Journal

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 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.

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. 

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!

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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?