QUARANTINE

 

How you survive the 14 days of isolation is the mark of your character. Withholding freedom affects us all with polarized results.    Intolerance or patience.  Stressful anguish or calming energy.  Mental disturbance or intellectual happiness.  

I am built with a fair share of endurance, and with that I was awarded eight items necessary in coming out of quarantine with balanced joy and serenity. 

 

These 8 requirements are space, light, city view, music, wifi, mini-fridge stocked, balcony and a life-long loving partner are perquisite in coming out energized, emotionally sane and with an enormous amount of gratitude for a well governed country in pandemic times.  It is Singapore that many criticize for its restrictive and unique rules.  I, whose God is freedom, takes the strict controlled regulations with open arms.

Besides death, fractured families, Covid-19 virulent damage has caused world governments to fumble and fall, fail in their duty to protect its people.   Some governments even use Covid-19 restrictions to strategize their ruling legitimacy under mounting dissatisfied populace.  

 

Fourteen days are broken up into self-introspection and outside interference. Learning about the candid self without bias; what triggers the layers of pretense one possesses.  Does one pretend, when no one is around; or does reality irritate to a dissatisfied grump growing rapidly into a depressive state.

 

I learnt that simplicity is the state of ecstatic contentment.  The more down to earth, the more real the sentiment, the more unshakeability of my foundation.

 

I learnt that a simple soft bread roll with basic sliced cheddar cheese is as good as my French baquette fortified with camembert. The sunrise that I am able to witness every morning, reinforces my soul with another cherished day on this earth.  I embrace the ingenuity of the wifi, internet technology that connects me to the world, but unable to intelligently explain how it works.    Or the music downloaded from Itunes, invigorate my soul, reminding me that my youthful sexy movements are still intact.

 

My irritating habit of tidiness in confined spaces was truly appreciated by a typical alpha male with a messy predisposition – my husband.  The exchange of our conversations ranged from old memories enjoyed together to engaging him in something new on the internet, knowing his obvious delight from it.  His expansive knowledge of English history always fascinates me, so much more fun than acquiring it through self-research.  The intellectual intimacy built through the years condensed in the 14 days will never sever, from any divine intervention.  That gift I carry with honor.

 

The burst of excitement held out for so long to rejoice with family must be reasonably contained, for the ultimate joy of reuniting – the pinnacle of happiness that cannot be bought or stolen will invariably come to a return journey to face yet another 14 days of capture.  That second quarantine will give birth to the real me. And I look forward to that delivery. 

 

To be continued………..

ACCENT DISCRIMINATION

I am of mixed race.   By low percentage, only droplets of this and that; that defines me.   To look at, I have all the features pertaining to Asia.  More South East, as my almond shaped eyes are  walnutty round, my fair skin belies a Caucasian tone, and my small  bone structure strictly oriental and an obvious inbred subservient nature. There’s obvious history.   But before I divulge the naughty slice of my Germanic undertones, I want to address my own narrow view that finally broke recently to show objectivity in its true light.

I married a Caucasian, a trace of ginger, with virulent freckles, and a strong Viking-like bone structure, with an inbred undertone of a fighter.  The opposite end of the spectrum of me. We produced 2 boys and a girl.  Their obvious mixed race, brought a wide range of diversity;  powerful determination with subtle Asian charms;  the strain of freckles, a predominant feature in all three.  Strong bone structure mixed with a strain of exotic Asiatic features gave my children perfect symmetrical beauty according to  BBC’s The Human Face.

Having traversed over the tribal barrier, I gave myself a pat on the shoulder that I am the thinking modern woman, with objectivity in race relations, crossover of cultural gaps, powered by success that Kipling’s East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, was such a far-fetched long ago thought that should clearly be dismissed, poetry shelved and long forgotten.  How could I be so wrong about myself?

The day of revelation came last week.

Sitting closely together on our big settee, my husband, the Viking-like overpowering size was watching BBC news at full volume.  I, the petite Asian multi-task wife, listening to the news, with my head down simultaneously answering messages on my phone, flipping through Instagram and scrolling down Facebook as we do, every now and again looking up at the TV screen when some absurdity is discussed among known reporters.

          

I love the beauty of accents and having schooled in the UK from kindergarten upwards, I developed naturally the quality of the school’s accent; mostly upper-middle class, high-end that distinctly puts your GPS at Kensington unlike the strong Cockney Londoner or East-end Coronation Street twang.  In earlier years I admired BBC’s announcers but then having to gradually accept the politically correct regional tones; the Scottish notes against the Welsh sing-song and even tolerated some Brummies.  

Suddenly as I am scrolling my string of FB messages, a beautiful accent talking about Boris Johnson’s mistake of the day, I was struck by the tone; deep and husky, reminiscent of my school like days, posh and expensive, and admittedly sexy.  I looked up expecting a Daniel Craig James Bondish look-a-like; but my total shock was resplendently echoed in my husband’s quizzical expression.  He had a screen perfect face; there in full frontal feature was his Sikh turban, sideburns with the required beard and ‘tash beautifully groomed and tucked. 

Studio lights known for its stark brightness, helped to lower the dark tones by a significant margin, nevertheless the screen never lies and the beauty, symmetrical features that can be seen between the blue turban and the beard/tash was truly handsome.   My shocked demeanor shocked me even more of what was ravaging in my mind #blacklivesmatter and all its ramifications.   

The accent didn’t match the face.

 I’m not racist, in fact having broken the values of marrying out of the tribe nonsense, I judged myself differently, but then a thought struck.

My Asian face, small body, walnutty eyes, seemingly could be from anywhere from as far west as Myanmar, stretching east to the Philippines, as far north as mid China,  reaching south to Indonesia; encompassing a fair range in square miles overland and overseas, but what was coming out of my mouth was this Kensington posh lingo.  

The accent didn’t match the face.  

How many quizzical looks, silences, and remarks made throughout the years have been judged on me.  How dare I give such a shocked expression when this Sikh reporter came on.   Then the obvious thoughts raced at great speed already summoning him up in less than a second.  Rich parents, top school, upholding tradition, arranged marriage……how ashamed I was to have such notions.   Or….. my twisted sarcastic assumption….perhaps BBC’s producer finger pointed a staff member in a roomful; he looked right ‘Tonight’s your night – put him in make-up, he’s going on the 8 o’clock news’.

From that night I have vowed never to judge.

THE FREEDOM IN SELF-ISOLATION

From day one of being born, the youngest of five siblings, I followed, I pleased and I obeyed everyone, such was the position and station in which I found myself.  I grew up in a society that was changing its values, and unknowingly became the bridge of self-expression against traditions.   

Rebellion was the order of the day, partly due to my order of birth that sufficiently suffocated any growth.  Despite that stunted progression, the enjoyment of annoying those in authority, became my target.

Rather than self-sabotage my failings, I will open a window of  my youthful rebellious nature.  For instance, traditionally in my country, every day of the week had a designated colour;  for example Monday’s designated Yellow, so the garment for that day was shades of amber..  

 It was a way to teach the days of the week for the less cerebrally gifted.   Never wanting to conform, my attire on Monday was purple denoting power.   Growing up was an uphill struggle, silently disobedient to authority. 

So when  forced to stay home, because of this world pandemic of Covid-19, my knee jerk reaction was defiance.   Unfortunately, the consequences were dire, so I knuckled under and began my discovery of freedom in self-isolation. 

 My learning curve allowed self understanding:

The freedom of meal-times; eat when hungry vs dictated by work meetings.

The freedom of cooking exquisite meals or happy-go-lucky two pieces of bread with something stuffed in between.

The freedom to read without distraction; serious mind provoking literature or crappy magazines for toiletry functions. 

The freedom to think philosophically without interruption. Expanding intellect or grappling modern diatribes.

Guiltless bingeing  on Netflix’s latest, HBO or Amazon or any docu-series that starts with titles like Pandemic, Quarantine or 93 Days of Ebola.

Lonely?   Video calls with friends, family anywhere in the world. Or pretend tindering.

List all things to self-improve.  List all those that cannot be improved.  Learn to be real.

Prioritize belongings.   Unused items over a year, is sent to the garbage. No excuse for hoarding.  None of these matter, if you are destined for near-future crematorium.

At the end of the day, when sleep is overdue, have gratitude for the day’s efforts.  When dawn descends, with another day to repeat, thank the lucky stars.  You are alive.  You have lots to give.  You have tons to receive.  

FINDING ME

The year 2020. A new decade.  And in its first week I can emphatically say I met my own soul. 

I had my second Reiki massage and Sound Healing with Stefanie Holzer in Bali.  The place known for its spiritual and mystical energy; the setting Nuko Beach Resort, Bali, a place filled with love.

Reiki massage different from the ordinary body massage detailed every muscle fibre I possessed releasing and draining the toxin, at the same time, unknotting all twisted tendons with her healing hands and breath.  This took me into a meditative state, and totally awake I began to feel a body and mind separation that happens when meditation is achieved. Every spinal cord where nerve tissues exit is treated with healing hands and Stefanie's breathing that seemingly guides the nerve endings infused with blood ready to receive what was coming next.  

In the alpha state of mind, a  distant depth of low sound waves invaded my space. I longed to grasp the hum in an effort trying to find its whereabouts.  Then another deep but louder volume that had me follow the sound for as far as it would allow.   A tiny ping, a higher octave and in this vacuum space I found a composite of nothing yet of everything.   It had cracks, it had smoothness, beautifully peaceful yet tangible.   It resembled a part of me, easily recognizable,  pure and welcoming.  This could only  be described as my soul.  The comfort, almost  an encompassing enveloping safe  place needed none of the trappings connected with human needs.  

It was timeless, it had love, it had innocence, it looked bare yet filled with history.  I so wanted to go inside but with guidance, I was ushered into infinite space  This  resembled what space must feel like.  There was no ceiling, no floor, nothing I could touch to match gravity, to match time.  There was no light to shine any pathway  It was something I was taught to dread, yet taking a step inside, I immediately knew it was the next phase of life by the sound of a louder deeper vibration -  death.   In the timeless vibration circling my entity, death was so beautiful.   We are programmed to avoid death, we do everything to bypass death. Our emotions are cracked, skewered over our loved ones departure,  We are scared of long projected ill health, discomfort from pain.  Live, live, live is what we are told for when the inevitable comes, there is no more.  

How untrue.

I now am liberated from this projected fear,  The “Ah-Ha” moment, a word  so ineloquently introduced by well known Oprah Winfrey but universally understood, was the fear of being left.  Through my soul, those that went before will shine a light when it is my turn.  No need for grief as the platform on which life connects with death should be celebratory as the next stage is just as exciting, adventurous and unknown.   Worthy of waiting.   Some of us wait to a century and more; some only two decades old; and some barely see the world, only to move on after a breath or two.

Liberate yourself, with hope you might be just as lucky to find a Stefanie to lead the way.

WOKING PIZZA AND I

WOKING PIZZA

Liar Liar your pants on Fire

We all got secrets.  Trying to hide them is an impossibility, especially on screen.  Right-out lies or half truths; gets mangled, tortured facial features are all laid bare to see; while the brain works at break-neck speed to cover any residual lies.

With increased technology speed, so fast even high-tech geeks constantly brain-reboot to keep up to date.  Some view it as detrimental to society.  I view it with positive aspects.  

It's a personality defect we are all born with, lies are the basic instinct of protection.  Facing the truth of one's own wrong doing increases a better society.   Religious institutions will have one less subject to pour down our throats.   

Born privileged, we can escape the rules - the 2 G's.  God and Government.  Born rich, we can only escape one rule.  How do the surviving workforce, poor and underprivileged emulate goodness?  They are told to have faith in God's teachings.  How confusing this must be to come to a conclusion.

The few British traits of the stiff upper lip; the sanctity of "my word is my honor"; seems to have vanished overnight.  That impeccable honorable trait tainted when BBC interviewed a member of their well respected ruling class of his unbecoming conduct.  Excuse me by my polite term of a 'liar'.

As a non Brit married to a Brit, steeped with English education, my thoughts on William Windsor has a huge heritage to uphold while all around him falls by the wayside.  Whether the compass points to  Netflix's third season of the Crown; to his father; even his mother; or recently by his brother; now his uncle brings the scale down on the balance of his grandmother's 67 years of great reign.

While all eyes and ears are on Andrew, waiting for the fallout, let us look to our imperfect selves and try to correct our deviant behavior, privileged or not, as a self sacrifice to the behavior for the  next generation.

TILL DEATH DO US PART

AN ODE TO BEE & BEN

A thought passed through  my mind as I witnessed recently a beautiful wedding . Those vows said by millions in front of their supreme faith, or just between themselves, hold weight in increments of decades together, are never truly valued at the time the vows were first made.

I witnessed a blooming love affair three years ago when my young friend brought over her "stray-beach find" in the form of  an introduction to me. To test an open minded friend/relative, before the parental definitive acceptance.  For this was an interracial relationship, as is my own.

My silent instant reaction was "if you think you can engage yourself in these people's lives, you need to step up and show what you are made of".   My loud and vocal reaction was, "hell yeah, enjoy yourselves".

Last week the not so young but dashing man, at their wedding, did one important action of showing his love, devotion to all.  By demonstrating his seriousness in protecting and loving his bride with one impressive action alone; he properly learnt to speak the Thai language in  making an eloquent speech showing true commitment and understanding.

Linguistically gifted aside, apart from his native New Zealand twang, he spoke fluent French.  Through language, he has understood and accepted the many layers of the culture, tradition and remained his true self.   This is a beautiful platform in the longevity of married life in respecting each ridiculousness of tradition or custom that appears irrational.

Shared ups and downs, journeying through crevices of disappointments; and peaks of success; good health and illness's and inevitable old age.   Arriving at this juncture, I have witnessed true commitment and the uniting of two cultures regardless of how others perceive.  Be true to yourselves and let no one, culture or tradition come into your four walls. 

There are no secrets to a happy marriage.  To each his own.  There lies only one important factor. Through time, the silent vow to yourself, or to your supreme faith, is held accountable only by you.   Instead of the many congratulations, jubilations, and overwhelming love that  the couple have received, I offer my deep belief on taking this important step to last  -  

                                     Till death us do part.

THE FRENCH OPEN

Bum on tiny hard green seats under the afternoon's hot sun, or lounging at home on Talenti's exquisite chaise lounge, in ambient temperature? 

French cuisine shared under a luxury tent, only champagne served before the game;  or home cooked comfort food within arm's stretch?  

At both scenarios, the grunting sound accompanies a thud of racket hitting a served ball; either selection, eyes glued to two famous people fighting for the trophy.   

But I am happier to squeeze my butt cheeks into this cheap hard green bucket at Roland Garros's Philippe Chatrier Court, sipping Grand Cru at The Legend Lounge. The sexy grunts that accompanies the sound of racket hits ball draws the spectators to root for them, the louder the grunt the more it resembles the road to orgasm.   We all are aware of it, pretend it's non-existence yet the louder it becomes, the intensity of the fight going either way and the possibility of the game at finis, how it resembles that climatic peak.

Guests of Longine, the official Time Keeper of the French Open, I witnessed the rise of Djokovic, from his first entry in 2007 only 20 years old; too young for daughter's interest.  Watching him twelve years later, still too young for daughter, the Serbian's strength, the gift of his return serves is well known and talked about.

Reading this you would think that I am a tennis aficionado only I hate to disappoint.  It is the best of France that attracts me, Paris. George Cinq, Eiffel Tower,  French Champagne, Longine, Lobster Thermidor, Brie....Lourve, French impressionists, Macron..... don't let me bore you; anything to take my mind off  Brexit, Trump, May and my country's ineptitude at finding a Government after 10 weeks of a supposedly democratic election;  we still have an empty chair to run the country.  

It must be the alignment of the stars; the tilting of the earth, the mystical black hole.  I await the return of forward-thinking minds to bring a modernistic approach to doing things better - steal a little of Lee Kuan Yew's approach.