Paris: 8 poems on the peace, love and joy of the City of Light.

Paris joie de vivre One summer, my husband took the kids to the wrong museum, Doped up with eye drops in bed, I told him the Orangerie, at the end of the Tuileries, where the water lilies were but he took them to the Musee D’Orsay where there discovered Isis, the Egyptian goddess, Instead of Parc Monceau, we headed to the Cite des Sciences et des I’Industrie Where I sat on a bench with my eyes closed, the drone of David Attenborough dubbed in French bored the children, the run on the park outside more invigorating, they chose McDonald’s because they felt that In Paris the macarons are quite expensive and the queues much longer, mostly of Chinese tourists who were not us. Champs Elysees is really not our favourite street the shops are crass, and it’s truly overrated. The coffees bad. The side streets always better. They climbed up the Eiffel Tower, strong legs like iron. The reward being Belgian mussels after, Vintage melodrama at puces de st ouen, ‘I want them all’ I scream. The man selling second-hand books along the Seine- such gems, the break dancers on the Ile St Louis more entertaining, the bowl of pho, steaming hot after the long metro ride across the city to the tiny Chinatown, comfort on a cold December, the quiet of the Marais streets after 9’ clock, holding hands outside our favourite cafe, the chime of quiet empty churches, a bare green bench on the Luxembourg Gardens, summer music wafting through our little garden, The ratatouille delighting the palates of young gourmands, Our Paris joie de vivre. Along the Seine On my birthday, one year, when trees were bare, in the absence of snow, the side-walks dry and neatly swept, I made my parents walk along the Seine with us. We started at the patch of bare green under the Eiffel tower, in Arr 7. took photos~ star-jumps, poses, selfies, ogled over carousels that make Paris pretty what a lovely walk that was: on the Left Bank, looking over the right, the majesty of monuments, the grand and petit palaces, across to Elysee Palace, observations of an immensely great city, benches, boats, love locks, little play patches for children. We walked until the roundabout where The Tuileries started, The line for the Orangerie was two miles long, so we took pictures, laughed and decided to go for Belgian mussels instead. Quite a long walk for children and their grandparents, but what I learned most, about getting older, was not the presents or the candles on your cake, nor your pictures of frozen memories, but the people in your life, that you keep with you. whom you love, because that’s the way it is, wrapped up in scarves and gloves, with boots and snug clothing, my parents seemed happier, worldier, less old, in the cold. if I could freeze-frame one shot of our walk along the Seine, it would be of my parents, holding hands, on my 42nd birthday, blessings, like balloons floating up into the clouds, as I say thank you, thank you, thank you, amen, like a neverending litany, and I have been gifted for life. 25 April 2015 Rodin: The Thinker (Inspired by fond memories of Rodin's Museum with dear ole dad-Jan 2014) When I brought my Malaysian Chinese funny dad to see The Thinker Instead of awe and admiration He asked me: Is the statue having constipation? I really had to laugh out laugh at that one. The Thinker did look like he was having some bowel issues. Dad could be right. For I do a lot of thinking myself On the loo. My father is an impatient traveller who loves his naps and daily fixes of habits set in years. Coffee and a good seat. And free toilets That he doesn't need to pay 8 euros for! So traipsing through cultural wonders for two weeks in France, Isn't exactly his macaroon or cup of tea! He had had it by the time we got to Rodin. Our last day in France. What I will fondly remember is seeing my parents in winter garb, Walking through the gardens of Versailles, Along the Seine. On cobbled streets of St Paul de Vence, Eating Chinese in Nice! Mum taking photos and politely sightseeing, inhaling in the beauty And fragrance of Grasse, Dad catching naps on benches Wherever he can. Even in Cannes. These memories will stay etched Whenever I return to France, Or fine art or high culture. I will be humbled By dad And the constipated thinker in Rodin's garden! Paris je t’aime there is a piece of me always left somewhere museum, square, metro, cafe, seine side, left bank, marais, but somewhere in the city of light there is a visceral something i cannot put my finger on it but it has not returned to me. since the first spring day when she greeted me with a smile wider than the wide waist of the arch de trioumph where cherry blossoms burst in riots of pink, dotting cheeks in the cobalt spring skies so i return, every so often to claim it back but to no avail. alas, it may have got lost, meandered off, on the cobbled-stone streets or in the labyrinthian galleries of wondrous art so pure to imitate it would be as futile as reclaiming something lost forever. Marais: Place des Vosges On the green square by the grand archways Where Victor Hugo used to reside Lies the squarest green in all of Paris Under the verdant leafy spring trees I watch white shirted Parisian children play while their grand mamans watch The world cloistered Inside this square , life is unhurried and untouched My daughter catches red ladybirds With her bare hands While her father reads a book and chugs down his beer. The little children giggle and laugh under the pale summer sun When the winter brings bare trees The air is crisp and the bench is cold While I relish in the wonder Of this special quiet spot My favourite place in all of Paris Why do we travel the world To find ourselves In unexpected places? Where there is no need for pretension. Your soul hangs loose. Unbidden. November 2014 The Romance of Provence They say there is always romance in Provence with the southern sun casting her seductive light over hills and vales where ancient perched villages conceal their tales of yore from the world at large whilst you dance in the summer sun on fragrant lavender hills bursting in bloom in their fullness- bewitching you as you stumble in Arles over some artists’ memory and form in the languorous stupor of the fine wine you had at lunch, at the medieval square. These stunning once grand chateaux, still with their billowy white curtains, beckoning at you, continue to promise you that this seduction is as tangible as the French accent you try to attempt but fail hopelessly, miserably at- You cannot be French unless your birth-right and tongue command it. You remain a visitor. With the floppy straw hat, white dress, leather strappy sandals and sunscreen, high cheekbones and camera and striped tote, still figuring out Proust and the romance of Provence. Beyond the window: Grasse The mists roll up across the hills, where a perched village-medieval, ancient and sometimes forgotten, except for tourists looking for old ramparts and cobblestones, to walk on and to instagram about, stay. What lies beyond those doors, Of stories too old and unbearable, Of cold, windy nights, and joyous celebrations Beyond unique, old, shut doors. The winter rain rhythmically pelts down Over the rolling lavender hills. Fragonard could have painted these hills if they were his style, Instead he lends his name To the oldest perfumerie in the world Near streets and hills where the scentless Grenouille roamed. The window pane frames the romance of the hinterland Of the Côte d'Azur Where old money has stood the test of time. But where you must find your own way. Here is where stillness commands, Being rules, And calm washes over you like A Fragonard scent. December 2013 On Blindness: An Ode to Milton I wonder when Milton wrote about his blindness If he ever worried about not Being able to do powerpoint presentations anymore Or those whizzy Prezi slides Or read the fine-print of his students’ essays In sometimes their unintelligible handwriting. Of the words of yet another brand new author or endless lecture notes and lit crit. Or whether he knew that retinal detachments Can be 50-50 though more likely 85% these days I so thank the good Swiss doctor in the 1920s For inventing the surgery that has saved many eyes But I’ll bet you Milton didn’t walk out of Chanel On Avenue Montaigne weeping, salty hot tears of uncontrollable sobs, in thankfulness, of his eye-sight saved But I wonder too if he ever felt paranoid about spots on his windscreen, or a buzzy mosquito near his eye Thinking NEW FLOATERS have appeared Or any little black dots can set off new alarm bells Sending him on a mini-panic of something being wrong with his eyes(again), Nor wake up in jolts sometimes, testing if he could see in the dark, But I know for sure I am just Thankful, grateful and humbled that I can see my salty tears; I can see the redness on my pupil, That I can SEE! And even when that little boy in the paediatric ophthalmological suite next to mine who was bawling with his unseeing eyes, which made me sad, But I feel doubly humbled and crushed in my humility and smallness That other problems- glaucoma, cataract, ptosis Seem pale in comparison, For I’ll NEVER ever take for granted again, The beauty of a simmering sunset, or the radiance of my mother’s smile, Or the majesty of the sky slowly opening at dawn And the intricate motifs and patterns on a lovely sheer softness of a silky scarf, Or that I can still thread a needle, or buckle my son’s sandals, And see, watch, witness, capture, behold, In the beauty of my children’s innocent love or watch them slowly grow Or never forsake the simple pleasure of reading them a bed-time story And mostly freeze and frame, with my own eyes, the generous and vivid love, Glowing in my man’s kind and earnest face, How can you take such beauty for granted? So, I thank Science and a God who loves me For saving me from blindness. September 2012 ( 2 months after my retinal detachment surgery at the American Hospital of Paris) ~RL poems

The Singapore Writers Festival 2015

http://harpersbazaar.my/culture/write-now-the-singapore-writers-festival-2015/

#WeAreMalaysians

My Malaysia at 50. My piece for MY50 stories for posterity September 2, 2013 at 12:00pm Malaysia at 50: My journey as a Malaysian

>>Growing up, I used to watch Bintang RTM with my mum on RTM1, a sort of Malaysian Idol of the time, if you like. Rafeah Buang & Jamal Abdullah then Sudirman were some of the pop artistes we grew up with. Before Hari Raya or Merdeka, we would sing along to songs like Balik Kampung and Tanggal 31 Ogos. And the Merdeka parades shown live on tv. No one goofed off the leaders and parliamentarians like we do today. They portrayed more statesmanship and were somewhat more respected, or were we that deluded? Mum and I would watch out for what the wives of the leaders would wear during the national parade and sometimes diss their lack of fashion sense and have a good laugh or two. >>We would watch the parade and swell with pride when the national anthem came on. Till today "Tanah Tumpahnya Darahku" still resonates strongly with my bones. My soul. My core. We never fail to tear up when the flag is hoisted. Like when we watch a Yasmin Ahmad commercial together. (Still waiting for our anthem to be played at badminton finals championships or the Olympics. Someday!) For Hari Raya, my Nyonya grandmother would make kuih kapit for her Malay daughter in law, our dear Mak Su. Chinese New Year was always a riot of colours, laughter and fun harmless gambling. >>I have never lived abroad for long stints apart from months of summer school or MA research work though I travel extensively and never am I prouder to declare to a foreigner that I AM MALAYSIAN. >>A true product of Malaysian system, I saw through the STPM and saw four years at University of Malaya studying English. For that alone, I'm an Anak Malaysia inside out! >>As a child of educators, we spoke English first at home, Hokkien as our mother tongue but could converse fluently and strongly in Bahasa Malaysia. I read Sejarah Melayu from cover to cover before it got politically adulterated. For my MA dissertation, I focused on Asian women in Literature, inspired by many Malaysian female characters from across genres. >>My friends and extended come from all walks of life and from the multicultural microcosm that is truly Malaysian. My best friend up till the time she moved away was a girl with the most beautiful name- Ayu Hanani. Breakfast could consist of toast and kaya, nasi lemak, or tosai with dahl. In the 70s, cereal, milk, spaghetti and all kinds of pasta were considered very Western and exotic foods. Family potlucks would consist of a spread of laksa, kapitan curry, satay, KFC, egg sandwiches and carved watermelons! >>Deepavali would see us eating yitali and vadai made by our Indian helper and was more than just a helper to us. She was family and still is. At my grandmother's Buddhist funeral, she lit joss sticks as a sign of respect for the elderly dead. Till today, we visit her every Deepavali. >>Aunty Mimi, Muslim and childless was a favourite neighbour. She made the best ice cream in the world. Her Ceylonese Malaysian husband didn't eat ice cream so she would always make it for us. Delicious coconut, vanilla, strawberry and all kinds of lovely toppings. She introduced me to butterscotch and caramel even before I could spell! Like most housewives, she enjoyed a spot of 4D! Unce Khoo and Aunty Che Chik were another childless couple who took upon us three as their goddaughters and we spent plenty of time on each other's swings having chats and growing up with a second set of parents. We wept for Aunty Chik when Uncle Khoo passed from a sudden heart attack. >>In Penang, tea-time hawker fare was de rigueur! It wasn't about tea and scones but the yummiest Malaysian hawker snacks around. It was normal to cycle out to pack mee jawa, char koay teow, ice kacang, fresh popiah. The portions were moderate so we never got fat. Mee Jawa was 50 sen a plate on the early 1980s! Delicious and wholesome. >>Sabah to me was always a part of Malaysia as my favourite Uncle Larry was posted there by Malaysia Airlines, then deemed a stable company to work in, where he worked for 30 years and married a KK girl. They moved to the peninsular in the 1990s but I have fond memories of occasional postcards of orang utans and letters from him & always looked forward to his visits coupled with ice-kacang afternoons. >>I have lived in KL now for twenty one years and all my children were born in our nation's capital. Our life in KL is comfortable and blissful; we find pockets of green escapes like the stream up Bukit Kiara, or that jungle spa in Bukit Penchala, or seafood on Carey Island! You can find anything you need in KL and if you know when to avoid traffic jams, potholes or water distruptions, it's one of the most liveable cities we know! Seriously. >>We have a unique Malaysian way of life with friends from all groups and all over the world. >>Crime those days was perhaps a drug addict breaking into your compound to steal a bicycle or a pair of trainers. >>We rarely have shootings or such random heinous crimes reported today! We were not polarised like we are today. There was no reason for it. >>The last 9 years have seen a stark change in the political landscape and emerging disdain and disgust of the Malaysian people. Perhaps it's a necessary purge and detoxification that we have to undergo as we turn 50. After all, being middle-aged, you do amass a lot of toxins as you journey through the seven ages of your life. >>Hopefully, this 50 year old will hold out with a little bit more dignity than what she has been bestowed upon in recent times. >>Underneath it all, it's the people. The ordinary people of everyday life that makes Malaysia unique and home. I still hold on to that belief. >>What's your favourite 'Malaysia at 50' memory? >>(Malaysia at 50: Malaysia Day Sept 16, 2013) >>PS. 2 years down the road, it would seem that we have indeed fallen into deeper depths of despair in Malaysia. But we can't ditch a sinking Motherland, and I will continue to lift her up with love, light and a whole lot of prayers.

Self-body image and the post- millennial teen

Of millennial excess and obsession with self- body image...

"To be beautiful means to be yourself. You don't need to be accepted by others. You need to accept yourself."

Thich Nhat Hanh

Growing up in the eighties, I was always called chicken legs or pancake face for my high wide cheek bones. Being from Penang and of part-Sumatran Peranakan blood, I was never the quintessentially fair maiden of Chinese bloodline, who plasters Hazeline Snow on her face to become even that much fairer to exude the stereotypical look of fairness and beauty.

My teen years were a blur of poetry writing, essay perfecting, Sweet Dreams reading, Scrabble-playing and plenty of books, playing tricks on teachers and gossiping about boys that didn’t really exist in our all-girls school and hiding myself behind the comfort of uber thick and uncool photo-gray glasses.

Did it affect my self- esteem? Surprisingly no!

Was I even aware that I was entitled to one? Perhaps not.

I was born very boyish looking, with fairly large (for a Chinese) dark eyes with double eye-lids and features that apparently weren’t terrible Chinese and a large nose with high cheek bones.

As my adolescent best mates grew breasts, mine probably stopped when I was 14 and a half, and it has stayed that way since. With my narrow hips, I was often also called 'no waist' by family members.

Hence, angular, awkward, chicken-legged and dark, I wasn’t exactly anyone’s dream teen girlfriend material, not to hetero- boys that didn’t exist nor the lesbian girls in my Convent school.

Instead, I grew and nurtured my inner Ninja-of feminist traits of confidence and intellectual and emotional strength, and acquired a self-esteem that suffered no fools.

In 6th form, I almost caused a scandal by dating the handsome and most coveted Head-boy, a boy of mixed parentage, Bollywood eye candy of sorts. I quickly discovered that looks aren't everything.

In summer school in Hawaii, I was smitten by a blonde long -haired hippie poet, who introduced me to Jack Kerouac and Milan Kundera, my summer romance, which I thought could pass off as Brad Pitt and he thought my almost purple hair was too beautiful for words.

I had my fair share of boyfriends until I met my better half, with his curly hair and Tin Tin t-shirts and the gentlest, kindest, funniest man in the world, who still rocks my world after 18 years together.

Did I let my body image and pop culture affect my crucial life decisions?

Luckily not.

For I was fortunate enough to be shielded from feeling shite about myself from looking at fashion or lifestyle teen magazines which celebrated sexy bikini- clad models, waif thin, smooth ivory skin, yet with boobs spilling out like no tomorrow. I was cocooned from all media of self-loathing.

-I didn’t have internet websites like Pro -ANA sites giving me thinspiration, no thank you.

-I didn’t have photo-shopped, air- brushed models with 6 -pecs and skinny arms jumping out at me to tell me that I was fat, ugly, gangly, uncoordinated , flat-chested, short.

-I didn’t have K-pop stars who look like fake double- lidded clones, and post -plastic surgery success stories staring at me at tell me that I needed my eye lids fixed, or my bulbous nose streamlined or needed a tummy tuck.

I remembered Karen Carpenter dying of self- inflicted starvation and my no nonsense mother telling me how tragic, silly and unnecessary that was. And I believe her till this day.

So, I never had the propensity starve myself( for I was taught to love food and to enjoy it or go hungry and offend my ancestors), or have the urge to throw up, or to be of one particular skinny, cool, gorgeous look. I did have a hideous Diana Ross perm once and carrot jeans and big T shirts and large loop earrings.

Now, I am so aware, so alarmed and SO TERRIBLE SADDENED, by young girls self- harming or starving themselves to look a certain part or to grab the attention of somebody or create a drama or some show because of popular culture and in internet. Too many, too soon.

I know every child, every teen operates differently.

Kids these days have too much. They roll in a world of excess. Often the fault of indulgent parents who believe they are providing the best. These excesses of wealth, time, social media, have become a paradox of what is really wrong in our society today.

The need to carve the perfect image for social media, the pleas for help, the medium in which young children can vulnerably subject themselves to these threats; that never existed during my years of being an adolescent. From a young age, they have it ingrained in them that they need to look a certain part- fair, light-haired, sharp features, thin. Everything being so instant and constant-Twitter, Instagram, Snapshot.

Pecs , muscles and working- out have become de rigueur lingo for these modern adolescents.

They have so much yet can take so little. With all the excesses, the fragility within seems to have gone on overdrive.

The irony.

Admittedly, on the cusp of turning 42, I’m still not too keen about my seemingly permanent dark eye circles but I know that my slight mummy tummy is a testimony and a souvenir from having given birth naturally to three healthy, delightful, mindful children who I am fiercely and fearlessly protecting from the excesses of self- loathing, self -harm and depression.

I’m blessed that my husband thinks my chicken legs are sexy and that he loves my face, freckles, crooked teeth and all. Even my small boobs, spots of grey hair and all.

So, mothers, love your bodies so your daughters and sons will love them too. We are so guilty of sometimes proclaiming that we feel bloated or fat or have a bad hair day, and surely we are entitled to that, we think, but think of your child, your mentee, your niece, your charge, all listening to those words of self- doubt which may turn into little seeds of self- loathing or a pattern for life-long self-criticism.

We all want happy, healthy, mindful children and we hope we are raising them right. So every day, my kids know that they are lovely, thoughtful, generous, gentle, strong, loving, appreciative, helpful, genuine and kind instead of beautiful, pretty, stunning, slim, or handsome( though my little prince is a self-professed praise junkie).

And oh yes, they have survived many stereotypical situations to do with self-image:

My eldest girl has been classed too black to be Chinese by sales-women in Hong Kong and in KL.

( I tell them I had several husbands, or sometimes I tell them we have Hawaiian blood),

My second daughter gets told she has very Asian eyes and could be Japanese( well did I tell you about the dalliance our fore -mother had with the Emperor?)

Our son gets told he’s very good looking all the time.

( I just tell him not to let it get into his head and no conceit is allowed!)

As for staying fit and healthy, though they are aware of their mum cutting down carbs at dinner time, our family has a fond, fundamental and familial love for cooking and food that they know that not eating is not an option and keeping healthy is. We love it that our three children have healthy, happy appetites and are game for all kinds of cuisine.

Oh, how did we survive body image issues in the 80s? I guess we did survive it all through the heck and lack of it all.

We were lucky not to have the internet. The threatening evil portal where you can be made to feel inadequate, small and ugly. The TV shows of the time did not make me want to do crazy things to myself. I wanted to shoot JR like everyone else, but not myself.

Debbie Gibson and Tiffany just made me want to be wholesome and good.

Unless you are always and constantly keeping your teens in check and that they are lucky enough to have healthy, encouraging peers, or have build a really warm and open relationship with them, it pays to check on the websites and chatrooms that they are on, on their laptops, on their smart phones and in their heads. It's also important to know their friends.

I say this an educator of many teens, and as a self-professed life coach to many students, who in fact gave me that title a few years ago, and as a mother to a teenager, a tween and a 6 year old.

It only takes a tiny nudge before any negative impact on self -body image can spiral completely out of control. Though we are lucky now to have access to psychologists and hospitals which can offer professional help to look after these issues, staying safe is better than sorry.

Love, love, love your children and pray that words like anorexia, bulimia, depression, self-harm and self-loathing are Greek words in your family’s diction.

Every family is different, I know.

Love thyself first and always, and always and forever, keep your children in your circle of faith, hope and love.

---R Dec 10 2013

Why early mornings are my sanctum sanctorum

Why early mornings are my sanctum sanctorum…

Lie- ins? That’s surely a huge lie in my book: come rain or shine, cold or warm, weekday or weekend, I am up and alert by the crack of dawn, mostly by 5.00 am or sometimes earlier. My husband of 15 years has noticed what a mental energizer bunny I am in the morning. As a night owl who normally goes to bed after 11, he has plenty of admiration for people like me who can ping, wake up in the morning mostly without an alarm, and be chirpy and annoying as heck and full of beans.

Sometimes the full of beans bit gets him irritated when he gets all bleary -eyed and struggling to even open his eyes. He looks at me incredulously, and asks, me if I am for real? This is when I wake him up for a bit of loving. Or chatting. Sometimes in the early mornings, I feel most sexy, not that the morning dew or chirping birds act as au naturel aphrodisiacs but by 8.30pm most nights, I am exhausted and weary and I’m already dressed in my clown striped or polka pajamas and would fall asleep reading to my younger children. Not to mention that I pretty much would have packed a full-on 14 hour day before navigating through a quagmire of adult expectations, and I would be completely bushed.

Sometimes, I sing “Morning Has Broken” or “It’s a beautiful day” at the top of my voice in his ear, for a laugh and for him to know his wife is for real. It keeps our marriage intact. Yes, my best energy is often expended fully in the morning.

But it has only been in recent years that we noticed this morning zest which seems to possess me from the hours of 5-9am. My first lessons are always packed potently with high energy activities; my poor poor students raging with teen hormones and very late nights and often inadequate sleep; I feel for them.

I falter a little bit by late morning and if I do carbs for lunch, the witching hour of 2pm sees me on the verge of falling asleep in the middle of my own sentence but there’s always a stash of little mints in my drawer to get that zing back. A power nap of about 5 minutes serves me well at about 4pm if I am home by then. By 7pm I turn into a grumpy witch.

Now, back to my 5.00am love for this part of the day. After my spleen, colon and liver and all that have been recharged, my first activity is a full-on detox session on my private throne where I’m usually on my iPhone catching up on the latest new feeds on Facebook which I would have, horror- stricken, missed from 9-5am- usually reading news links from the NYT, the Atlantic, Salon, France 24, the Guardian and the Elephant Journal. I am neither a yogi or a vegan but I do like my articles on news, life, arts and such. After that it’s at least 30 to 45 minutes of marking and some form of prep for school-without trying to get on my phone or ipad to check on the latest notifications and what not.

Before the advent of such rapid pinging technology, my mornings would best be spent doing some simple yoga twists and meditating and making notes on my writing.

Not checking up on the latest news feeds like every ten minutes. So sometimes, I turn my devices off to not get distracted.

Early mornings is my sanctum sanctorum. Holy of holiest. When I can truly be me.

When you have 3 children and about 100-odd students and a tiny business, all clamouring for your attention of a daily basis, peace and quiet in the morning when you think and perform best is highly valued. No one else is awake before me. The birds gently chirp outside. Your partner’s low humming snore is mildly comforting as you slip out of the fuzzy, soft bed covers and into the master bathroom and claim it all to yourself.

No 6 year old is going to come to declare that Mummy, your poo is smelly and to tell you that there is someone at the door. The dogs are still in semi-sleep and no one else is moving. With a mug of very warm water or sometimes a herbal tea in hand, I sit on my study desk and write, or ponder. Or just be. My mind is acute, sharp.

Some days, I get two hot used tea bags hastily dipped, and lie on my long sofa in my TV room and ponder, be still and think. Or two slices of cold cucumber to sooth my tired early morning eyes.

On holidays, I have caught stunning sunrises and experienced tuna auctions that only happen at dawn. Some days, upon reading some fantastic student essays, I get so carried away with my feedback and comments and award more merits and stars than I would normally do.

Some mornings, well most, I stay still and pray in the darkness before I even get out of bed. I know THEY are listening as I can feel the ‘fissures’ of responses in my being. I pray for all good things for the world, for my family and friends and invite all positive thoughts into my head.

Some days, I write a lot in my organizer or on notes on my phone. The other morning, I wrote out 15 Christmas cards for overseas mailing. I still love good old fashioned snail mail.

Or I arrange cushions and redecorate a little bit. And when Bruno, our terrier wakes up, he comes for a cuddles and nibbles my toes.

Oh, the wonders and possibilities of early mornings. My poetry time. My running time. Sometimes, dog walking time if I’m not marking.

Because by the time the rest of the world wakes up, I’m screwed and scrambling for time that seems to run-away at a second a minute from the loose clutches of my palms.

Only from 5-7, those sacred hours can I preserve my sanctity in my sanctum sanctorum of early morning solitude. I better treasure this for as long as I can as I have noticed of late, that my little boy, has taken after me in being a morning person too. Oh shudder!

Malaysia at 50: Nostalgia of the good ole days

Malaysia at 50: My journey as a Malaysian

Growing up, I used to watch Bintang RTM with my mum on RTM1, a sort of Malaysian Idol of the time if you will. Rafeah Buang & Jamal Abdullah then Sudirman were some of the pop artistes we grew up with.

Before Hari Raya or Merdeka, we would sing along to songs like Balik Kampung and Tanggal 31 Ogos. And the Merdeka parades shown live on tv. No one goofed off the leaders and parliamentarians like we do today. They portrayed more statesmanship and were somewhat respected. Mum and I would watch out for what the wives of the leaders would wear during the national parade and sometimes diss their lack of fashion sense and have a good laugh or two.

We would watch the parade and swell with pride when the national anthem came on. Till today "Tanah Tumpahnya Darahku" still resonates strongly with my bones. My soul.

We never fail to tear up when the flag is hoisted. Like when we watch a Yasmin Ahmad commercial together. (Still waiting for our anthem to be played at badminton finals championships or the Olympics. Someday!) For Hari Raya, my Nyonya grandmother would make kuih kaput for her Malay daughter in law, our dear Mak Su. Chinese New Year was always a riot of colours, laughter and fun harmless gambling.

I have never lived abroad apart from months of summer school or MA research work though I travel extensively and never am I prouder to declare to a foreigner that I AM MALAYSIAN.

A true product of Malaysian system, I saw through the STPM and saw four years at University of Malaya studying English. For that alone, I'm an Anak Malaysia inside out!

As a child of educators, we spoke English first at home, Hokkien as our mother tongue but could converse fluently and strongly in Bahasa Malaysia. I read Sejarah Melayu from cover to cover before it got politically adulterated.

My friends and extended come from all walks of life and from the multicultural microcosm that is truly Malaysian. Breakfast could consist of toast and kaya, nasi lemak, or tosai with dahl. In the 70s, cereal, milk, spaghetti and all kinds of pasta were considered very Western and exotic foods. Family potlucks would consist of laksa, kapitan curry, satay, KFC, egg sandwiches and carved watermelons!

Deepavali would see us eating itali and vadai made by our Indian helper and was more than just a helper to us. She was family and still is. At my grandmother's Buddhist funeral, she lit joss sticks as a sign of respect for the elderly dead.

Aunty Mimi, Muslim and childless was a favourite neighbour. She made the best ice cream in the world. Her Sri Lankan Malaysian husband didn't eat ice cream so she would always make it for us. Delicious coconut, vanilla, strawberry and all kinds of lovely toppings. She introduced me to butterscotch and caramel even before I could spell!

In Penang, tea-time hawker fare was de rigueur! It was normal to cycle out to pack mee jawa, char koay teow, ice kacang, fresh popiah. The portions were moderate so we never got fat. Mee Jawa was 50 sen a plate on the early 1980s! Delicious and wholesome.

Sabah to me was always a part of Malaysia as my favourite Uncle Larry was posted there by Malaysia Airlines where he worked for 30 years and married a KK girl. They moved to the peninsular in the 1990s but I have fond memories of occasional postcards and letters from him & always looked forward to his visits coupled with ice-kacang afternoons.

I have lived in KL now for twenty one years and all my children were born in our nation's capital. Our life in KL is comfortable; we find pockets of green escapes like the stream up Bukit Kiara, or that jungle spa in Bukit Penchala, or seafood on Carey Island! You can find anything you need in KL and if you know when to avoid traffic jams, potholes or water distruptions, it's one of the most liveable cities we know! Seriously.

Crime those days was perhaps a drug addict breaking into your compound to steal a bicycle or a pair of trainers.

We rarely have shootings or such random heinous crimes reported today! We were not polarised like we are today. There was no reason for it.

The last 9 years have seen a stark change in the political landscape and emerging disdain and disgust of the Malaysian people. Perhaps it's a necessary purge and detoxification that we have to undergo as we turn 50. After all, being middle-aged, you do amass a lot of toxins as you journey through the seven ages of your life.

Hopefully, this 50 year old will hold out with a little bit more dignity than what she has been bestowed upon.

Underneath it all, it's the people. The ordinary people of everyday life that makes Malaysia unique and home. I still hold on to that belief.

What's your favourite 'Malaysia at 50' memory?

Behind the Walled Villas: Bali Revisited

Bali Revisited : Behind the Walled Villas

I first came to Bali 17 years ago an impressionable young early twenty something with a very nice young man who was very keen to impress me. Needless to say, I saved him all the trouble of having to impress me further by marrying him a couple of years later.

Countless of holidays together and 3 children and a rock solid marriage of 15 years later, I have learned to why not, measure the worth of my marriage by using the metaphor of our travels and how we are with each other on each trip together.

Of course my better half now claims that 3.5 months into dating, I had conned him into coming to Bali 17 years ago with my sweet charm and demure ways(???)- we then stayed in a simple 3 star whose name eludes us now; it had a pool and a decent and clean air conditioned room and that was all it mattered. We had each other. And that bottle of Dom Perignon which he bought on the Singapore Airlines inflight store. Which only he drank. As his then girlfriend is still as lousy with alcohol as she was then.

Kuta was dusty then and quite primitive despite already having a Hard Rock Cafe and we had a lovely time. Taking photos, shopping & held hands a lot but mostly, we really enjoyed each other's company and laughed a lot. I think travelling with your boyfriend defines what kind of husband he would become. What a gentleman he is. How he takes care of the big things. Even though I have come to realise in the end that he is really a thrifty, coupon- loving man who doesn't really spend on frills, Or tip very much, I have learned that he's a truly good man, who looks after me well and will protect me at all costs. He's always polite and kind to the locals, the guides or the drivers .

On the other hand, I like my creature comforts which in my older age now may include a private villa with pool (and butler), if you like, and a generous tip for the boys or girls who often have to help lug my often heavy luggage. I don't mind eating in hotels or I occasionally order room service while he would cycle out( if the hotel doesn't offer him a bicycle) he would borrow one, and he would find the yummiest, cheapest eats that he can find and doggy bag it home to us. So though we sometimes like some fine dining, I am accustomed to the local flavours he brings back to us!

So Bali, I have come to realise or the metaphor of Bali is the essence of our marriage. We are the same people who were newly in love 17+ years ago as we are today.

We can now afford the private pool villa but we still love eating at warungs and ordering in from the local guy outside the nice resort.

I am much more discerning in my tastes in shopping- on our first trip together, god forbid, we looked at luna and solar themes candlesticks and bedspreads- what were we thinking??? We realised we both loved a good bargain and the thrill of the hunt, me more than him. But now we look at organic bamboo cotton or high-thread counts for linen and in buying less is more. These days he bonds with our son at the villa while our two girls and I have a gala time shopping together, stopping for foot spas along the way.

So, we have just spent a whole week in Bali- some say it's an overrated tourist trap but I would chose to see it as a metaphor of our marriage. It's our 5th trip here together to the island of the gods. We have eaten, prayed and loved.

I discovered an amazing female Indonesian author. He's still on a quest for the best bakso!!!

We have grown up together and our marriage has grown too. Our children are flourishing but very very close to each other and to us both.

We came here with my parents once & they bonded with the locals and both our girls.

On another trip, when I was 4 months pregnant with son, our eldest had her first 6 stitches as a 6 year old in Nusa Dua when her chin split open and she bled profusely all over her white pyjamas when she fell on the floor jumping from our bed to her trundle bed. We were in the Westin and luckily they had an in-house doctor. As she was being stitched up, all I could think of was: would her scar be noticeable when she had her first kiss? We survived that scare and enjoyed ourselves after that.

On our last trip here in 2010, we caught up with special friends and enjoyed our first villa stay in Ubud. The kids had a ball at the Bali Safari then.

On this trip- 8 days long- our longest, we met many Mades & (made friends with them) in taxis who took us to cool restaurants in Seminyak and one of the Mades became our more regular driver who showed us wider Bali.

Now, we know which Naughty Nuri's has the best ribs! We know the best barbecued corn vendor in Uluwatu. I can safely say I prefer Bebek Bengil to Bebek Tepi Sawah. And we know that the Balinese have a very gentle and relaxed soul. The club and restaurant scene in Seminyak has the vibes of Rio, Melbourne & Montmarte combined but with its own unique Balinese pizzazz. We discovered a great Mexican by chance and romanced at Kudeta. We checked out Potato Head and Sarong; loved the ambiance in Sarong, thought the crowd in Potatohead was slightly weird but always, always had a good time.

We have bonded with the kids- meaningful chats, games in the pool, reading, rewatching old episodes of Modern Family and new Nat Geo Wild, writing, more chats & laughter, had our first brief holiday with father in law and in very his young family & survived it, and have got to know each other a whole lot better. The kids haven't been on their iPod/ iPhone for days and the teen daughter hasn't even bothered with headphones and just read a lot!

This what travel does to you:

It dulls your senses but it also heightens to you as to what is well and truly important! The little big things as you break from your daily routine of work and school pressures.

Travel has defined our marriage in so many ways.

On that very first trip to Bali together newly met and newly together, we discovered each other, treaded carefully and were furtive in our mutual exploration. And saw how we could be as a cohesive unit, as intrepid travellers finding our way in this wonderfully blessed but also messed up universe.

And we have stayed intact that way all these years later, more travel smart & even more street-wise now; maybe even stronger through our numerous sojourns, escapades and experiences in this journey of life.

Through super sunsets, sunrises, starry nights, dances, dinners, vistas, views and wonderful company, Bali will beckon again.

August 2013