Have No Fear...But Listen To Your Gut

After weeks of inelegant grunts and mutterings of despair, I finally saw the world upside down today. In simple terms, I managed to do the headstand. And it got me feeling higher faster than ten consecutive shots of tequila. Not only because I had reached another milestone in my yoga life but also because I had chopped off another layer of fear.

I am afraid of heights. Anything that involves rising past the fourth rung on a ladder invokes instant palpitations, which renders me hopeless at hanging up wind chimes, cleaning any ceiling apparatus, stilt-walking, mountain climbing, bungee-jumping…you get it. Add that to the fear of being upside down and you’ve got a whopper on your hands.

While inversions fascinate me, they also scare the hell out of me and I always find some excuse or another to avoid them. But being an admiring spectator in class very quickly became a yawn. I wanted to feel it for myself.

My initial attempts made me feel like a sack of potatoes but ignoring my bruised ego and scalp, I continued kicking my way up, determined to conquer both the pose and my fears. It would be many days later before I realised that sometimes, triumph is borne not out of conquering but surrendering. So I piled the fattest cushions I could find around me and prepared to surrender to whatever happened.

I displayed my soles to Heaven for a full split-second before crash-landing onto the soft mound. I had done it! I had allowed myself to go as high as possible and to fall, and now that I knew what that felt like, there was no unknown to fear anymore. Two weeks later and I managed to go all the way up and stay up today.

Buoyant, I completed the rest of my practice and just before rolling up the mat, decided to do a repeat performance. But the cushions were all tidied away. Never mind, do without them. Of course you can!

As my head sunk gently into the mat, a little voice piped up, “Maybe you should just get the cushions just in case.’ And almost immediately, another voice filled with super-confidence, boomed, ‘No need la!’

So up I went. And down I came again, in the same breath. Crashing onto the floor like a sack of potatoes again. Pride had literally come before the fall. And that fall was a hard one!

So have no fear but trust your instincts. The difference between the two? Fear will rattle off in breathlessly excitement all the reasons for not doing it. Your instincts will tell you, with quiet certainty, why you should but perhaps at better time or in a better way.

Book Hunting

It's very depressing to wake up to a beautiful morning with a scratched throat, messy nose and a steadily climbing temperature. But the only good thing that came out of this blasted flu is that I took a day off work and managed to finished reading Mistress of Spices. Didn't quite live up to expectations but good for days when medication makes you nod off in midsentence and you can pick up from where you slept off without re-reading the entire chapter.

Despite the hacking and sniffling, I'm back at work, not because of any relentless ambition, but just so I don't feel guilty when I trawl the Times warehouse sale during lunch break. My conscience is well-trained to the point of being annoying.

This will be my second trip to the sale as I made a measly purchase of 5 books the first time. Sacriligeous for a self-proclaimed bookworm! But I did manage to unearth a book I've been hunting for - The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst. But because it's so thick, I have a sneaking suspicion that it's going to be gathering an impressive layer of dust on my bookshelf. But there's nothing like the thrill of running your eyes over rows and rows of books and feeling that jolt of excitement when you spot a gem. It's a feeling that will never dull with time.

Being kiasu as I usually am when it comes to books, I drove all the way to Kelana Jaya on the same day to check out the MPH sale. Was in and out within 15 minutes. Very disappointing. Limited selection, average discounts and too many screeching children. Had to battle an overpowering urge to kick a couple of kids who were pretending to be superheroes. Probably caught this nasty flu bug from one of those brats too.

Ah well, at least I have the prefect excuse to avoid all boring social functions this weekend and curl up with my new books!

A Trip Into My Bookshelves

Jane Sunshine sent me a book meme which resulted in my Monday morning productivity coming to a screeching halt while I spent many delicious minutes doing this.

1. What is the total number of books you've owned?
Over 100. It would be more if I was rolling in ringgit and could buy instead of rent them.

2. What is the last book you bought?
A Gathering of Spirit; A Collection by North American Indian Women. Stumbled on it while pretending to browse the New Age section in Payless Books so I could eavesdrop on a fat man airing his disdain of gays to the cashier. The minute I picked it up, I found myself paying for it.

3. What is the last book you've read?
The Bus Stopped by Tabish Khair. It looked so promising and I was on the waiting list for three months, but it turned out to be a disappointment. This is when I'm grateful for book rentals.

4. What are you currently reading?
A Gathering of Spirit
A lovely collection of short stories and poems from North American Indian Women about their lives, beliefs, struggles and triumphs.

Salina - A. Samad Said
A little simplistic and waffly, but I want to finish it because apparently things start getting interesting after the halfway mark. Plus, each person I mention it to has the same reaction - wide eyes, small gasp and exclamation of 'ooh that book was quite startling!'.

The Quiet American - Graham Greene
Slow moving and rather dry but I'm somehow still interested in finishing it.

Close Range and Other Stories - Annie Proulx
Am halfway through the second story and I love the way she manages to fit so much into so few pages without making the story feel rushed.

Mistress of Spices - Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
Just started this yesterday and adore it! If it's not obvious by now, I have a soft spot for Indian writers and New Age stuff.

5. What are the 5 books that have meant a lot to you or that you particularly enjoyed?
A Fortune Teller Told Me - Tiziano Terzani
I have bought a copy for all my bookworm friends. Terzani has a great sense of humour, a razor sharp eye and a gift of description.

I Dreamed of Africa, African Nights & Night Of The Lions - Kuki Gallmann
I'm going to cheat by lumping all these three titles together! I fell in love with Africa and Kuki's writing within the first chapter of I Dreamed of Africa. She writes with such passion and honesty. Even more amazing is that she only started learning English after leaving Italy for Kenya.

City of Beasts - Isabel Allende
The first time I read it before sleeping, I had the most amazing dream and it instantly became my bedtime book. It got to the point where I would slip under the covers in a state of excitement and read a couple of pages before turning out the light. It sounds crazy and I hardly know how to explain it but the dreams I had were nothing liek I've ever had before. I used to wake up euphoric. Obviously, I was heartbroken when I reached the last page!

By The Light of My Father’s Smile, Alice Walker
This book made Alice Walker one of my favourite writers. Two sisters discover sex and love in their own ways but the writing is never crude. She spins their discoveries in a wise, magical, startlingly insightful web.

Bono The Biography, Laura Jackson
I finished this book and thought, when I grow up I want to marry Bono. This was last July. I'm not a big fan of U2, but I would give my right arm to meet Bono. He's the most inspiring celebrity I've read about and it makes me ashamed that I'm not even half as busy as him and I still find excuses to put philantrophy on hold.

6. What book(s) would you wish to buy next?
Light On Life - B.K.S. Iyengar
Never Let Me Go - Kazuo Ishiguro
Serving With Curry - Amulya Malladi
Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie
Teacher Man: A Memoir - Franck McCourt
On Beauty - Zadie Smith

7. What book(s) that caught your attention but never has a chance to read?
The Year of Magical Thinking - Joan Didion
The Line of Beauty - Alan Hollinghurst
Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path To Higher Creativity - Julia Cameron

I somehow can't seem to find them amidst the commercial books. Or maybe I'm not looking hard enough.

8. What book(s) that you've owned for so long but never read it?
Grapes of Wrath - John Steinback
Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
Touching Earth - Rani Manicka
Tibet; My Story - Jetsun Prema

At the beginning of each month, I declare "THIS WILL BE THE MONTH!". At the end of the month, I look desparingly at the untouched books and make my declaration in a louder voice.

9. Who are you going to pass this stick to (3 persons) and why?
I normally don't force these things on people, but this time I'll give in to my curiosity. Only two people on my list though.
Bibiobibuli - because she has such a diverse and interesting taste in books. (If you've already done it, just point me in the right direction!)
Yasmin Ahmad - because I would love to know her taste in books. Though I doubt she will see this post!

My Literary Investment

I received a PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL letter from MPH today.

Congratulations! You have qualified for MRC Rebates! its contents crowed.

Apparently I had spent RM667.83 in 6 months. RM667.83! Where did that money come from?

But that's in the past. It doesn't matter now. What matters now is the future and whether I'll be able to find the same amount of money to blow during next week's MPH sale.

It's Not About The Food

There was a time when I loved to cook. When I adored scouring both dusty and crisp recipe books for tantalising meals. When I ate new dishes with my mind, heart and mouth, curling my tongue around every morsel and indulging every tastebud. When I cooked purely for the joy of creation, expression, emotional fulfillment and the gentle boost of ego.

But that was a long time ago.

That was way back when I was a university student in Down Under, living alone for the first time and faced with two choices - endure a diet of take-outs or enjoy wholesome home-cooked food. Since the well-stocked hypermarket was right across the road, the choice was obvious. I was ambitious in my first attempt, choosing to whip up a batch of chocolate chip muffins. They turned out beautifully and I became a faithful fan of Pillsbury’s muffin mix. Two months and five batches of muffins later, I met Robert. We had studied in the same college back home and our paths had crossed before, but we had never said more to each other than the polite greeting. Little did I know he would soon become my culinary mentor.

Before long, our tentative amicability exploded into a full-blown friendship, and with it came a journey into food heaven. Robert, an architecture student, was an amazing ‘chef’. He loved food and more importantly, he understood it. He knew how a certain herb would completely transform a dish and which ingredients would result in a richer flavour, smoother texture and deeper colour. He knew how to clean fish, pick the freshest fruit and vegetables, and turn an ordinary dish into a masterpiece with a few sprinkles of impromptu ingredients.

The first time I set foot in a wet market was with Robert. Every Saturday at 7am sharp, he would softly beep his car horn outside my window and I would stumble bleary-eyed downstairs, clutching my shopping list. As we trawled the market, he would banter with the various sellers, asking questions and exchanging tips. I stood beside him soaking up all this.

Then we would drive to his home, where we would unload the groceries, lay out the necessary ingredients and utensils, and start on Sunday brunch. While we chopped, grated and sliced, we talked about our lives. My then boyfriend, his ex-girlfriend, the places we wanted to go, our assignments, lecturers, mutual friends, hopes, dreams, fears and our lives back home. We laughed, empathised, argued, advised, scolded, taught, learned and reached out. When the actual cooking began, the wonderful aromas that filled the cosy kitchen would massage away the last of our reservations and pull us closer together.

Each dish we created became yet another piece in the tapestry of our shared lives. Our conversations flowed as effortlessly as the chocolate icing, our bond was as thick as the beef stroganoff and our enthusiasm as fresh as the garden salad.

Then as suddenly has he walked into my life, he walked out. I was confused and heartbroken. It was then that I realised it wasn’t about the food anymore. It was about the friendship. Although Robert eventually stepped back into my circle, the magic was gone and we never embarked on our food journeys again. But that dark cloud had a silver lining - I was now able to take new trips with other people. So I did.

Jeff and I discussed music as he jammed his cowboy hat on his head and taught me to make his special country Bolognese. With Yvonne, I learnt self-confidence and inner strength, even as we scratched our heads over her mother’s pang su si recipe. Daphne and I talked so much about relationships that the birthday cake we were baking for a party that evening burned. Ryhan revealed what really goes on in a guy’s head, as we threw together ingredients for spicy Indonesian fried rice. And Roger cultivated my taste for history as we barbecued in the Australian Outback.

That year, I had the most intimate brush with food as I’ll ever get. And I loved it! Since then, my culinary skills have somewhat improved but I have never been able to feel completely satiated, no matter how well a dish turned out. I've eventually realised that cooking isn’t just about the food, but the extra ingredients that you unconsciously throw into it. The warmth of good company, the pleasure of rich conversations, the blossoming of a deep friendship.

In Australia, the food was always perfect, but the true nourishment came from the experience.

Don't Think About Them...Yet

I've just watched the Oprah episode featuring the cast of Brokeback Mountain. For such young people, they sure say profound stuff! But what struck me most was what Jake Gyllenhaal said about public reaction to the movie. He said they had no idea it would have such a powerful impact and if they did, they probably wouldn't have done it.

"You have go and you have to jump into it and if you’re thinking about a response from people while you’re doing it then there’s no way you’re going to be able to do it."

I think this should be in every writer's Code of Writing too. Too many editors and publishers holler 'write what your audience want, not what you want!' and while this is perfect for the sales and marketing team, it does zilch for the writer's creative process and emotional satisfaction.

If you're always wondering about your reader's response to every scene, you'll never get it right. No scene will be funny enough, sad enough, angry enough, poignant enough....because you'll be writing from other people's hearts and minds. Your writing will only have the desired effect when it holds a piece of your mind, heart and soul. because when you're honest about what you want, your readers won't be able to help wanting it too.

And then, your writing will be perfect.

Meditating With My Monkey

It was my first meditation class and I was so terrified of falling asleep that I knocked back an extra shot of caffeine before leaving.

I was nervous. Meditation - or anything to do with being still for over a minute - is my Archille's heel. Which is why I have never had hair treatments, a full body massage or watched Lord of The Rings in the cinema. My mind, as my yoga teacher Parveen eloquently puts it, is like a monkey. Never staying on one branch of thought for a long time.

HOWEVER. Even worse than my Monkey Mind is my extraordinary gift for nodding off anywhere, anytime and often at the worst possible moments. So while the caffeine would probably send that monkey into spasms of hyperactivity, it was better than the humiliation of dropping off to sleep and having that horrible falling dream.

For the first five minutes of class, all six of us sat quietly in a softly lit room, accompanied by the delicate sounds of a flute. The Monkey hummed. I was still very awake and very pleased. Then Parveen padded into the room and softly said, "Today we'll practice a different kind of meditation called sleeping meditation. The challenge here is not only to focus your mind but to keep from falling asleep." In that instant, I knew my caffeine plan was doomed.

But I would not go down without a fight, so I ordered the Monkey to chant a mantra. Perhaps that would keep me awake. As soon as we were flat on our backs, the Monkey obediently began - I will stay awake, I will stay awake, I will stay awake.

I only regained consciousness when Parveen gently asked us to resume our sitting position. The Monkey stretched luxuriously. Then Parveen asked us to imagine a white light shining in the space between our eyebrows. The Monkey began chattering again. Allow the white light to send its rays across your forehead and down to your heart, Parveen said. Unable to visualise this white light for more than five seconds, I decided to focus on another serene image instead. I chose a still lake. My mental eye drank in it's serenity, soaked up the tranquility, swept acoss the landscape, rose to the mountain range behind it, caught sight of two cowboys on horseback...by the time the class was over, I had watched the first half of Brokeback Mountain in my mind's eye. So much for transcending from the physical body into the astral one.

But there's always the second class on Friday, so all hope is not lost just yet.

All 'Established' Writers Raise Your Hand

"...We are talking about writing. I ask if they have ever thought of doing an issue devoted to the writing of Indian women. They are enthusiastic, ask me if I would edit such a collection. There is panic in my gut. I am not an 'established' writer. (To this day I don't know what those words mean.) I have never edited any work but my own. And I do not have the education. And to me, that says it all."

So lamented Beth Brant, the eventual editor of A Gathering Of Spirit, a powerful collection of short stories and poems by North American Women about North American Women. It was one of those books that jump of the shelves as you idly browse them. Thanks to Mentor, who suggested going to Payless instead of Borders during lunchbreak, this book came home with me today. But I'm digressing.

What I want to know, just like Brant does, is what makes an 'established writer'. Is it someone who has many published but poorly-received books? Someone who has won a literary prize? Someone whose work is only published online? A magazine journalist or reporter? A music, movie or book reviewer? Someone with credentials? And how many of us, like Brant, judge our writing abilities this way?

I've always believed that an established writer is someone whose work is widely read and enjoyed. Someone whose work inspires, delights, provokes and even enlightens. Someone who understands that words are not meant to be used as weapons but as beacons. Someone whose writing depicts his soul rather than his vast vocabulary or familiarity with 10-letter words. Someone whose opinions are respected and trusted because his writing is honest, strong and simple. Not because he is working for some hotshot publication or has published a book on How To Become The Next Malaysia's Most Beautiful. Some of the best writers I know are my own friends, who have yet to publish a book but who know more about writing than most local authors.

Second question - what qualifies one as an editor? Do you need credentials or a published book before you're allowed to even hold an aspiring author's manuscript? Or do you just need an intuition for a good story, a deep love for reading and an impeccable command of English? (Sorry, but the last is a must-have on my list.)
A fellow writer and I were tossing around names of possible editors for my book. He suggested someone who fits my above-mentioned criteria. I was reluctant to engage her, simply because I have a high regard for her opinion and was terrified she would be unimpressed at my work. (Yes, I know I have to set pride aside in this regard!) Anyway, my friend insisted on me calling her and inquired what books she had written. To my knowledge, this potential editor hasn't had any books published and I so I told him that.

His eyes immediately went cold and he sneered, "Then why is she passing herself off as a literary expert?"

"But she isn't," I corrected him. "Her readers view her as one because of her extensive knowledge, genuine love for books and generousity in sharing and spreading it."

Bottom line? Perhaps those who yearn to be known as 'established' writers should stop looking in the wrong places for affirmation. Perhaps they should start listening to their heart and their readers instead of indulging their ego and their idols. And perhaps people like my friend should look beyond contracts with MPH when assessing a person's literary strengths.

Someone Else's Voice Is In My Head

It is impossible to work on one story when you have another playing in your head.

I'm in the midst of reworking a book and all I can hear are the voices of Ennis Del Mar and Jack Twist. Even as I write, words from the book whisper in my ear, leaving me in helpless despair as my work pales in comparison. My dialogues seem like
thin broth, my scenes like cardboard cutouts and my characters like paper dolls. This always happens when I read a God's-gift-to-mankind book.

It's tough going back to your own writing after being moved by someone else's words. Some writers are able to admire and learn from another's elegant prose, but for me, once my breath is taken away it's a long time before I can catch it again. When that happens, I have to turn to one of my favourite sayings and mentally repeat it like a mantra.

"Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart."

Old Wordsworth said that. Perhaps he too was wrestling with a mind that was stubbornly hanging on to someone else's writing? Probably not the case, but it's a comforting thought and I shall nurse it while I try to finish this damn book!

Sunday Blues

I spent last night in tears.

Despite reading Brokeback Mountain twice (the second time aloud to PP) my emotions insisted on running amok when I watched the movie. By the time the credits rolled, the Mandarin orange I was clutching was liberally splashed with the saltiness of heartbreak. PP exhaled a cloud of smoke and said, 'Wow.' It was the perfect ending to a perfect holiday.

Besides the unexpected run-ins with startling family secrets, the glorious nine days were spent learning new card games, losing ang pau money during the traditional Chinese New Year family gambling, gorging myself silly and best of all, burying myself in books without a slightest tinge of guilt. I have my thumb in Salina, one finger in The Quiet American, another finger in The Bus Stopped and a third finger in The Light Of Yoga. The only book I completed was Sula by Toni Morrison, which to my surprise, I didn't quite enjoy. But I will give her another chance with Beloved.

Right now I'm trying to pull myself together in preparation to return to the real world tomorrow. I'm suffering from Sunday Blues again.

The Stories Of Six Women

They lived in the Solitary Durian vicinity, sandwiched between New Hill and Bear Hill, and flanked by a chapel and a small kampung. Their white and red bungalow sat proudly on a generous slice of land, complete with rows of various coloured hibiscus, a vegetable patch, pots of roses and bougainvilleas, vines of morning glory and a throng of fruit trees. They lived in that red and white house, with its sunny kitchen, sprawling living room and three cosy bedrooms. A long time ago, three dogs and five children frolicked in and around the red and white house but the dogs have since died and the children have moved to the city, frequently returning to visit the original eight inhabitants of the house. And each time they returned, they were rewarded with another crumb of insight into the eight lives that existed before theirs.

The Old Man
An estate owner, and a proud and stern man with a legendary temper. So feared was he among his six daughters that they only spoke to him when necessary. If they needed money for school fees or books, he would find a little note strategically placed on the dining table in the morning. By sundown, the note would be gone and the exact sum left in its place. Time and age eventually tore down the barriers between him and his girls, allowing them to enjoy his sunset years together. When his time was up, his girls were heartbroken to see the man who once stood tall and erect, lying curled and crumpled in a hospital cot.

The Old Lady
She was her husband’s invisible pillar of strength. Of her six children, she only brought up the eldest, who is now her faithful companion. Her five grandchildren love her, but none of them know her name. To them, she’s just ‘Grandma’. Time has made her weary and slow on her feet, but her children make sure she always gets through another day.

First Daughter
Her illiteracy has cut her off from the rest of the world. The only place she knows is the red and white house and the only people she knows are the seven others who co-exist with her. The Old Man once brought her a suitor but she cried so hard, he never attempted it again. Perhaps her life would have been different had the old man allowed her to go to school, but it’s too late for such dreams.

Second Daughter
Her children believe she was destined to marry a crass, obscenely rich, Chinese foreman but she somehow wound up with a Portuguese postal clerk. Nevertheless, she has remained firmly rooted in the Chinese way of life, dabbling in feng shui and delighting in gold, 4D and Chinese superstition.

Third Sister
A devout Taoist, she declared to never marry after seeing her friends being made fools of by their men. Her cynicism manifested itself in her sharp tongue and bad-temper which belies the kind heart underneath.

Fourth Sister
A born daydreamer, her nightmare began when she fell in love with a married man who reciprocated her love. But his wife, who had no use for him anymore, refused to retract her claws from his arm. Their relationship was fraught with heartache but love still conquers all and after 15 years of waiting for each other, they were finally united.

Fifth Sister
She was walking home from school when the May 13th riots erupted. Taking shelter in a schoolmate’s house, she feared the worst for her family until The Old Man appeared at the doorstep. Her family was safe but she never forgot what she saw.

Sixth Sister
Fiercely independent, happy and lonely. The man she loved broke her heart when he turned out to be a fraud and a womanizer. From then on, she closed her heart to romance, throwing herself into family, religion and friendship instead.

These are the stories of the women who live in the red and white house. These are the stories of the women who live, love and laugh through their joys, sorrow, triumphs and defeats. These are the stories of the women in my family.