The Gift of Motherhood

At Angkor Wat, Siemreap, Cambodia

The early images I had of dollhouses were those in story books. Usually dollhouses were placed in nurseries and children had loads of fun playing with their tea sets and dolls. To any child, seeing such pictures is like an unattainable dream, the sort that fairy tales are made of. Until the child becomes an adult and can indulge in the spoils of her labour.

I first met Sarita about 3 years ago and when I saw her dollhouses, I was bowled over. The best part was she built them, from the basement to the roof. Everything was so meticulously done and love was written all over her creations.

Then one day, on the way home from Dublin, Michael pulled over at  Mitchelstown and there was this lovely shop that sold beautiful dollhouses. So I had to realise the dream of my childhood and bought a dollhouse for myself.

 It is a beautiful greenish coloured double storey house with an attic. Like any house, it had to be furnished, so I ordered miniature furniture from the Dollhouse Emporium and Maple Street in London. I then wallpapered the rooms accordingly: sitting room, bedrooms, kitchen, study and music room. Sarita also kindly helped me to wire up the whole dollhouse.

As I made the quilt, mattress and pillows for the tiny beds, I could remember vividly the tiny dresses I made for my children’s dolls. Then I progressed to making clothes for my children – beautiful frocks embellished with smocking and embroidered roses for Sonya and Audrey and pyjamas and bow ties for Samuel. And now that the children have grown up, I wonder where all the time went and how they could have fitted into those tiny clothes once.

We wonder what we have imbued in our children. Have we given them life skills? Have we showed them love? Have we disciplined them? Have we given them not only the  knowledge of God but the experience of knowing God?

One of my friends whose son has just started college in another town said, ‘You never realise the seriousness of what you do with your children until a new season of a big change dawns.... which tells me of what and how I have invested into the life of my son..’

Take music for example.

Some studies indicate that foetuses can hear and react to sound by moving. Other studies say music  may enhance children's intelligence and spatial reasoning skills. So, I remember I took up piano lessons just so that my babies could listen to music regularly while still in the womb. Whether it is coincidental or not, all my three children have perfect pitch and love music.

Then I read somewhere that children can read at an early age. So I taught them all how to read at 18 months so by the time they were four, they were familiar faces at the public library – a place where they could just sit for hours to enjoy a good book.

Whatever we would like to instill in our children, be it a love for music or for reading, the key words are enjoyment, consistency and commitment. I remember the hours that I spent reading to the children and sitting with them in a variety of music classes. I remember the number of music teachers that came in and out of our house – the short-lived strict teachers, the ill-tempered teachers and the encouraging teachers.

We all want our children to make us proud. Teaching them manners, respect, ethics and a good attitude in life is what will set them apart. Disciplining them when they are wrong and teaching them the realities of life will help them know that the world does not owe them a living. Making them capable and confident will prevent them from relying on others for handouts. We do the child a huge favour when he is made to realise that he is not the centre of the universe and not everything is about him.

While Ireland celebrates Mother’s day in March, May 11 is Mother’s Day in Malaysia.

Audrey wrote on my timeline ‘Thank you for being such a great mum who brought me up to love the Lord and to reach for my goals. Thank you for all the love and care you’ve shown me throughout the years. Thank you for everything you’ve done. I love you, mum.’

And she gave me a dinosaur onesie. (one-piece jumpsuit) Now what child gives a mum with grown up children that? She must know her mum very well. So I wore it complete with a ridge on its back and a tail and when I worked in the garden, my dog went completely mad, wondering what his mistress has morphed into.

Back to the dollhouse. When the switch is on, voila, the whole house lights up with the little people in it and it looks so beautiful, just like a home with the people you love in it.

                                             I am thankful that God has made me a mother.

                                                               Happy Mother’s Day

Source: http://www.nst.com.my/opinion/columnist/the-gift-of-motherhood-1.586486

Better safe than sorry

The latest spate of stormy weather left my garden in a mess. The birdhouse was blown down, the metal arch crumbled and the decorative butterflies lost their wings. If only I had anticipated the force of destruction, I would have done something to prevent it. But coming from the calm and constant Malaysian weather, how could I have known? If only.

I am generally a person who weighs my options and risks, who sets aside for a rainy day and who is basically prepared for things that may happen or may not even happen. So I have a number of plans. If plan A does not work, I move on to plan B.

Why even the scout/guide motto is : BE PREPARED which means being always in a state of readiness in mind and body. Be Prepared in Mind is to discipline oneself to think  beforehand any accident or situation that might occur, so that you know the right thing to do at the right moment, and are willing to do it. Be Prepared in Body is to make yourself strong and active and able to do the right thing at the right moment, and do it.

I have never been in a uniformed group but somehow such values have been ingrained in me since young by those that I looked up to. And because that forms the basis of my being, I find decision making natural and efficiency and time management part of the package deal as well. I have little tolerance for tardiness and procrastination.

We cannot be prepared unless we know how to prepare. This takes us to the why, what, where, how and when. A native of the land will usually know the fine details about how to deal with an event for example. But it is a different ball game for a non-native.

We cannot be prepared unless we have knowledge. If I were involved in a car accident in Malaysia, I would know exactly what to do and who to contact. But I will feel very inadequate in another country should an accident happen unless I have the specific knowledge of what to do.

Knowledge comes from many forms and one very basic form is by asking. I remember attending a school report day when the teacher unhappily remarked that my daughter ‘asked a lot of questions’ in class. To that statement, I replied that ‘that was how I brought up my children – to ask questions so they can get answers’.

We cannot be prepared unless we embrace different degrees of likelihood: will happen, may happen, may never happen. If it happens, I will know how to deal with it, and if it does not, well and good. Who is man in his puny mind to predict whether the impossible may happen?

We cannot be prepared if we are told ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.’ This is fine for those who are quite happy to wash their hands of a problem. To  me, it is great if someone offers to take care of a situation, but I would also like to know how that situation will be taken care of. Imagine having a godfather who says he will take care of a problem, and the next thing you know are headlines in a local paper that some heads have rolled. The logical mind seeks answers, not ambiguity.

I have stood in front of a lecture room for the most part of my life. I had questions directed at me – those that I could answer and those that I could not. For the questions that I had answers, I was too happy to share them. For those that I could not answer, I searched for the answers or for someone else who would know the answers. At home, it was the same modus operandi. Children, whether toddlers or teens or adults, ask questions all the time, if they are encouraged to do so. They can be very general or specific; real or hypothetical; impossible or totally out of this world and they can also be personal or totally irrelevant.

Questions are usually triggered by something nagging in the mind. They can come anytime – when you are relaxed and happy or when you are tired and grouchy.

To all these questions, I see it as a privilege to share whatever I know. I see questions as coming from a genuine search for something deeper. Questions could stem from a pure thirst for information, an understanding of emotions and a clarification of doubt.

Wherever they come from and whatever time they are thrown at me, I feel happy that I can be part of building the bridge of knowledge. 

That to me is communication.

Source: http://www.nst.com.my/opinion/columnist/better-safe-than-sorry-1.573138

Goodwill Hunting

We were walking along Arlington Street in Boston   recently when I heard someone shouting at me from a Pajero which had stopped at the traffic lights. I turned my head and saw a lady waving at me excitedly. She shouted ‘ We have the same handbag!’ and simultaneously lifted up her handbag and shook it vigorously to show me that what she said was absolutely true.

I laughed as I saw that I was also carrying the handbag with bird prints all over it. Then to further accentuate the fun mood, I unbuttoned my coat to reveal a matching bird print frock beneath it. I bought my dress and bag from Dublin and I wondered whether she got the same from downtown Boston. Well, that definitely caused an adrenalin rush.

Then we made our way towards Beacon Street where the famed ‘Cheers’ pub (of the American sitcom television series that ran for 11 seasons from 1982 to 1993) stood. I saw two tourists trying to make sense of the vicinity by pouring over a small black and white map of Boston. In my pocket was a big coloured map of Boston which I took from the concierge. I related what I saw to Michael and I was caught in a to-do or not-to-do situation as we walked past the couple. Michael gave me the affirmation and I ran back to the couple and gave them my big and coloured map and their broad smiles said it all.

What is it about random acts of kindness that make our day?

These may be very small stuff but yet again they leave a fuzzy feeling behind, after all we are tripartite beings – body, soul and spirit.

What touches our souls lifts up the spirit. That little encouragement, that gentle pat on the head goes a long way. We talk of chocolates being soul food and shopping as soul therapy. We can see what we look like in the mirror and we can try to improve what we are not happy with. But it is hard to see our emotions in the mirror and even if we do, we are seldom taught how to recognise our emotions and how to deal with them.

So what am I trying to say?

We often forget that although we look strong on the outside, we are fragile inside. Being constantly battered by words, accusations, injustices and name-calling leave us frail. Being told what to say and what not to say far too often enough leave us wondering if we can say anything to anyone at all.  Being misunderstood because of our perceptions or of our choice of words make us wish we had shared none of our opinions at all. We may be made of rock but constant chiselling will chip off many bits of us over time.

So why can’t we have acts of kindness instead of destruction?

To be kind is to be in the shoes of the other person, to empathise and to walk with her and hold her hand and show that you care. To be kind  is not to bring up the past over and over again. To be kind is to encourage but to correct at the same time when you can see another walking down the path that you would not like to go yourself. To be kind is to understand that not everything is personal and not everything is about you.

To be kind is also to take stock of our own emotional health. We cannot blame another person for what we are or are not. To quote Ann Bradford, ‘Tell the negative committee that meets inside your head to shut up and sit down.’ We owe it to ourselves to develop confidence, self esteem and self respect. When we have been told to do this and that for too long, we need to step aside and say to ourselves, ‘Do we want to fall into someone else’s mould or can we be ourselves?’

It is never easy to see the wood for the trees when we are in the thick of it. No one can identify with the intensity of emotions that we go through, and the choice is ours alone to decide what we want to do with our lives.

It is the stuff that we are made of that anchors us. I have often wondered how huge trees can be toppled in a storm and yet when I see how shallow the roots are, it all makes sense.

When our emotional health is in order, we have every reason to live.

                                                    All that is gold does not glitter     

                                                    Not all those who wander are lost

                                                    The old that is strong does not wither

                                                   Deep roots are not reached by the frost –

                                                                                                    J.R.R. Tolkein             

Source: http://www.nst.com.my/opinion/columnist/goodwill-hunting-1.551698?cache=03%2F7.203490%3Fpage%3D0%2F7.306867%2F7.321287%2F7.325431%2F7.325431%2F7.330034%2F7.330034%2F7.330034%2F7.330034%2F7.682829%2F7.124478%2F7.699950                           

Now What was that Again?

There is this character called Mr Twiddle in Enid Blyton’s books. He is a kind-hearted soul but very forgetful and his wife is driven to distraction by his actions. He is  a bit like a grand-dad in early dementia.

I used to think that it is impossible for Mr Twiddle to constantly fall over the cat or put the stick of butter into the oven instead of into the refrigerator, until I found myself putting the open carton of fresh milk into the larder and the car keys in the shed. I am not denying that memory lapses come with age, but then again, how is it possible that my friends in their 70s and 80s can remember things with such precision when I find it hard to remember what I ate for supper even?

It is recorded that medieval Irish literature preserved truly ancient traditions in a form virtually unchanged through centuries of oral tradition back to the ancient Celts of Europe. Oral tradition and oral lore is cultural material and tradition transmitted verbally down the generations. These stories are transmitted in speech or song and may take the form, for example, of folktales, sayings, ballads, or chants. Thus even without a writing system, it is possible for a society to transmit oral history, oral literature, oral law and other types of knowledge across generations. Even the oral tradition of passing on tunes is ongoing in Irish Traditional Music.

I have certainly never been engaged in any form of serious oral tradition. At most. it was a nursery rhyme here and there and a proverb or two.

I remember studying about short term and long term memory power in a psychology class. Either I was too distracted by the lecturer’s good looks or I merely retained the facts for the purpose of doing well in the paper, I cannot remember much of it today. But one I think that still lingers on my mind is creating a to-do list to sharpen memory skills.

So I started a to-do list. This to-do list was painstakingly entered into my filofax (that was before smart phones made an appearance). Alternatively, I would stick post-its on the fridge or soft board. Once I had completed the things on my to-do list, I would cross them out, sort of a first- in- first- out system. It worked perfectly for me and I did not have to carry too many things in my head.

Another thing that could have caused my memory power to go into lazy mode is my personal mantra of ‘living for today’. Even if I had won the most coveted award for being the greatest woman ever lived, I would have revelled in the euphoria of that experience for just a while and then moved on because there is so much to life than resting on yesterday’s laurels. This goes for bad experiences as well. Someone once said the best way to punish your enemies is to forgive them because life is too short to hate and so we march on into the future, consciously not letting bad experiences gnaw us from within.

Some people that I have met can remember every little milestone their children had achieved. I am totally hopeless in that area and that is why I find photo albums and scrapbooks most helpful. Just the other day I met a man who said he cut a tree in our backyard twenty years ago. Now if he had been cutting trees for the most part of his life, how could he have remembered which tree he had cut in which year?

There are many people who love to retell their stories. I find that there are more talkers than listeners everywhere I go. Almost everyone seems to want to talk about himself and expect others to listen. I have heard some of them tell the same story over and over again, to the same group of people or to different groups of people. So maybe this is the secret to increasing memory power – repetition.

Just when I thought that maybe I was losing ‘it’, wikipedia threw some light into the occasional lapses in memory which do not necessary mean signs of serious mental deterioration or the onset of dementia. This includes: forgetting where you left things you use regularly, such as glasses or keys; forgetting names of acquaintances or blocking one memory with a similar one, such as calling a daughter by another daughter’s  name; occasionally forgetting an appointment; having trouble remembering what you have just read, or the details of a conversation; walking into a room and forgetting why you entered; becoming easily distracted and not quite being able to retrieve information you have “on the tip of your tongue.”

Games that activate the brain should help. So maybe it is time to reach for the crossword puzzle or Sudoku.

Now who is Mr Twiddle that started me on the writing of this article?

Source: http://www.nst.com.my/opinion/columnist/now-what-was-that-again-1.539177

Looking For the Blueprint

THE movie Philomena won the BAFTA award for best adapted screenplay. The story of a son looking for his biological mother and the biological mother looking for her son would tug any heartstrings, more so when the mother and son in question are Irish.

Stories abound where years ago, unwed Irish mothers were put away in workhouses or convents because they were "fallen women" and their children were given up for adoption or sold.

Philomena was pregnant and unmarried at 18, so she was kept out of sight at Sean Ross Abbey in Roscrea, county Tipperary, behind grey stone walls.

In recent years however, adoptions in Ireland have become increasingly rare. Prospective parents now look abroad to adopt a child in a process called inter-country adoption.

At some point or another in our lives, we have wondered if we were adopted, especially when we do not look like our siblings.

Doubts creep in when we think and feel that our parents favour our brother or sister over us.

Stories that our parents tell us when we ask them about conception do not help either: the stork drops babies into chimneys or babies are found in dustbins and cabbage patches.

In the process of instilling fear into us or making us toe the line, parents even threaten to "give us away" if we misbehave.

I am not adopted and neither have I adopted a child. I cannot imagine what a parent goes through in the process of giving up a child to someone else.

However, my earliest memory of such a scenario was when I was about 10. I was living above a furniture shop then and usually I would exchange pleasantries with the owner of the shop when I got home from school, before making my way up the stairs, school bag and all.

On that particular day, he looked very downcast and, even after I had greeted him, he made no response.

So I asked my mother what had happened to him and she told me that he had just "given away" his sixth daughter because business was poor and they could not afford to feed another mouth.

In some cultures, it is required by law to state that a child is adopted. However, there are cases where the names of the adoptive parents are recorded as the biological parents of the child.

I have friends who have told their adopted children that they were adopted right from the start.

I also have friends who have never told their children they were adopted. '

Among the famous who were adopted were Marilyn Monroe, John Lennon, Nelson Mandela and Babe Ruth.

Steve Jobs was adopted and even though he was subsequently re-united with his biological parents, he continually affirmed that his adoptive parents were his parents 1,000 per cent.

Every now and again, we read in the papers of people searching for their biological parents or parents searching for the babies that they had given up for adoption many years ago.

Sometimes, a chance meeting of siblings separated by birth but yet look very much alike, has paved the way for a reunification.

The book Adoption Healing, a path to recovery by psychotherapist Joe Soll, a licensed clinical social worker, lists down the myths and facts about adoption.

According to his findings, most people surrender a child to adoption because they lack the resources to do otherwise.

Bonding begins before birth and the child suffers the pain of separation from her mother.

The discovery of her adoption status is confirmation of what is innately felt and known by the child. Women who lose babies to adoption never forget and their loss is unresolvable.

There are reports of happy endings where families are re-united and aching chasms filled.

Yet, I have heard of those who have met their biological parents but chose not to have further contact with them. I have also read of biological mothers who had kept it a secret all their lives and felt that the resurfacing of a child given up for adoption would disrupt their present status.

There is just no generic rule that reunification spells happiness.

Source: Looking for the blueprint - Columnist - New Straits Times http://www.nst.com.my/opinion/columnist/looking-for-the-blueprint-1.503229#ixzz2w54r9wM6

The things we do that only others see

THE 1999 novel Chocolat by Joanne Harris tells of a woman who moves in with the wind to a little French town. She is a sojourner and is quite unlike any of the people in that village, with her unconventional ideas and her disregard for meaningless traditions. Despite her fair share of prejudice and pain, she ultimately brings hope to a group of people who sees change and possibilities and a different world apart from their own.

The sojourner can be anyone. He is the teacher in a godforsaken place. Totally dedicated to his vocation but unappreciated. He is the doctor in a far-flung part of the earth. Totally dedicated to his calling but feeling trapped. He is the creative worker in a multinational company. Totally dedicated to his career but feeling empty and lonely.

Sometimes, I feel like a sojourner. It is as if I am in a particular place for a particular reason. Like the protagonists of the novel, Vianne Rocher, and her daughter Anouk, the road is never easy, the path is embedded with stones that need to be taken out painstakingly, one by one, so that it is smooth again.

In the course of it, weariness bears down, oh so strongly.

I have been here for a few years now. People ask me: "What do you think of Ireland? What do you think of the Irish? Do you miss your children back home in Malaysia?"

What can I say... should I just mouth the trite answers that are expected of me? Do I tell them what they want to hear or do I tell them the good and the bad, the joy and the pain, the fun and the sadness, the alienation and the friendliness, the rejection and the acceptance, the closeness of minds of a people who know no better?

There was this nice and elderly English gentleman whom I used to meet on the street where I live. He probably did not have many friends. But what struck me was that he never failed to talk to me whenever he saw me. He thought I was on a long vacation as I stayed on after the summer holidays and he continued to see me again in autumn and winter. He used to carry a bag slung across his shoulder. One day, I saw him walking without his bag. I stopped and asked, "Where is your bag?"

He was taken aback and said that he had left the bag behind. He must have gone home and thought to himself, why, this lady noticed that I carried a bag every time I went out for a walk. The next day, he saw me again from afar and waved merrily at me, holding his bag high up in the air, to show me that he was carrying the bag. After that, our friendship grew -- albeit circling around his health, his bag, my health and my bag. Finally I asked him whether he would like to come into my house for a cup of tea.

I wished he had accepted my invitation that day to come in for a cup of tea to escape the stormy weather. I wish I could have talked to him more. But I couldn't because John passed away and it broke my heart that I did not even know about it and I wondered if there was anyone at all at his funeral.

As I sojourn, I find myself in several very varied circles of good friends, maybe because I listen more than I speak, I reflect more than react and I empathise more than gossip and judge. A number of my friends have mentioned that they are glad I have come into their lives. I feel humbled by such an honour because of my own imperfections.

I am reminded of the story of the monk carrying two buckets of water from the well to the monastery every day. One bucket is perfect and the other has holes. The bucket with holes asks the monk why he continues to use it. The monk asks the bucket to look at the side of the road where the perfect bucket passes over and it is barren. He then points to the flowers growing on the other side of the road and says "See, these flowers are here only because of the water you sprinkle on them". 

As we sojourn, may our imperfections be the channels that allow our gifts and talents to flow to where they mean something to someone else.

Source: The things we do that only others see - Columnist - New Straits Times http://www.nst.com.my/opinion/columnist/the-things-we-do-that-only-others-see-1.490817#ixzz2uLvyqa00

Appeal of teddy bears

WHAT is it about teddy  bears that makes most of us go soft in the head? I for one have collected a number of teddy bears from different countries and have sat them all down in a cupboard and then carefully cleaned them whenever they got soiled.

Among the well-loved bears are the Paddington bear from Peru, Rupert the bear from England, Biffo bear from Beano, Yogi bear created by Hanna-Barbera (who claims he is smarter than the average bear) and the hand-raised Knut the polar bear that I saw at the Berlin Zoo. But these names are quite lost on present-day children, who are probably familiar only with Pooh, made famous by Walt Disney. But truth be told, the Disney version of Pooh is again rather different from the original A. A. Milne's Winnie-the-Pooh of Hundred Acre Wood.

History has it that the first teddy bear originated from the States after President Theodore Roosevelt and some of his friends went on a hunting trip to Mississippi in November 1902. After tracking down a helpless bear, one of the guides asked the president to shoot it but filled with compassion, the president could not bring himself to do so. Shortly after that, Clifford Berryman, a cartoonist, drew a cartoon of the event. A store owner in Brooklyn saw the cartoon, and true to the American spirit of entrepreneurship, decided to create a toy and named it Teddy Bear.

Teddy bears have gone a long way since. They are endeared by children and adults alike. In fact, I have even walked into a Teddy Hospital that specialises in bandaging that torn-out limb or re-stuffing that well-loved shapeless lump. Visitors to the hospital are asked to stay quiet for the patients.

Like doll houses and miniatures, they are also much sought after by beary (pardon the pun) many collectors. Sir Robert Clark, who died in January 2013, was recruited to Churchill's Special Operations Executive. He had a teddy called Falla, who was with him even when he parachuted into enemy territory in Italy and became a prisoner of war in World War 2. He later became a collector of more than 300 teddy bears.

Recently, Travelodge, the hotel chain, carried out a poll among 6,000 British adults on the significance of teddy bears (there seems to be polls on almost anything). More than half of the respondents still have a childhood teddy bear and 35 per cent sleep with one. Because of the great attachment between the teddy bear and its owner, the loss of one creates great distress. Travelodge said that in 2011, staff had reunited more than 75,000 teddies and their owners. And it is not only children that we are talking about but "frantic businessmen and women" calling the hotel about their forgotten teddy bears. In Teddy Bear stories for Grown Ups by Catherine Taylor, we have 23 fascinating stories of relationships between teddy bears and their owners, including the one about how a teddy bear survived the Titanic.

So what does a teddy bear provide that other toys do not? The respondents of the poll said sleeping with a teddy provided a "comforting and calming" way to end the day. In fact, 25 per cent of men said they even took their teddy bears away with them on business because it reminded them of home. Now I understand why Mr Bean does not go to sleep. I think deviant artist Begemott captures the idea of teddy the protector best in his drawing Sweet Halloween dreams where a teddy bear fends off a monster with a sword while a child sleeps on peacefully.

So with Valentine's Day just around the corner, I think teddy bears make excellent gifts.

They do not wilt like roses do, and unlike chocolates, they give great comfort without the extra calories.

Source: Appeal of teddy bears - Columnist - New Straits Times http://www.nst.com.my/opinion/columnist/appeal-of-teddy-bears-1.479943#ixzz2soKaSecE