The Promise

The last time I visited Mom, her condition tore my heart. After an incident, which happened because she was being “creative” or was trying to be “independent”, she couldn’t even walk to the bathroom because it was too painful. Usually my sister and her husband took Mom to the healer’s place during the weekend. Maybe Mom didn’t want to trouble my sister’s hubby, so she hired two men to take her to her usual healer. The men were not trained to help frail old ladies. They were a bit rough during a particularly difficult part of the path towards the healer’s home, and my mother hurt her back. A few days later she couldn’t even get out of bed. She called a masseuse, who rubbed her back for a few minutes. A couple of days later she called another masseuse, who rubbed her back for about an hour. The pain got worse. She called her usual healer to come. His assistant said he was busy, he usually don’t do home visits, etc. etc. She sent the helper to the healer’s place, more than once. She sent my sister-in-law to talk to fetch the healer, several times. In the end the healer gave in an come. Mom was as happy as a little girl, which was scary to watch. But even her favourite healer couldn’t help. We took her to a Chinese herbalist, who stuck some medicine on her back. The pain became so bad that Mom even agreed to wear diapers, something that she fought so hard against in the past. She agreed to have an X-ray, another thing that she also fought against in the past. And this was after the doctor came to our home and told us about her life’s story. The doctor cried, and I cried, and Kak N (a relative who is like an older sister to us) cried. A few days later Mom agreed to have an X-ray. It turned out that she had fractures at a couple of places. She had to stay in bed.

Before I went home, Mom borrowed money from several people. She borrowed money from the helper’s aunt, of all people, even though every month she receives more money than most of my friends in Jakarta who are working full time. She receives more money that the combined money of a friend and her husband. And what did she do with the money? She asked me to count it, and asked me to take a big wad. She got very angry when I refused. I asked her how she was going to pay her debts, she told me my brother was going to give her some money. I took some of the money and left some in her cupboard. When I got back to Sydney, I called her and said that I just got a big order and I would send her some money. She refused. A couple of weeks later she texted me and asked me to call. I called and she asked me to send the money that I offered. So I sent back the money that she gave to me. Crazy..

It is very clear to me that my Mom cannot be trusted to make logical judgements anymore. She has always had her own set of logics, but clearly at present it is very close to a judgement of an 11-year-old school girl. And yet she is still running the show. She is still making the decisions and giving the orders. It's just mad..

I was planning to come home to take care of her. But when she asked me to do the very same thing, I felt very disappointed. Who is this very selfish lady who is asking me to leave my own life behind for her sake? Who is this lady who has such low regards on my efforts and achievements that she thinks I am better off staying home, not working, and play nanny for the rest of her life? Who is this lady who is not concerned at all about my future after she is gone? As I said Mom has always had her own set of logics and with her very good intentions had very often hurt people left right and center and sometimes caused more harm than good. Afterwards she bitterly complained about how ungrateful people were to her. She attributed all the bad things that happened to people she knew to what they had done to hurt her. The things she did to me, either to educate, or to get extra money for the family, or to make me more presentable, scarred me for life. But she’s my mother. She was often an awful mom but I know she did her best.

I promised I would come home. And time is ticking. Days go by in a flash and very soon I have leave my home in Sydney. I have set my advertisements to stop in a couple of month's time. Soon I will have to write and submit a letter of resignation to all the agencies who have been employing me as a panelist. Then I will have to sort out my garbage. I will throw out or give away what I cannot take. I will ask if I could leave some boxes here. Maybe I have to send some. And then it’s time for travel arrangements. And then it’s time to say goodbye to all the things that I love. Another chapter of my life will end, and a new one will start. I am determined to enjoy my time with Mom. I will enjoy the idleness. I will travel, learn to drive, learn new skills, have new adventures. I will paint and draw again. Maybe I could even work and earn some money, hopefully legally. The only shadow that darkens the picture are questions: What will I do when this is over? Can I ever come back? I would be a few years older, but not more experienced, not more skilled. My body would be weaker and my brain would be slower. But who am I to predict what the future holds? Who could say whether I would even be around tomorrow and in what shape? All I could do is hope that I am doing the right thing, and that everything else will take care of itself.

A Wedding

Registration documents – check, microphone – check, table and table cloth – check, decorations –check. The groom is here. Great. The interpreter is here, too. Wonderful. And the bride and the rest of the family will arrive in fifteen minutes or so.

We are at Blues Point Reserve in Sydney. The weather forecast said that it would be cloudy. As they often do, they got it wrong. Blue sky, sparkling cobalt sea, emerald green grass – a perfect setting for a perfect wedding.

I’m the wedding celebrant today. My job is to solemnise the wedding between Tim and Karin. Karin is a lovely Indonesian girl. Her parents and brothers came all the way from Java for this special day. That’s why we have an interpreter with us today. I’ve never used an interpreter in a wedding before, but it should be okay. I have just briefed her and she seems to have prepared adequately. And look, there comes the bride. It’s show time.

I greeted the family and we are ready to roll. A few words from me, followed by lighting the candle for those who cannot attend (a bit of drama there, cos it’s so windy it takes five minutes to light the candle, a few pesky tourists pass by and stare, a boat passes very close by, we wave at them), followed by exchange of vows, the groom kisses the bride, photos, photos, done. Overall a simple yet beautiful wedding.

More photos. First the bride and the groom. Then with the bride’s family, then with the groom’s family, then both, then with me and the interpreter. The photographer says to me, “Would you like to take off your sunnies for the photo?”

Sunnies?? Sunglasess??? What?? Have I been wearing them throughout the ceremony??
“You’ve been wearing them throughout the ceremony,” the photographer confirms.
My face turns lobster red. I apologise to everybody. They must think that I am very eccentric or very rude. Or maybe they think this is common in Sydney. Anyway, there is nothing I can do now. Tim and Karen will have a celebrant with her sunnies on in their photo album.

Realisation

If it's your fault and you don't like it, that's your problem, not mine.
If it's my fault and you don't like it, that's your problem, not mine.

If you don't like it, that's your problem, not mine.


Hmm... is this a sign of ... aging?
I am turning into a grumpy old woman, and I LIKE it!!!

Botanical Garden

Grandma

The last time I saw her she was wearing a traditional Chinese shirt and trousers, olive coloured and impeccably pressed. Her hair was grayish, and wavy like mine and my mother’s hair. Hers was neatly combed and slightly oiled. Not a strand out of place. She wore a jade bracelet on her wrist. In short, she could have come straight out of a documentary on China.

When she spoke, it was with a very heavy accent, I could hardly understand what she said. We were in the living room one day, on a rare occasion that she visited, and I asked her about her life in China. She said the people in her area were mainly farmers and fishermen. I asked her if there were dragons back then. She said yes. They were huge and scary, with green scales as big as tampahs.

That was over twenty years ago, our last conversation. I had probably seen her around half a dozen times before then. And since then, my family had moved to Jakarta, and then to Sydney. The distance grew and grew. I had managed to visit various parts of Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore, Europe, and even the Middle East, but that tiny village in Air Joman had somehow been overlooked. Mom and I were planning to visit her next year, if Mom was healthy enough to travel again. But a few days ago I received news that Grandma had passed away. Logically there was no reason to feel sorrow and regret, since she never played a big role in my life. But her blood runs through my veins, and for a few days I felt a dull throb inside me, as if my blood was mourning the loss. And so I let myself feel the sorrow and regret, knowing I would never see Grandma again.

The Privilege

We were on a shuttle bus at King Abdul Aziz airport, heading towards the plane. A lady sat next to me. We exchanged small questions, like where are you from, etc. When I told her I came with my mom and my sister she said, “My heart hurts so much whenever I saw an old man being led by his son or daughter. Or when an old lady is being wheeled around by her daughter. My mother died when I was three weeks old, my father followed when I was ten. I never had a chance to take care of my parents.” Then she started to cry. I didn’t know what to say so I just patted her shoulder and let her cry a bit. I tried to change the subject by talking about her children. She seemed to cheer up a bit when she talked about them. Then she went back to the subject of her mother.

She said, “I’m so sad. I don’t even know what my mother looked like.”

So I asked, “There’s no photo of her at all?”

She said, “No, I am seventy now so it was a very long time ago. In the thirties. We didn’t have cameras then.”

That I can help her with. I told her, “Sometimes when I look into the mirror, I see my mother’s face. Maybe you can do that too, Ma’am.”

She was quiet for a while. Maybe she was considering the possibility. Maybe she didn’t believe me. Maybe she didn’t understand. It didn’t matter. I just hoped she would remember what I said the next time she looked at herself in the mirror. I hope she could see the image of her mother.

In her own little way, the old lady had reminded me that it is a privilege to take care of our parents. It may be hard, inconvenient, exhausting sometimes, but it’s not a burden, it’s an honour.

My Own Little Miracle

Before we left we were barraged with pointers and warnings; do this, don’t do this, do that, don’t do that. Don’t you dare do bla, bla, bla. Remember, you must bla, bla, bla. And there were lots of personal experiences: when I was at so and so, I was such and such. When my friend did bla, bla, bla, and so as she was punished with bla, bla, bla. Lots of magical experiences and small miracles. And tears, lots and lots of tears.
There were so many warnings I began to wonder if people don't just made them all up. It began to annoy me. I didn’t really want to hear those kinds of stories so close to the time we were leaving. Those are your experiences, not mine. So you cried here and here and here and here. That’s you. Now if I don’t cry there I will wonder if something is wrong with me.
And that’s what happened. We arrived at King Abdul Aziz airport at night. An old man next to me on the bus expressed his admiration and wonder at the sight of lights in the distance, or maybe something else that I didn’t see. I smelled the smell of desert and felt the cold night air. I was glad and happy and just a bit excited, but not as moved as the old man.
At the sight of Nabawi Mosque, again I felt glad, happy and just a bit excited, but not moved. We prayed there, and I wondered why my heart is still cold to all these. Where is my miracle?
Every time we went to this or that historical places, my heart was still cold. I saw commercialism everywhere. I saw sacred places turning into a big religious Disneyland. There were voices in my head talking and talking and talking, questioning and questioning and questioning. It got to a point where I thought oh, maybe this whole thing was fabricated, no spiritual value whatsoever in it. The first time I saw the Ka’bah, it looked tiny. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. Outside the mosque, back to back were tall hotels and shopping arcades, and they are still building. There will be monorails in a few years. So that, plus the luxurious hotels and shopping arcades, plus the cute tents, plus the multistory Jum’rah place, plus the stone thing near the Sai place, plus the air conditioner near the Ka’bah. Modern technology. Very convenient, very comfortable. Disneyland. What’s all these praying all about? I’ll do them, just because I’m here. I think I will return as an atheist. At that point another voice began to speak, a tiny one, saying, you are in Holy Land, the devils are stronger here than any other places in the world. Maybe I heard or read that somewhere before, maybe it was a mysterious reminder. I don’t know. I gasped and I started to pray, asking for God’s forgiveness and protection. A few days later, a taxi driver said the exact same thing. The devils are very strong here, and some people here are more evil than beasts. I didn’t say anything, but in my head I said, very true, bro.
So I stopped looking for miracles. One time inside the mosque in Mekkah, I prayed a few people away from my family. I found a tiny spot near the Qur’an shelf. I felt that I had found my own little place and I felt very happy. The ladies behind me smiled kindly and I felt even happier. This is how it should feel like, I thought. It didn’t last very long, of course, because afterwards we quarreled again as before. But for a brief moment I was as happy as I could be.
We were told that around 9 am was the best time to come near the Ka’bah, because it wasn’t very crowded at that time. So my sister and I decided to be adventurous and went together, just the two of us. It was true, there were many people as usual but it looked like it would be possible to get near. We decided a meeting place in case we got separated and in two seconds we did got separated. I found a quiet side where there were only an elderly couple praying near the wall. I touched the black cloth, I felt the texture of the weave. It was textured and thick and strong and shiny. And it touched me back. I was finally moved. The ice inside me melted and I let myself being swept away by the crowd. They pushed me into Hijir Ismail, I went in without trying, and I had a brief peaceful moment to pray. Then I pushed myself out so that other people could have their moment too. I left the crowd and took a drink of Zamzam water. It tasted wonderful to me. Then I sat under the shade on the steps. All I asked for before I left was to feel something, to have my own special moment, and it was finally granted. It felt great. A few minutes later my sister found me. She was a bit breathless but her face was beaming. She managed to touch Hajar Aswad, and she managed to pray in Hijir Ismail, properly, not just standing like I did. I think she found what she was searching for too. We both went back to the hotel feeling very happy, probably for very different reasons. Again I remembered what my friend said. It was a personal journey. And we didn’t quarrel again after that.

Arabia

Kebun Raya Bogor

A Personal Experience

When my mother invited me to do the Umroh with her last year, I immediately said yes. But actually in my heart, I said, I would go if I had enough money to pay the rent while I’m away. There weren’t enough male participant that year, so our plans were cancelled. Come this year and to my surprise, yes, I did have enough money. But I was still unsure. I didn’t think I was ready to go. I didn’t think I was supposed to go, or deserved to go. For goodness sake, there were many people around who are more devout than I am. In fact they would be very easy to find. That weighted heavily on my mind. I searched and searched for an explanation, or a justification, or just an excuse. In the end I said to myself, I’ll go so that somebody can take care of my mother.

There were other dramas before we left, like my mother’s refusal to have the meningitis vaccination. And she was so frail and so stubborn at the same time it was so frustrating. We tried to make up stories at the clinic but I broke down and cried and just told the truth. Actually I cried because I accidentally saw her breast the day before, and there was an open wound there. I cried because she was so much weaker than the last time I saw her. She didn’t even recognise me at the airport. The doctors were very patient but firm. In the end mom agreed to have the vaccination. She hugged one of our relatives like a tree and closed her eyes very tightly and I stood next to her to hold her sleeve up. The doctor took the tiny needle out and injected the vaccine. It took about two seconds. And all my mother said was, “Udah? Ngga sakit ya... Saya kira sakit. Untung engga. Kalo iya saya udah menjerit-jerit tadi.” (That’s it? Oh, it doesn’t hurt. I thought it would. Lucky it didn’t otherwise I would have screamed on top of my voice.”)
Then another drama about my date of birth, but fortunately it didn’t cause any problem.

So that was it. In a few more days, we would go, and I still walked around with this doubt on my mind. Then I had a small reunion with some friends from my old work place. We exchanged stories and just before I left them I told K about my doubts. And she told me, “Religion is a very personal experience. Each person has his own appreciation of the journey.” Something like that. It wasn’t until we were near the end of our Umroh that I realised how right she was. I looked at my self, my sister, my mom, and the other fellow pilgrims. It’s like a banquet where on person said I love the salmon, another person said the desert is superb, another said the cutlery is beautiful, another person said it’s a disappointment, and so on and so forth. I’m glad to say that although the three of us went through different experiences, I think we achieved what we were looking for. What was I looking for? Coming up in the next blog.

Wild Flowers & Clouds

Three Monkeys

One of my favorite characters, the see no evil, hear no evil, say no evil monkeys, all dressed up for Christmas.

Linus & Sasha again

Friday 15th

The day started with an interpreting session with a woman who overdosed on cleaning liquid and the hospital’s psychiatrist. Overdosed. That’s the word they used. Strange word, I think. It implies that there is a normal dose or safe dose to consume cleaning liquids. I’m not criticizing the users, just noting its strangeness.

What I got out of the interview was, that moving to a developed country does not equal to moving to Utopia. That being alone and isolated most of the time anywhere can make a person a bit crazy. Especially if the only person you have regular contact with, i.e. your husband, treats you like trash. After months and months of that, a (seemingly) small thing—he took home a letter instead of a light bulb—managed to trigger a fight and ended in near tragedy.

That was followed by another interview. This time the clients were newly arrived couple. They looked happy and healthy and were very much together and that lifted the day up a bit.

In the evening, Ghost was on. Yey! An oldie-but-goody. I grabbed the cushion and was ready to curl up on the sofa. Commercial break. Great! Time to get some snack. I stood up and my eye caught a movement outside the glass sliding doors. It looked like somebody’s back. Somebody wearing a white T-shirt, but not clearly defined. Nobody’s supposed to be there. It was a part of our back yard. As I stared at it, quite worried, the person seemed to walk up an invisible staircase and disappeared. My eyes grew wider and wider. I moved towards the door and switch on the outside light, clutching the cushion to my chest. There was nothing there.

I looked around to check it could possibly be a reflection. No, I don’t see anything that could make that kind of effect. Was it me? No, I stood like a statue while the shadow moved. So I sat down again, still clutching the cushion. A few minutes later my nephew came downstairs. And asked me what movie I was watching. “Ghost,” I said. In one of the scenes near the end, some dark shadows appeared from the ground to drag the spirit of the bad guy away. We joked that they looked like cartoons. Then he said, “Aunty, did know that if we look from the corner of our eyes we can see ghosts?” Now, where did that come from?

I asked him, “How do you know that?”

He said, “Didn’t you know? I just know. I often see shadows moving around, sometimes black, sometimes white.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You don’t believe me? There was one moving around outside just now. A girl, like in a white skirt.”

I’m not particularly brave, but if I freaked out, my nephew might freak out too. And I was only house-sitting here for a few weeks. My nephew, he lives here. So I pretended it was perfectly normal to see black shadows and white shadows flying around and we continued watching the movie together. Needless to say, it was very hard to sleep that night. And what will I do if next year my brother asks me to house-sit while they go back to Indo?

A very good friend can see things. Whenever she told me stories of sightings, I secretly thanked God and openly said that I was so glad I couldn't see those things. Gosh, I hope this is the last one.