Peonies
fragrance in my tracks
blooming with wild abandon
the giving of self
Incense
quietly it glows
purifying space and soul
here. set me aglow
The Case of Incompetence
We often use the words “competent” and “incompetent” in our evaluation of a person’s ability to do something, so often that many of us forget: competence is a spectrum, not an essential quality of a person. It refers to how well, not if able, a person engages in a certain task or activity. It is current, and it can change. And there is a myriad of factors contributing to it, such as the understanding of the task, the clarity of the standards, the ability to reflect on and evaluate one’s own work, the knowledge of how to learn and practice. We can be practicing something incorrectly, resulting in no improvement if we know not where we have gone wrong. It can also be intimidating receiving feedback impersonally. Much goes into learning and becoming competent at something, and some of us are more competent at learning and practicing to be competent than others.
We may not always be fortunate to meet people who will point out our mistakes and guide us toward a higher standard. Conversely, we may not always be fortunate to meet people who will push us toward cultivating ourselves beyond our work. And even when either circumstance happens, we might turn a blind eye to it because we choose to believe in our own limiting view of competence and what it takes to grow.
How do we measure competence? Is it really true that the other is incompetent because they were not able to meet our standards? How can we be certain it’s true? Can we ascertain the cause of a person’s inability to produce excellent work? Competence is a range, each of us is on that spectrum, constantly shifting. How big is this chasm between us and the other? Is it truly big or are we making it bigger than it really is? Is the other really incompetent or simply less competent than us? Incompetence has become a convenient excuse for many, and I too have been guilty of using it back in my years of working in creative agencies. How else to explain my inability to delegate tasks or trust another to do the job up to my standards? Time-crunch, resource-crunch, I cannot afford a mistake. I have to take on this task because no one else is as competent. Really? Or simply no one else can do it the way I want it done? I’ve merely shut down possibilities. Possibility for me to do less work and breathe easier; to be truly masterful at what I do; for both of us to learn and grow, and develop a connection beyond colleagues (two instruments of the company), and more.
Old and recent memories of my father taking over the dishes are floating up. He deems me incompetent at doing the dishes so he’d rather be the one washing them. Can anyone be incompetent at that? Well, in my case, or in his case, yes. He believes the dishes I clean remain oily based on old event(s) I cannot remember. It was neither up to his standards nor following his quite particular method of washing. Honestly, till today, his standards remain obscure. He continues to indulge in his preference to do the dishes all by himself, instead of guiding me toward that. Hold on, allow me to be precise in my account. He generously shares his process of washing. He is proud and happy with how well he performs the task but less inclined to give me a chance. It seems too big a risk for him to take: to wash the dishes again if I were to fail. That would mean double the time and effort for him. Over time, for me who has failed to earn his trust, much less an ounce of faith, I began to tune out, adopting a hands-off attitude. It hurts, too, to be rejected when I offered help, with the chance of redemption denied indefinitely. I could only get out of his way and let him do the job.
Do you relate to this story? It’s a pity I can only present it from my view as the incompetent one. I would have definitely wanted to give as fair an account as I possibly could. I have wondered, what if he had taken the chance, stated his expectations, demonstrated, held me to his standards, made me redo if I fumbled. He has not the patience yet, and he probably holds the belief too that I will not listen (which was true when I was a teenager.) In not taking the risk, in not relinquishing control, he was not able to assume his personal power. I wish he believed in timing and the possibility of change. I wish he had extended grace to me.
Learning never ceases. We need teachers in our lives, and they may appear in various situations wearing various hats. Teaching takes time and effort. Be grateful with a willing teacher; be gracious with a willing student; be curious and forgiving with the space in between, the relationship and dance between the changing and varying competences. How will we choose to be? Will we lead or follow or dance hard for both of us?
When we are too quick in labeling another incompetent, we march ourselves into a stalemate. No room for either and the relationship to grow. There is, of course, a benefit in taking more of the load, we become better and faster at what we do with the repeated practice, but to the point where we exhaust both our time and selves. There is only so much more we can do, so much faster we can do, since time and energy are both limited. In our pursuit of excellence in our work, we may sometimes forget about the excellence in ourselves as human beings. What if we also pursue excellence in ourselves and others? Believing in the ever-growing human spirit, nurturing the seed that has, by accident or divine intervention, fallen on our soil. What will it take to believe in this?
Adamantly perceiving the other as incompetent is to constantly see them as a weed in our garden, something we wish begone because we believe it will consume the nutrients in our soil for nothing, sucking up our time and attention. As a result, more time and effort are needed to ensure the beauty of our garden, we feel frustrated and bitter till our breaking point, and we give up our entire garden because that specific seed just couldn’t sit well in our soil and grow in the way it should (to our liking). We chose to believe in the impossibility of growth over the malleability and potential of the human seed. How vexing this must be.
My invitation: Will you be a gardener, and how will you garden? What is in the way of giving yourself and the other a chance?
I never dared
I woke up from a nightmare, sobbing,
smothering my cries with my blanket,
I never dared call for Mum.
I never dared tell her some girls on my school bus
ganged up to taunt and scorn me.
I never dared tell her, one of them was a neighbour’s kid,
that neighbour she smiles and greets in the lift.
I never dared tell her, a teacher chided me to reflect on my character
in my unsuccessful attempt to borrow a piece of craft paper from my classmates.
I was only eight, did I deserve such hate?
I never dared tell her about her colleague,
“She lied! It’s not about the candy, I’m not greedy!
She said she wasn’t going to friend me, and she was your friend.
I…was scared.”
I never dared tell her why I acted out on one of our road trips,
jealous of my cousin sitting on her lap those few hours.
I never dared tell her how shocked and afraid I was
when I encountered the flasher, and how much I wished
she’d pick me up at the bus-stop after that event.
I never dared tell her many things, afraid
she wouldn’t take my side, afraid
she’d shame me or be ashamed
of me.
Then, she left.
Like me, she never dared tell
or ask for help.
I never dared cry to Dad.
I never dared tell him the first piano teacher I had gradually idled away
during our lessons, and wasn’t teaching me much.
I never dared tell him another neighbour asked me to stop my piano practice
so her daughter could get her afternoon nap after school.
(Oh wait, I did let him know, jokingly,over a decade after I parted with the keys)
I never dared tell him of the nights I was trembling under my blanket, traumatised
by the presence prying and staring in through my window slits.
I never dared tell him of the accident I was in, where the car was flung
across four lanes of the highway, landing on its top.
(With God’s mercy, I was carried out of the smashed metal, unscathed)
I never dared tell him how terrified I was of whom I was once engaged to
and why I broke it.
I never dared tell him how upset I was when he disregarded my offer
to invite his friends to my wedding.
(I had wanted him to share his joy and pride.)
I never dared utter a word
when my heart shattered,
when I screwed up in life.
I wish I had.
I wish I felt safe.
I wish I was assured.
I wish it was different, and I
will make a difference, starting
from this piece—
I dare.
Toward Greatness
Winning does not tempt that man.
Rainer Maria Rilke
His growth is: to be the deeply defeated by ever greater things.
This was a quote I included in my book The Weight of My Soul: Uncovering My Significance. I am glad after two years since discovering this quote, I still think about it when I contemplate how I live life. Moreover, I am appreciating his words ever more. Is Man masochistic to seek defeat? No, of course not. Man knows greatness does not come without a single defeat. He is probably the only creature blessed with the faculties to appreciate and know greatness. There is no getting to greatness without traversing the yellow brick road, we cannot achieve greatness through comfort.
A tougher problem offers opportunity for intellectual growth; a heavier weight, physical growth. A breakdown or disruption in life offers opportunity for growth and deepening of our soul. In every discomfort lies an opportunity for growth. It is a testament to the resilience and malleability of human beings.
To be soft and malleable is to allow for growth. We allow ourselves to take in the nutrients we need to grow while retaining the flexibility and possibility of how we grow. We were given soft animal bodies to be impressed upon, to be touched, and to feel warmth and love. When our heart and mind feel secure and safe in our body, they can rest; they can be and do what they were meant to do—to feel and think without the grip of past experiences.
A conversation, then, begins to unfold within: amongst an open loving heart, a calm discerning mind, and a soft steady belly. In this resting state, we uncover our power to be, and act, in this world. From this place, we can falter and fall, and in each fall, choose to intimately know our vulnerability, then rise again. And each time we rise, therein lies our strength shining through what was once vulnerable.
Each proverbial defeat offers us a chance to see distinctly who we took ourselves to be, and learn about who we truly are: fallible beings with infinite potentialities. From this, we get to choose again who we want to be.
Even in our finite time on Earth, we are constantly offered the chance to grow.
Towards greatness.
Every dream is worthy
My index finger landed on the cold, metallic surface, warm to my touch. My husband’s finger followed, and rested atop mine, giving me the added push. The usually light spring felt exceptionally heavy.
The button in view registers our combined force. He lifted his finger, mine, still wobbling on the trackpad, bearing the weight of my uncertainty. Do I really want to do this?
I slid the cursor away while still applying pressure. Not ready, not yet. My hand left the surface. Command aborted.
Alright, deep breaths in. In, and exhale slowly.
Again.
Applying pressure, again, with the same finger, I held it there for almost a minute before releasing the pressure in me through a scream, freeing my taut finger off its hefty duty, shaking out the tension in it.
A spinner appeared in response to its deed. There, I submitted my first book to Amazon for approval.
I had not considered the possibility of withdrawing or canceling the request. Neither did I think that things on the Internet are not as “final” as being on the shelves in a brick-and-mortar store. I can still pull back any time. Not that I wanted to, but I have that option. It’s not a dead-end for me. And because I had not given myself any escape route, I was terrified by what I thought I had done—expose myself.
I was like a negative; the slightest exposure to light would be sufficient to incinerate me. I was like a squirrel, any chance of being spotted might leave me frozen.
But I had a bigger dream: to share a precious part of myself with the world, and hopefully call out to others who experience “squirrel-like” moments like me. My dream is worth the risk—the perceived risk of death by exposure. I can trust that the right ones will receive me, for I have put out my smoke signal. And the next step is to fan it so that more can come to notice it.
Love, nonetheless
Love shows up in the most unexpected places. Suffocating, oppressive, it was love nonetheless.
I received the proof copy of my book I ordered from Amazon KDP yesterday. As soon as the email of the delivery receipt entered my inbox, I grabbed my mask and keys, and went down to collect it. I was excited. I had been looking forward to it since I made the order a week ago. Things have not gone well with the printer I had engaged so taking this plunge to do up my entire book again single-handedly with Amazon is both exhilarating and daunting.
Opening the parcel and pouring the contents out, my heart was racing. To feel my efforts actualized into a physical form is a foreign experience for me. I’ve created designs before in my previous job, but nothing feels close to this. Just the night before, I had a nightmare of my book turning out to be a disaster, goes to show where my anxiety levels are with this.
There, the light turquoise cover with spatters of bright orangey-red. Yes, the orangey-red was the right tone! Hmm.. but the turquoise seems dull. It’s still not matching the color I had picked. I’ve got to change that. But it felt good in my hands, substantial. The print quality definitely surpasses the previous printer. There is hope. Flipping through the pages, I ran through to see how the interior layout and design turned out. My vision narrowed to the problematic areas that can be improved.
Wait, I was doing the same thing my parents did to me!
It dawned on me today that in my attempts and hopes to put out a good book, I had not taken a close look at it. I had not paused to admire, or even appreciated my efforts. All I saw was what it could be. All I thought of was how to bring it to its greatest potential.
Perhaps that was how my parents saw me as a kid. They saw all that I could be and tried their best to shape me to become that version of greatness. Both my parents and I know not about trust. Trust in the goodness of nature. There are two aspects to growing: nature and nurture. As children, we were being shaped and nurtured by our parents and environment. And each child has his or her own nature, which shows up as a disposition or temperament. My parents gave their best to nurture me but they did not trust the goodness in my nature.
Now, with my book, I too, tried so hard to craft it, not trusting the basic goodness it holds as one that came from me. The book is after all an extension of myself, one I poured my heart and soul in. Being caught up in shaping it and making it better, I had not been present to that. I picked up the proof copy each time to look for errors and ways to improve it. I was picking on it like how I experienced being “picked on” as a child. All in the spirit of love. It was suffocating. It was oppressive. I couldn’t be myself. But it was nonetheless, love. I was very much loved, and had not felt it.
True love requires presence. Presence to accept and hold that which is before us, as is. Not merely an idea or image of it in our heads. I picked up my book again, putting aside the designs saved in my laptop, the images of the other books on the bookshelves, and the many others in the book stores. I held it as if holding it for the first time, seeing it as a new book I’ve just received.
It looks pretty, I love the cover design. Is that really done by me? I turned the pages over, one by one, taking in each page with wonder as they reveal new poems to me. Oh, my heart. I’m touched by my own creation. It may be far from perfect, but it is enough. I trust that it will find its way to the right ones, the ones who are seeking like I used to. I trust that it will speak, whisper, to the forgotten souls.
A drop of the ocean
It was a rough morning. My heart has yet to recover from the experience of George Floyd and the racial injustice and protests surrounding it, and two other pieces of news piled on. One of a pregnant wild elephant in India, which died after being fed a firecracker-filled pineapple. It wasn’t by accident; it was deliberate. Another of seven Singaporean men who drugged and raped four of their wives over the course of eight years (2010 – 2018). I wasn’t aware this happened till my friend shared a petition sparked by it.
I felt sick, so sick. Beneath the sadness and anger, I was sickened by the horrors of humanity. I cannot fathom the minds of those who commit such sins. I believe every soul is precious and that as humans, when we act out, we sin from a place of suffering. This is my anchor which guides me towards practicing compassion. Yet after reading these news, it has become extremely difficult, almost impossible to find my ground. I do not know how to make sense of my experience.
What has the world become? Has it gotten worse? Despite countless lessons from history and technological advancements, have we neither learnt nor evolved as human beings? To think we are even developing artificial intelligence to mimic humans. Are we even at the stage to program ethical rules and algorithms for robots when we have not even resolved our own ethical and moral problems? It doesn’t even seem like we’re close to resolving them. Science has carved out new frontiers for us, prolonged our lives, discovered planets, we’ve progressed biologically and materially, but what about our souls? Have we given sufficient attention to our virtues and inherent goodness? No matter the era, horrifying acts, manifested differently, are repeated ad nauseum.
Is this the struggle of Mankind? Is this the suffering that Man has to undergo? I ponder over the privileged life I’ve led thus far; the conditions that have enabled me to live in an environment where I could judge acts as revolting. This decency I have, is it a given? If I was raised in a culture where violence is condoned, where I learnt to use a rifle at the age of five; or a culture where women have no rights, will I still view these acts with the same disdain? Would I be able to see the ugliness in them? I never knew what a blessing it is to know and recognise beauty. The truth I thought I had known falls apart, and my world crumbles.
For a brief moment, I felt the deep pain of humanity. Was I afforded a glimpse of the world’s suffering that Buddha saw? Suffering is an ineluctable condition of living. I understood this truth but in that moment, I experienced it. I became acutely aware of the shared suffering we have to undergo as a species being. It was as though a window opened, and I felt the pain of others pouring in. Perhaps this is humility. The inner knowingness of my connectedness to the wider web of living beings. This is my place in the world—I am a drop in and of the ocean. I make up the ocean and I’m made of the ocean.
Perhaps the lesson I’m meant to learn is to recognise and treasure my own experiences and life, and make the most out of it. Before jumping into what I can or want to do, to consider what I want to be. I want to be awakened to both the horrors and holiness of Mankind. I want to know human nature, in all its facets and extremities. How might I learn without armoring or hardening, without building a fortress around my heart? Let’s take a breath here.
Breathe.
Remembering my teacher’s reminder: when it’s too much, pause and breathe. Slowly and gently. I don’t have to take in everything at once. Take what I can, sense where my edge is. No pushing needed, just gentle allowing. This is being with what is.
What is living? What is the truth of humanity? What is this enigmatic concoction of beast and divinity that holds the power to bring about despair and destruction, hope and salvation? Many in my lineage have wandered into the deep waters to capture its essence, so what might I uncover for myself?
To know the purpose of life and the meaning of suffering, I first begin by dropping the shields protecting my own pain and suffering. I surrender. I will then confront and live through the experiences I have skipped through or dismissed. I will hold my flaws in loving kindness. I will take a step closer to truth each time, and when a layer crumbles, grieve and rise again.
As I pour these tears out, I feel an opening within me—strength and groundedness arising. Energy emanating from my core; my heart, spacious and light; my vision, clear and bright. I will hold my preciousness, and keep writing.
Thoughts
How much are thoughts worth,
if a dollar sign can be tagged to each?
It used to be a penny, with inflation,
now, it’s gotta be more.
Are thoughts good or bad?
How does one tie a value to them?
A thought can summon a storm,
put a man on the moon,
or scare the shit out of you.
Perhaps, not all should see the light of day,
yet, how can we be certain? Surely,
they ought to be seen by the thinker,
not held back from a pretty journal!
I used to find it a challenge keeping up with daily journaling. I could get a pretty notebook but even that didn’t entice me to write. In fact, it made it harder. I was stressed out with what to print in the book. My inner critic started judging me for my messy handwriting and shaming me for not having “creative” or “good” thoughts put down in the book.
Over time, I changed to a plain notebook which was more economical. Since I was doing the practice of Morning Pages daily, I was filling up my pages really fast. And guess what, I still caught myself holding back some of my thoughts.
Since then, I’ve made a pact with myself, committing to put every single thought down before judging them. Good or bad, hey, I deserve to see them. And surprise! I bought a slightly prettier notebook recently because I’m determined to fill it up with whatever thoughts I have. Not only do I deserve to see them, my thoughts matter to me. They don’t have to be seen by others but here’s when I start practicing being honest with myself.
How about you, dear one? How are you filtering your thoughts? What judgment are you having on yourself? Why and how did that come about?
1-min Read
A duration
attached to a poem,
by that, what are we saying?
Is one minute all
that’s needed to fully grasp
the entire landscape painted
by the poet?
Have we smiled or shed a tear;
have our eyes twinkled, or our hearts
changed their beat, moved by
the new world we’ve just entered,
the preciousness infused
into a minute?
When we rush through life, what are we getting out of it?