Morsels

I've developed a novel kind of anorexia. Instead of an aversion to the ingestion of food, I am loath to all the steps that lead up to the act of ingestion, and all the aftermath.

There was this sci-fi romance (by 亦舒 Isabel Nee) I read around age 14 which left an indelible mark on me. In the story, a woman from the future gets transported to the 1980's by accident. Amongst refreshing nuances including subtle yet empowering feminism, one anecdote struck me hard and has stuck with me all these years: when our heroine complains about how time-consuming eating is (in the dark ages that are the 1980's), and therefore it is inefficient, and uncivilized. Progress will mean that everybody takes nutrient-packed pills daily instead of traditionally prepared meals. Well-calibrated, no hit-or-miss. The time you save (which is enormous over a lifetime) can be spent on being productive instead. It's a giant step for humankind.

At the time, I thought, "Not TASTING food? Not savoring it? Nonsense!" This astronaut diet held no appeal. If that was where the future had in store, I didn't want to get there.

Fast forward to passing my prime (well over "middle age"). These days, eating does seem a chore. An onerous one at that. Everyday, when hunger returns, I lament, "Again?" I put off doing anything about it until absolutely famished. And at that point I don't care much about what I am putting in my body. I just want it quick and over with.

For some years I dabbled in cooking. There was joy in the process of discovery and creation. I've lost that altogether. It all seems pointless now.

My relationship with food has never been great (no surprise, as most women, cross cultures, grapple with implications of food in regard to their body image). Food became the enemy at some point, something you constantly had to watch with great caution. I am happy to report that I stopped hating my body relatively early on, and stopped obsessing over thinness overall. Food was something to look forward to: make it to lunch, and the rest of the day can't be long. I always make a point to be in the moment when I am eating. To enjoy.

Not to say that I no longer enjoy food, but even reheating food can feel like such a burden these days.

What happened? Is it still a simple case of not loving myself enough? Just a different manifestation? Is it my resurging depression, fast and furious? Same monster, different bite?

Maybe I merely miss being taken care of, being served. I have been known to semi-joke that no food tastes as good as when someone else makes it for you.

Maybe a life that has no purpose does not seem to deserve to be nourished and extended.

I used to think that enlightenment was a destination. If one reads a lot, pays keen attention, there is only one truth, and you arrive at it one day, and you're done. Imagine my disappointment finding out you never stop learning, never stop struggling, and worst yet, truth might be just interpretation. Oh, the horror!

And we are supposed to find solace in the knowledge that everyone experiences pain, and this shared pain makes us human and connected.

I may be finding myself more disconnected than ever. Maybe I have stopped trying. 

The more I read, the more I wind up with questions than answers.

How do you end a piece like this? You don't.

Lamb

On my last visit, I had a very surreal, powerfully emotional moment with my Mom.

At age 87, my Mom's strength and stamina was waning fast. Some of the rituals parents and child used to share and cherish could no longer be had.

Every night, after dinner, watching stupid shows on TV was how we used to bond. Because it was easier to share opinions on things that didn't matter than to share deep thoughts about real life.

I observed that, even when my Mom could manage the couch for a bit of time before she had to retire, quite early in the evening, I felt very reluctant to actually sit next to her. It just didn't feel natural.

My relationship with her had always been fraught. Every time she opened her mouth to speak to me, I cringed and braced myself, "What critical, hurtful words will I hear now?"

We just never had that kind of loving closeness that I read about that other mothers and daughters have.

Even when I realized that every visit could be our last reunion, I could not bring myself to sit with her. I'd pull a chair up and situate it close to the couch where she was sitting. But the thought of actually sitting beside her on the couch itself brought on great anxiety.

Of course, this led to gnawing guilt. 

Until the last day, when it was time for me to fly back, to being, again, 7,000 miles away from my aging parents.

I sat down next to my Mom on the couch then. There was a look of innocence about her, childlike, a bit lost. I was touched. Allowing love to take over, I put my arms around her, and I kissed her on the cheek, multiple times, while bidding her farewell in a consoling manner. I talked to her as if I was the parent and she was the child, as if I was leaving for work, and I wanted her to know that she was loved, that she was not being abandoned, that it was just something I had to do.

She raised her bony hand and caressed me on the arm in our gentle embrace. She never said a word, just a wan smile. I squeezed her a bit tighter. It was real.

That was positively the single most tender, intimate moment we had ever shared. When we (my brother and I) were little, our parents and we hugged and kissed plenty. Somehow, with distance and time, we'd grown out of it. We'd forgotten how. It'd become awkward.

Sometimes I think about all the love that had been lost. But I'd like to remember that, the love was always there, just under the surface, even when we couldn't or didn't know how to express it.

And that was enough.

Phoenician

On Saturday we encountered a beautiful human being dining at the bar.

As soon as we arrived, he indicated there was an empty stool next to him if I wanted it for my purse.

Shortly after we'd been seated, he complimented me on my dress in a natural, sincere way. As I have said before, the kind of conversation kids start in kindergarten with no agenda and no reservation.

We got to chatting. Turned out he was working at the Pride event at the park nearby in the heart of the city. We briefly discussed food and drinks. He was very relaxed and open, not the cloying kind of positivity that's piled on.

He had rhinestone stickies on his face and piercing in his ear that resembled candy cane. Such slow-burning energy, the kind that the young exude which the old find enchanting to feed on. I understand now.

The event needed lights. A quick problem solver, he'd decided to Instacart it and have them delivered to the restaurant. And why not grab a meal (and a cocktail) while waiting?

He loved burrata, he said. He would never let it go to waste.

I thought, if I had a son, I would love if he was like this young man. I would ask for nothing more, not a thing to change. I'd be so proud of him.

On his way out, he stopped to extend felicitations to a birthday girl situated next to RJ. Lively conversation ensued. Such kindness and warmth.

I wanted to be friends. How I would love to stay in touch. But... what do you say these days? How to ask? It would all be awkward. 

There is no protocol on platonic overtures. I haven't been trained.

And so it was all I could do to watch him walk away and out of my life. Forever.

I did not even know his name.

As he strolled to exit, carrying his takeout box of unfinished supper like a good boy, the setting sun was on him, rendering him backlit, like a legend. He was to work till midnight, maybe past it. His evening was only beginning. And ours was ending soon.

A metaphor of life as well.

Slim

My Aunt Teresa came from the orphanage to my mother's house as a servant. I hadn't been born yet.

Abandoned by her own mother during WWII and verbally and physically abused by the nuns running the orphanage, Aunt Teresa grew up with very low self-esteem.

Eventually she married my (mentally ill) uncle, my mother's oldest brother. But her role as a servant never quite changed. As the size of the household grew, she worked for easily 18 hours a day. Back-breaking work. Even as a child, I observed that she had very little respect from the people who were supposed to be her family, the only family she ever had.

I made a point to praise her. It evolved into a lifelong motto of giving credit where credit is due.

There was very little commending from the rest of the family, the least of all my mother (I should know).

Fast forward a few decades. Aunt Teresa is in a home after she broke her femur and is no longer bipedally mobile. My parents are in their 80's and aging rapidly. I am 6,000 miles away, as I have been since I was 16.

Even before Aunt Teresa was confined to a home, reaching her was challenging as she never learned to use a smart phone. After her mother-in-law and husband passed away, she had been living alone for a long while, in a flat with 4 bedrooms and two baths (very generous in that part of the world). A space of ghosts and quietude. Of course, she had her friends from church, and she did her volunteer work 7 days a week, more dedicated than you would a regular job. But when I would visit, I could see the blankness behind those eyes sometimes. Nothing can take the place of family, even if they have mistreated you in the past.

During COVID lockdown, for extended periods of time the home did not allow visitors at all. I shudder to imagine the isolation one must feel. After reopening, my parents gradually ceased to be as mobile as they used to be. Eventually they are not able to visit Aunt Teresa even if they want to. I tend to feel that, for all that Aunt Teresa has suffered and sacrificed for, both as a Roman Catholic and a human being, her God certainly has not rewarded her with much. I know that the one thing she's craved is love. She hasn't had her fair share. She will spend her final years alone, without family, just as she did as a child.

Yesterday, my cousin Jojo, the only person who is still able to visit Aunt Teresa semi-regularly, shared with us in a group chat a couple of photos of Aunt Teresa showing off a multimedia piece of art she had created: a tin decorated with many colorful, shiny trinkets. It was really quite attractive. Jojo said Aunt Teresa seemed proud of her work. As she should be, I thought. I felt proud of her. Wish I could tell her in person.

My mother and an aunt in the group started to chime in, actually praising Aunt Teresa. 

"So talented!" My mother exclaimed. "I had no clue!"

I was incredulous. NOW you have nice things to say? Aunt Teresa would never see these praises as she does not own a smart phone. And her memory is fading. If you fill her in a week after the fact, it likely does not mean much.

Where was this approval when she needed it in decades past?

But these days sometimes I stop the judgment and wonder: what caused a person's behavioral pattern? Those stingy with praises probably did not receive praises themselves growing up.

So. Much. Hurt. We deal each other.

Can't Twitter or Facebook 11

Not that I would tweet anymore... But this was the series of not being able to share on social media.

#TFW you find out some of those in your circle whom you once considered close friends, intelligent, cool individuals, turn out to be right-winged nuts.

Maybe they always were right-winged nuts, just never spoke up. Maybe I missed all the signs? No, pretty sure there were no signs.

And they could say the same about those of us who identify as liberal.

The divisiveness... How I wish we could bridge. It is heartbreaking. And dangerous.

When those who are unfit to rule are in power, when the populace is blind to their inadequacies and ambition - what a paradox BTW! What's to become of the world?

I don't feel safe. Far from it.

Sacre

I needed to write this. I had stopped writing, thinking, "What's the point?" It just seemed silly to be gushing anymore. Besides, having read the likes of John Irving, and listened to the likes of Joy Reid, I think, Who am I kidding? I am not a writer! I am barely an intellect.

I have suppressed the need to write in the past year or so (?)

And then, something life-changing happened, yet again.

Last summer, I revisited the town where I grew up, and the family I hadn't seen in 4 years, thanks to the pandemic known as COVID. I made a plan to visit more often. So I did, again in February this year.

Aunt Teresa is now in a home. My vibrant, beloved Aunt Teresa, who was my primary caretaker, one of the very few people on earth whose name I have not altered on this blog.

One just never knows when is the last time. The last time I walked with her the park known to the locals as "Pigeon Nest"; the last time I treated her to tea, complete with symphony cake; the last time she walked.

She's in a home because she no longer walks.

When I visited her this past winter, at one point I crouched to adjust her pants and to pull up her socks, because slivers of her calves were being exposed to the cold. I get it. It is not easy for the orderlies to fix up everything after they have gotten you to the toilet, cleaned you up, and hoisted you back in your wheelchair. Clothes get bunched up, inevitably. 

As I bowed down before my aunt in this manner, busying myself at her feet, I felt a tender hand on my head, patting, almost gingerly. I looked up and it was Aunt Teresa, petting me, lovingly but uncertainly, like a child with a stray dog, almost with pity.

My heart completely melted at the moment. I didn't think I'd had a truer connecting moment with a human being since childhood. And even then...

Fast forward to this fall, my third visit since resuming after the global pandemic.

My mother's health is fast deteriorating. She has many ailments, and she's grown quite frail in her old age. She's been solely dependent on my Dad to get by each day even ten years before. Her condition has only gotten worse. She's lost a lot of weight, never has appetite, and everything pains her. She now practically does not leave the house except to go to doctors' appointments.

I tell my boss (to justify my frequent leaves of absence) that 1 year to older folks are like 5 to regular adults. It is true.

My Mom is still very much plagued by OCD and idiosyncrasies, and the assumption that all should bend to her will. But she's also become less controlling somewhat because she's no longer physically able. Sometimes when she smiles and laughs, I now see the child in her, which I never saw before.

How can you get mad at a child?

Both my parents have gotten much more emotional in their 80's, more remarkably in my Mom's case, because she's been so emotionally constipated up till this point. The guardedness has worn off to some extent, and she verbalizes how she feels more readily. Some might say it's typical to revert to childlike qualities at this stage, closing the circle of life. But still phenomenal in my book.

On one occasion, as my mother and I are seated in my parents' bed, half-heartedly watching TV before bedtime, I forget what the trigger was, but she reached out with her very bony hand and brushed my cheek, smiling brightly and innocently. Like she cherished me and was really happy I was there. I was moved, and naturally reached out to her cheek as well. It was such a tender moment. Honestly I can't say I'd ever had one with her earlier in life.

On one hand, I am so grateful, I am incredulous. On the other, Why has it taken 50+ years for us to have a loving relationship? Only when she is near death's steps.

But... to have had love at all... is truly a gift.

I've read recently that love is not lost. It is never lost. It helps to remember that, since time is not linear, every moment is ALWAYS there. As you are living, you are also already dead, and you are also unborn. Savor every moment as if it's eternity, because it is.

Quote 304

Help me create ever-enduring love
from my persistent dissonance with the world.

- Czeslaw Milosz