CHALLENGING JOURNEY OF MOTHERHOOD

Today is Mother’s Day and as we see the shops decorated with gifts we can buy for our mothers, we think of the mothers that we have and the mothers that we are or will be.

What is so often synonymous with the word ‘mother’ are the words ‘comfort, love and sacrifice’. It is not uncommon to see a mother placing her child’s welfare and interests above herself. She gives the best part of her time and her life to her child.

My mother would make sure that there were hot meals on the table. My pleated school uniform was always neatly ironed and my hair plaited. When I was not feeling well, she would walk a mile to my school during break time so I could take the medicine or the herbal concoction. When I had an upcoming Mandarin test, she would be the examiner, making sure I had a few trial sessions at home before the test. There were so many of us with different personalities but she was exemplary to all of us. She was the one person who was always there for us and never betrayed us.

Now that I am a mother myself, I am still learning to be like her. Whether we like it or not, motherhood is a daily learning process. There is no perfect mother and the lessons never end. Every child is unique and just when you think you have learnt how to handle the child, along comes his brother or sister who is completely different in make-up. I am talking of biological children, step children and adopted children.

Cross cultural adoption made famous by the likes of Angelina Jolie and Madonna has its fair share of trials. I went to see the Chinese State Circus at the Limerick University Concert Hall recently and was pleasantly surprised to see Chinese children with Irish parents sitting in the audience. The children bought popcorn, coke and circus paraphernalia like dancing paper dragons and plastic plates that swivel on sticks. Dressed in their smart little coats, they spoke English with an Irish accent. Looking at the faces of both parents and children, I could see that love, respect and understanding were the pillars behind that union. The Dooleys of Kilkenny were one of such and they had brought their daughter Ruth to the circus to help her understand her roots. I thought that it was a great initiative to bond with their child.

Most mothers worry. When children are studying in a different state or country, we wonder whether they are alright and we constantly pray to God to watch over them, to give them wisdom and to protect them. There will come a time when the children will grow up and leave the nest. Even if the child gets married, he is still a child to the mother. Such is the mother’s heart.

Many mothers can share how their hearts bleed when the children snap at them or are disrespectful. Take the story of Peter Rabbit for example.

When Peter Rabbit disobeyed his mother and entered Mr McGregor’s farm, he ended up hiding in a watering can full of water and caught a cold. When he got home, his mother put him to bed after a dose of camomile tea while his siblings had bread, milk and blackberries for supper. I thought Beatrix Potter had captured ever so beautifully the picture of how a loving mother handled an errant son.

Discipline is one of the hardest tasks of a parent and no child should be left to do whatever he wants. It is much easier to say ‘wait till your father gets home’ but many times the mother is the one left with the enviable task of disciplining the child for the obvious reason that the child misbehaves at no specific time and delayed punishment may lose its impact.

It is hard to watch your child leave for days on end when he does not heed correction but it is important that the mother’s pain and his future is not intertwined. Even as my friend tells me she is still waiting for her son to talk to her, I can feel her heartache. But patience is her fortitude as she waits for the prodigal son to return home.

Motherhood is a journey. Even when we become grandmothers, the challenge not to interfere with the upbringing of the little one is very real.

NOT END OF THE WORLD IF PROBLEM IS NOT FIXED

There is this interesting slideshow that I received recently which started with comforting words for the lonely and lost. Watching slide after slide, I was expecting a helpline like the Befrienders at the end of the whole show only to be amused by the last slide which read ‘If no one else remembers you, the Inland Revenue Service does.’

It is that time of the year again where we have to tabulate our income earned and the claims that we can deduct. This reminds me of the time when I was asked to supply supporting proof for my income and claims for the last six years. As it is not everyday that you get selected for this task, with it came three big words: anxiety, anxiety, and anxiety (especially when some receipts were missing).

The first S.O.S. call was to friends for advice and help. Offering differing answers to my questions, I was no wiser. Like a toddler who has pushed his dinner onto the floor from his high chair, I was getting agitated. I needed someone to clear up my mess so I could go have a cup of strong tea. So entered Elvis, the tax consultant who in no few words promised to lead me to Graceland, for a fee. I was hesitant but when Elvis started to take over the documentation, he had indeed melted my wooden heart. A tidy sum in exchange for peace of mind. That confirmed that I had done the right thing when confronted with an arduous task: leave it to the experts.

How nice the world would be if there is a ‘real’ expert that you can call on for every small job in the house at a reasonable price.

Throughout the winter months, the radiators in our house were chugging sluggishly way below peak performance. We called in a few self claimed expert plumbers and they all had their theories what was wrong but none could solve the problem. It was trial and error all the way: fix this, bleed that, knock this, cut that. By the time the radiators were reasonably cured, winter was over.

As if in a sinister conspiracy with the radiators, the vacuum cleaner decided to make a lot of noise but not clean the gritty carpets which were a pure embarrassment. So we called up the electrical shops only to be told they sold vacuum cleaners but not repair them. Then someone told us that there is this man living in a big yellow house by the old church about 20 minutes drive away who used to be an expert in repairing vacuum cleaners. Now I have my doubts about lugging a heavy vacuum cleaner in search of a big yellow house by the old church about 20 minutes drive away. Worst still, he did not give me the name or house number of this elusive vacuum cleaner expert repairman.

The next best thing was to buy a new smallish vacuum cleaner which promised to do the job while the more expensive but broken one stands in the shed. Even as I am writing this, I just heard that this new three month old vacuum cleaner had decided to blow out dust instead of sucking in. So here we go again.

The word ‘malfunction’ is perhaps the most irritating word ever. We get upset when our car breaks down. We get bothered when equipment that we purchase fail us. We get heartache when we cannot glue back our favourite broken china. We get flustered when the house that we live in literally starts falling apart because of wear and tear.

But then again, Richard Carlson famously said, ‘Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff’.

Fresh food can become stale. New machines can break down in time. The underlying principle is nothing tangible lasts forever. If something can function, then it also can malfunction. If we cannot find an expert to fix a physical problem, at least no one died and it is not the end of the world.

It is not possible to keep everything in pristine condition over time. To make it easier on ourselves when something breaks down, imagine the things that are more difficult if not impossible to fix: a congenital problem, a broken heart, a loss of sanity.

PRESERVING THE PAST, SAVING THE PRESENT

Whatever little I knew about coal mining was very much the result of watching Billy Elliot, a 2000 British drama film featuring the son of a Yorkshire miner who preferred ballet to boxing. Then when the 33 Chilean miners were rescued suddenly my interest in everything related to mining escalated. Thus when I visited the hill country of North Roscommon recently, I knew I had to visit Ireland’s last working coal mine in Arigna. The mine was closed in 1990 and it is now opened to tourists.

Jimmy Nugent, a tall and handsome ex-miner was at hand to describe the difficult occupation which many had chosen not by choice but by design. Young people then faced few options: they either left Ireland for London or New York or worked at the mines. It was commonplace for boys to leave national school and begin working underground at 14 years of age. For the then teenager Jimmy, it was the mines although he did not come from a family of miners. I marvelled at the way he enthusiastically described his daily routine not because it was a chore but because he took pride in it. He must have been asked the same questions many times over by ignorant minds like mine and yet he did not hesitate to enlighten.

At one stage he caught me yawning and asked, ‘Are you bored?’

Far from it, everything in the mine screamed 400 years of mining history, geography, sociology and human struggle. Like a bear ready for hibernation, I was merely reacting to the cold and may be it was because my body needed more oxygen for respiration, so I could generate energy to keep warm. At any time of the year, it was 11 degrees Centigrade in the mine.

What was it like to go to work knowing the risks they faced and that the goodbye kiss to a loved one at the door maybe the last? What was it like to work for long hours in darkness surrounded by some of the narrowest coal seams in the western world ? What was it like to dig the coal from the vein on their backs against the wet floor? What was it like to know that the air that they breathe was saturated with coal dust?

When a miner went to work, all he had with him in the mine was his lunchbox which was usually securely latched so the rats could not get to the food, the clothes he had on, a miner’s hat, his tools and a carbide lamp.

A dull sluggish world to any one could be transformed by the promise of good things.

The money was good. At the peak of the mining days there were 13 pubs in the area and business was rife. Money from the mines was spent within the area itself and it was not surprising to find the neighbourhood convenience store stocking up a great variety of goods from down-to-earth potatoes to panty hose. Now we are spoilt for choice and we would have to drive to different shopping malls, find a place to park, insert coins into the parking metre in order to shop for either necessities or luxuries. More often than not, money spent at multi-national companies is not ploughed back to develop local communities.

The comradeship was good. In most mines the communities were tight knit, a far cry from many of us living in the city today who do not know who lives to the right or left of us. Worse still, someone could be mugged right across the street and instead of calling emergency service, all we did was watch from behind the curtain, afraid to be involved.

The experience was good. If we have our dialects, slangs and registers, the miners had their own unique vocabulary. Working in coal seams which were usually no more than 0.6 metre high at best, the miner did not see a ‘styme’ of daylight for hours. The coal was then broken up and loaded into ‘hutches’ or cars to be brought up to the surface. Miners referred to that part of a mine from which the coal has been removed and caves in as the ‘gob’.

As I bade Jimmy goodbye and signed my name in the autograph book for visitors I could not help feeling proud that I had been to the heart of man’s tenacity and endurance, basically man’s basic instinct to harness nature in order to survive.

A PLACE TO CALL OUR OWN

A part of the stone wall in our backyard has fallen again. Slowly but surely, the insidious roots of trees and creeping ivy have damaged the boulders when we were sleeping. So with some homemade cement concoction we decided to put the wall up again, boulder by boulder with the wind behind us, whistling all its charm. Physically putting the stones back, one by one requires dedication, commitment, constant drive and dogged persistence. There was this construction-disruption duality of creativity. A sisyphean but therapeutic task indeed.

What is it with broken walls and mending them?

A fallen wall would be the red fox’s answered prayer to lay his paws on the chickens in the coop. The red fox here is certainly not the doe-eyed Disney version of Tod as in the ‘Fox and the Hound’ but the sly, lean and mean type that has no qualms about plucking the chickens’ feathers one by one. On the other hand, a fallen wall would be my puppy’s answered prayer to a glimpse of the outside world, to his delight or detriment.

Do we erect walls to keep intruders out or to protect the inhabitants within? Running Robert Frost’s poem ‘Mending Walls’ through my mind, I would think it is a little bit of both.

Walls create a sense of security.

The Caherconnell Stone Fort in the Burren, stands testimony of the need to construct walls to protect settlements even in prehistoric times. These walls are physical echoes of a distant past. No castle is complete without thick walls and a moat. The Bunratty Castle near Shannon has eyelets in the wall where archers can let fly dozens of arrows without being seen. In times of peace, these eyelets double up as peeping holes for fair maidens to view the dashing suitors and knights who approach the castle. Not unlike the screens that divide the sitting room from the family room in a typical Peranakan house – where modest maidens in the past could view their male visitors in the sitting room.

Walls prevent accidents.

There is also the look out wall which protects the viewer from sharp drops in height and allows him to view the splendid scenery. One such wall is the Ladies View about 12 miles from Killarney on the N71 road headed towards Kenmare. It is a major stopping point for visitors and the view from this look-out area is probably the best known of Killarney. The picture perfect photos of the mountains could be taken either in the mid-morning or mid afternoon. Seemingly, Queen Victoria’s ladies-in-waiting visited this spot during the royal visit in 1861. They were so enraptured with the view that it was named after them.

Walls create a psychological space.

We need a place to call our own away from prying eyes and nosey neighbours. Imagine living in a glass house where others can see us sip our tea or comb our hair.

Having said that, it is also frightening that barriers can confine.

We have seen how walls that have been set up to divide political ideologies fall to allow reconciliation and freedom. The concrete reality can be a focal point for tensions between the factions supporting opposing ideologies. Chaotic celebrations would fill the air with the fall of a political wall.

Finally, we have also seen how walls around our minds shut out possibilities and differences in opinion or ideas. Often times we are left with the impression that if two people have differences, they are not considered equals by society. Take for example the gypsies who have their own customs and practices. I have seen a number of them in the neighbourhood who live in caravans and keep to themselves. It is impossible for us to build lasting relationships while we are still possessed with hatred and discrimination.

There is indeed no room for such walls of separation and segregation.

PERSISTING IN A QUEST

I AM not into submarines but I do enjoy war movies in which the majority of the plot revolves around a submarine below the ocean's surface. Usually, the plots in such films focus on a small but determined crew of submariners fighting against enemy submarines or submarine-hunter ships, or against other in-house problems like domestic disputes and faulty engines.
Some of my favourite submarine movies are Up Periscope 1959, a World War 2 drama starring James Garner as a navy frogman fighting the Japanese, the 1990 Hunt for Red October and the portrayal of Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea by Hallmark Channel in 1997.

Seizing the sudden good weather, I had gone to Lahinch to enjoy the beach and thereafter to the pier to look at the number of fishing vessels moored there as well as smaller boats which use it as a launching site for sea fishing and recreational sports. There were lobster pots and fishing nets, and the air was dank and stale. The smell of fish and brine clung to my clothes like an uninvited guest.

So, it was a pleasant surprise when I found myself at Liscannor, a coastal village on the west coast of Ireland, the home of John P. Holland (1841-1914) a single-minded genius, a dreamer, a schoolteacher and an engineer. Most of all, Holland is widely known as the inventor of the modern submarine.
Sadly, some, if not all, geniuses are often not recognised during their life span.

Van Gogh and Vivaldi died penniless; Mozart was laid in an unmarked grave; Socrates was sentenced to death by drinking hemlock; Marie Curie was subjected to a smear campaign by France's Excelsior magazine, and Holland died a poor man with no public recognition of the fact that he had designed and built the first modern submarine. His only reward was the Medal of the Rising Sun, which he received from Japan after its success over the Russian fleet in 1904 to 1905.

What struck me was the visualisation, the insistence and the persistence of a quest.

Holland's first submarine, aptly named the Holland No. 1, saw the light of day in 1877. It was 4.2m long, powered by a primitive 4hp engine and carried one man. When it was brought down to the Passaic River and launched before a big audience, it sank. Someone had forgotten to insert the two screw plugs.

It took 50 years for Holland to be well remembered and it was not until 1951 with the Albacore that submarine design returned to his original vision and managed to exceed the seven-knot underwater speed that the Holland achieved.

The question remains: would someone lose his desire to excel if not in the right environment?

An Internet post reads: "I am a young adult, 22 years with a high IQ. When I was in high school, I was an avid reader. I could concentrate and focus for a long time. I loved it, but going to college changed that. My college focused more on memorisation. I lost the desire to learn. I finished college in May as a pre-medical student. I am trying to get into medical school. I was diagnosed with depression first and bipolar second during my undergraduate years."

From this post, I can deduce that a genius in the making can be impeded by unsupportive circumstances. It is frightening to note that some geniuses, in pursuing their dreams, have actually gone mad when adversity and setbacks plague their souls.

Being a genius is a process. A process of learning, becoming and being one. It is the "at the moment-to-moment" life that is lived, the sacrifices made and the extraordinary resources within and around.

Thomas Edison gave his famous formula for genius as one per cent inspiration and 99 per cent perspiration. Mustering human perseverance can pay off.

At the end of the day, the full-grown genius is like a submarine that is capable of independent operation below the surface of the water.

And that brings me back to John P. Holland.

THE SPIRIT OF LOVE AND UNDERSTANDING

GOOD pistol-slinging westerns seem to be yesterday's pleasure. Perhaps no single actor best symbolises the American Western than John Wayne, who starred in more than 140 movies during his lifetime.
I was at Connemara in County Galway, Ireland, recently to enjoy the spectacular scenery, craggy mountain peaks, expansive beaches and laced network of lakes when I was pleasantly informed that it was the shooting location of The Quiet Man, starring the legendary John Wayne.

The Quiet Man is a simple tale of a disgraced boxer returning from the United States to Ireland, his homeland, only to find love in a fiery damsel.
It is a story about differences in culture and the things that matter. Mary Kate (Maureen O'Hara) is cheated of her rightful dowry when she marries Sean (John Wayne).
Sean unschooled in Irish customs, does not think much about the dowry, but Mary Kate is obsessed with obtaining it. To Mary, the dowry represents her independence, identity and pride.

This leads Mary to despise her husband when he does not stand up for her and she brands him a coward. But all's well that ends well when Sean realises his error.
That tale makes me wonder: How well do we know the customs of other people?

We often take for granted about living in a multiracial country like Malaysia where customs are so varied yet we find similarities in values -- in the love of food and in the united focus of keeping peace.

The fact that we live side by side or interact at school or the workplace is a real help towards tolerance and acceptance.
But when one is studying or living in another country, the chasm of differences in values, culture and customs widens. It takes more than understanding to live alongside each other.

I have also noticed that minority races tend to "look out for one another". I have been a frequent customer at an Indian curry stall at the local Sunday farmers' market.

Last week, when I bought a tub of chicken korma, the foodseller smiled and gave me a tub of curry potatoes for free. I noticed that he did not give freebies to other non-Asian customers.

It takes a saintly and bigger than life ability to adopt, adapt or assimilate the new. Psychologists say there are four phases of adapting to a new country.

Stage 1: Euphoria period, a fascination period where everything is new and exciting. It is a brave new world and you are willing to try anything once.

Stage 2: Disenchantment, frustration or irritation and hostility. This usually takes place within the first six months where you may feel depressed about the difficulties you face and you may experience mood swings, feeling happy one day and sad on another.

You may be nice to a person one day and attack him the next day.

Loneliness and missing your country of origin and everything that you are familiar with is very real.

Stage 3: Gradual adjustment or recovery. This is the period where you gradually get involved in the community and have a better understanding of the new country and a broader sense of what you would like to achieve.

Stage 4: Acceptance, adjustment or acculturation where you are quite settled and you no longer regret having come to the new country.

Some of my loved ones in Malaysia are booking tickets to come spend spring with me in Ireland. It is a wonderful feeling when the people you care for come together.

I can see my dining table laden with roast meat and spuds alongside satay, ketupat and teh tarik. Necessity has compelled me to improvise, and Malaysian dishes can still be concocted in an Irish kitchen.

As we wait for the first buds of spring to bloom, the Malaysian spirit of love and understanding lives.

So, as I stood on the Connemara stone bridge, built on layer upon layer of ancient stones, I peered at the river bank below. I knew it was the bridge that John Wayne crossed and I imagined his footprints that were left on the river bank when he finally understood the meaning of love and understanding.

THE CYCLE GOES ON

I WAS reading Dr Gabriel Fitzpatrick's account of a six-month volunteer assignment in Chad, Africa -- his first mission with the international medical aid agency Medecins Sans Frontieres (Doctors Without Borders).
Dr Fitzpatrick, a public health specialist from Aughnamullen, County Monaghan, Ireland, worked in a small tent hospital in Africa looking after children who were malnourished.

Like Dr Fitzpatrick, I had always wanted to be a medical doctor but abandoned the idea when I could not dissect a frog in Form One. Till this day, I cannot dissect anything that is alive or drugged. I also wanted to be a missionary but did not have the guts.

So I became a teacher instead. I reasoned that whether I became a doctor, a missionary or a teacher, I would still be of service to the community and hoped to inspire someone along the way.
Dr Fitzpatrick wrote: "This week, among many admissions, a young mother arrived with twins. She had not eaten for a while. The twins were a haunting sight. Tiny skeletons wrapped in a fine film of skin. Their hair, brownish in colour, fell out too easily when touched. I struggled to remain composed as I examined them. I could see their small chests rise and fall with the breathing cycle."

A cycle is specific. King Solomon in all his wisdom wrote that there is a time for everything. A time to give birth, and a time to die. A time to plant, and a time to uproot what is planted. A time to kill, and a time to heal. A time to tear down, and a time to build up. A time to weep, and a time to laugh. A time to mourn, and a time to dance.

A cycle is also repetitive. We experience the continuity of days, weeks and months in a year. Chinese all over the world have just ushered in the Year of the Rabbit only this time I am away from home. It takes 12 years for the rabbit to reappear in the lunar calendar.

Although I do not believe in the Chinese horoscope, a cursory glance at the characteristics of those born in the Year of the Rabbit renders interesting information. They are private individuals but are reasonably friendly and enjoy the company of a group of good friends.

They are quite calm people who do not exhibit aggressive behaviour. Intelligent and quick, they also like artistic ventures, such as painting and music and are generally quite present in these worlds. Among the many professions, they excel if they are doctors or musicians.

Perhaps, Dr Fitzpatrick was born in the Year of the Rabbit.

Twenty-four years ago my eldest daughter was born in the Year of the Rabbit. Now that she is busy walking up and down the wards of a hospital and plays the piano when she can find time, her mother's heart is aglow with pride.

This tells me that I must have done something right, to challenge her to pursue her dream and to imbue her with a sense of servitude and responsibility. As far as I can remember, she never had any other ambition except to be a doctor. I hope she would become a doctor with a heart big enough to embrace challenges across borders.

Finally, a cycle is also continuous. Like any article that we read, I searched for a good ending in Dr Fitzpatrick's story.

He wrote, "I wish I could tell you both twins survived. The baby girl recovered, but four days after arriving at the hospital, the little boy died. The mother softly kissed his forehead and holding him in her arms released a scream that scared everybody. The nurses were crying. I was numb. We all continued with the job."

In this case, despite the emotional setbacks of reality in the nameless hospital in Africa, work still has to be done. The cycle goes on. How true.