paid for the medicine, I decided next time when I return again, I will ask him more.

Of childhood days I remember

My family was very poor then. But we were happy.

My mum sewed for a living to support us. She often worked late till midnight most of the days, alternating between two commercial sewing machines in the kitchen industriously. The humming sound generated from the machines was part of my bedtime lullaby that often lulled me to sleep while I am a kid.

I remembered enjoying the moments talking to my mum as I stood tiptoe by her side, my shoulders barely touching the top of the sewing machine, watching in awe and captivated by her finger work as she painstakingly put together the pieces of cloth, running them nimbly through the needle; weaving and threading the fabric into beautiful dresses. My fingers works like bear paws and fumbled with the needle, so I was never successfully in claiming any of her wonderful sewing skills.

Most of my dresses were sewed by my mum. I recalled having one with pleated yellow hems, a sailor moon collar and a little smart tie which become my favorite. Another of my pet dress would be a white lacy print dress with ribbons tied to the back that made me look like a little angel. In times like this, the dresses that I had back then would have considered ‘exclusive’ by classification given they were hand-sewed and specially tailored. Indeniably, they were my treasured posessions.

The day often starts with the raw materials delivered in a van and I would diligently accompany my mom downstairs to help her drag the bags up to our house.

Our kitchen was a place for every flurry activity. The bags of fabric are emptied to the floor as my mom rummaged through them, teaching my brother and me how to snip off excessive threads with scissors. My brother and I helped out wherever we can in between our studies. We were careful not to mix up the pieces as each represent different parts of a dress and would line them up in heaps like mole hills from one end of the kitchen to the entrance for easy identification. The trail sometimes extends to the living room depending on the delivery, which normally account for about one hundred dresses by batch based on the factory demand.

Naïve and young, my brother and I would leap across the mole hills of cloth, manuveuring between tiny spaces and stealing fun amidst the hard work for play. We would race each other across the kitchen, hugging the kitchen cabinets and walls as we giggled and chuckled when we knocked things over. Occasionally, we would compete against each other for the fastest person to complete the thread snipping. Other times, we would get into a frenzy trying to find a missing piece, furrowing our brows as we counted and check the heaps of fabric all over again. And when we finally found the missing puzzle, we squealed with delight.

Sometimes, my cherub little cousin would come over for stay and we formed the monstrous jumble of three, often not paying heed to my mum’s pea-hen like quarks to discipline us when we got too rowdy. My tomboy-like cousin love to get into a sparring pillow fight with my brother, howling with joy if she won victoriously and got him sprawling on the ground or his face pressed against the wall with a bolster. Naturally, I and my brother were the better assistants to mum, with my mischievous cousin, occasionally trying to copy our work but fumbled with her scissors even though I knew that she was earnest to help. That was how adorable she is.

At the end of the day, we are rewarded with plain sugared crackers and cups of hot cocoa to dip in. The only tea time treats that we can afford to have in those days. But boy, although the tea treat was simple, it remained today our favorite tea special talk as my cousin and I reminisce the nostalgic days together whenever she is back from New York for vacation.

A Refreshing Perspective

Relocating to another office, viewing rental places and getting ready for a work trip to Salt Lake City, Utah had me going in a circuitous busyness recently.
In the midst of a list of to-dos and schedules that I have packed myself into commitment during this period of changes and transition, I still manage to carve out a little time to the library for some books, this time I thought Christian reading is what I need. Right on the tall towering shelves, I chanced upon Philip Yancey’s 'Soul Survivor' and fell in love with it instantly as I laid hands on it.

I have progressed to the stage whereby finding books to read depend intuitively on the “feel” and “visual” senses I have on the book, of knowing that it is the right book to start with and that there is hardly a need to force myself to go beyond the “tenth” page in self denial.

Philip Yancey wrote in rhetoric expressions about being a follower of CS Lewis’s writings who in turn discovered G.K Chesterton that inspired him and eventually provide both authors motivating exemplification in writing their own works.

In his book, Philip wrote about the incessant joy in words , writing and returning to God:

“Their words sustained me, a lifeline of faith in a sea of turmoil and doubt. I became a writer. I have said, in large part because I realized the power of words in my own life, words that could sail across time and an ocean and quietly, gently work a transformation of healing and hope. More time would pass before I fully returned to faith, but at least I had models of what life-enhancing will look like. “

I felt a monotonous tone often in my life recently with joy suppressed that many a time this feeling manifest in my dreams recently in recurring themes. I hate the dullness and ordinariness of everything. The tight, restrained and repressing feeling gained in intensity each day like a general greyness that draped over my life. Worst, it is general and not spectacular. I think I am seeking something I can control. Writing becomes inadvertently my vent and creative outlet for release in a purposeful way.

I realised writing has become an essential tool for my self gratification. I know I can remain true to myself and exercise free will in my thoughts. Indeed a perfect way for me to keep my idealism burning and my energy flow going. You know it when this desire emanates from your heart, small and steady, dissipating and to let it out, expressions in writing becomes an inevitable part to act on this desire, it feeds and expresses the soul. How exuberating this way. On the contrary, it saddens me that we often keep our random thoughts floating in the mind and leaving it slowly dissipating into thin air. Eventually, we find ourselves living a conscious life with the treasures and true richness of thoughts subconsciously drowned in icy depth of our being.

This refreshing perspective and its actualization towards writing fills me with embullience. Just being able to uncover the richness of it brings joy, agreed?

The Big Picture

This subject came to me coincidentally in various situations over the past three consecutive days.

I attended a simple training on Friday on customer relationship management. Somehow or rather, the facilitator touches upon the three basic steps towards success. As many will find, these principles not new. Here it goes…

1) Know the outcome – The BIG picture.
2) Use your visual, auditory & kinesthetic senses to identify signs ahead.
3) Have the flexibility to change and adapt in order to reach your goal.

I wasn’t really a fan of self-help advice like this. Maybe the ambitious part of me does not exist! But I do wonder what exactly is the big picture that I would like to have. Sorting this out can be frustrating and a pain for me, as besides the milestones and little goals that I can think of, I was never able to successfully conjure up a BIG picture in my life, no matter how hard I try. The idea of visualizing or fantasizing a BIG picture always tick me off, either I find the outcome too materialistic, lack of personal feel, not satisfying to the soul or something that is not close enough to my heart. Perhaps, my ability to creatively think out of the box and imagine anything is incredibly poor. Perhaps, the reality of life have sucked dry my creative brain juice. Sometime, I gets dizzy and confused, going round and round always trying to find a solution and answer, sometimes I feel I am in a life deadlock.

A car, huge house, a lovely husband? Or be soulfully happy and live simple? I need an image which is higher, larger, deeper, more meaningful and authentic than this! Surely there is more to life than just claiming all these?

So you see, I cannot but reprimand myself for being a failure and lacking the persistence to pursue a Big picture for myself. I feel so ashamed.

On Saturday, I sat in for the church sermon with this question mark shelved to the back burner of my mind, hoping to relax for some lovely hymns and inspiring words of God. Then a message flashed across the screen as Pastor present the topic of the day - The Big picture. Not again. I shifted uneasily in my seat, wondering why the same subject appeared again in front of me.

The pastor rumbled off with quotes and stories from the revelations chapter and spoke about life beyond eternity, all of which I happily tune in to. The sermon was inspiring and receives spontaneous applause from the audience. I left the church feeling even closer to God. God is good, I thought.

On Sunday, I decided to continue reading a book that I have picked up from the library. As I finished off the first paragraph of chapter two, I was startled by the next paragraph heading as it read – The larger Scene (isn't this synomonous to the Big picture?). As I read on, the following words resonate in my heart :

Jan Winebrenner wrote :

“Most of the time, there is no easy answers. Often, there are no answers at all. We stew in confusion and shout our “whys.”

Later on, she wrote about the truth :

“When we encounter God, in His transcendent glory, nothing else matters. Hearing His voice, actually experiencing communion with Him, removes all other yearnings – for answers, for explanations, for anything but God himself. We don’t expect this. We don’t even know we want it! But when catastrophe has cut us off from all other comfort, when God Himself enters our experience, His transcendent majesty dwarfs all other comforts, His voice silences all other voices ,and His love overwhelms all other loves. We find out, for the first time in our lives, that it is God who we want. It is God who we crave and desire; it is only God who can satisfy us. "

“Always, always, he surpasses our imagination. He is beyond our ability to fully understand. Always, He ultimately exceeds our hopes and dreams.

Every gesture, every contact God initiates with us comes from his Transcendent nature. Sometimes we will understand; sometimes we won’t. "

Is this His message for me to listen to His words? The directives he sent about the counsel he has for me. The truth that he laid for me, and his urging me to trust again in whatever circumstances? A reminder again of His sovereign kindness and loving grace?

Is this the blueprint that form the big picture deliberately make known to my soul by the Holy Spirit to guide my life and thoughts? Seems like it.

As He says : Let us not focus on the matter. All is Vanity. Psalm 37 1:6

Listen to my heart

I have always been attracted and inspired by the teachings of listening to one's heart each time I read books on philosophy or self discovery. It is indicated as one of the foundational yet pertinent steps towards the self "individuation" process which make room for transformation.

Each time, my longing and desire to write aroused my heart but I often find the easiest excuse to brush aside this desire. My excuses have since, formed an indeterminate list ranging from lack of time, workload, to the ever-so-dumb, self pro-claimed excuses of "I don't think this is important"; progressing to the more sophisticated excuse of "lack of writing theme", and external opinions of others who find blogs are part of "wasting time", or gossip-focus.

What's the point of writing a blog and keeping it a secret when no one reads it? Forget it. My shadow convinces me to repress the thought.

After a long drudging time of procastination and repression, I guess the little voice in my heart cannot contained itself any longer. It shouted out in my heart and mind one day while I was laying on my bed nonchalantly doing my usual reading. The shout is like an awakening. I lifted my head abruptly with wide open eyes as if I am hit by an apple just like Newton discovered gravity sitting under the tree.

The sudden surge of feelings to write and what to write just hit me that instant moment. Is this inspiration? I scrambled out of my bed which is scattered with books, grabbed hold of my laptop, anxiously waited for it to boot up while trying to catch hold of the idea in my mind, my fingers tapping impatiently on the keyboard, my heart beating faster and my mind racing ahead.
As they said, when one gets too excited, one will tend to stumble. I stumbled on my blog login password that I created just few days ago. Damn, how can I be so forgetful??! Cursing and swearing isn't a good start to creating a new post, I tell myself. I cooled myself down and finally, after several attempts with perspiring palms, I got in and pen down this first blog.

Don't laugh. I know it sounds silly, my struggle and experience of writing the first and to me - the "critical" post of my lifetime. I thought so that first impression counts in a new blog. It isn't damn hard as I thought it will be for my first muse in writing. Yet it isn't easy too.

My heart flys as words flow. My eyes lit, my face glow in satisfaction. All my sleepiness is gone. The feelings are mystical. Ah! The incessant joy of writing! A creation out of listening to my heart!

It dawned on me that impression does not matter any more..
Hopefully a transformation will ensue.