I was walking up a street tonight, and I saw this bunch of eastern European dudes coming down. Suddenly one of them unleashed a flying kick to the guy in the front. It was barely a nudge, hardly made a sound, almost like a friendly toss. But the guy tumbled over. I sidestepped him. The other guys went around him, threatening and cornering him, all with their broken English. I guess he did something real bad. A few paces later I looked back, and they were walking together again. Fake friends? Fake bullies? Fake power-tripping? Fake victim? Who knows.
I've been a fake many things. Most of the time I don't do a very good job at it. A fake friend. A fake drummer. A fake runner. A fake nice guy. A fake Christian. Most of the time I got caught, one way or another. I try to be true to myself, try to be authentic. Unfortunately, the authentic me is full of holes. I try to fix them, and in the meantime it's borderline fake. Unfortunately, I do a really bad job in faking that they look more like failures than anything else.
A lot has happened in the past few weeks, and it just gets crazier. I'm gonna start a new job soon, and it'll be a huge jump for me. A whole bunch of things are changing outside work too. I have just been given a green light to basically do crazy stuffs that, to my shame, caught me off guard. Because I was lazy I now find myself in a spot of opportunity and unprepared. Many horizons open up in front of me, some new some old, but all of them open wide. Problem is, most of them also come with storm clouds. But the only way to go is forward.
I am dirty, I am not worthy, I am unprepared. Things can go really bad from this point on, but what choice do I have. I can't go back and fix my mistakes. I can only bite my lip, take a deep breath, and push on forward. I have to take these chances, have to grab these opportunities. I have to try.
How I wish I can redo many things. How I wish I didn't make those mistakes. But as much as I mope and mull over it, there's nothing I can do about those now. They're gone and I can't fix them. Some I can pay for in the future, and I will gladly pay for them tenfold. But I know full well there will be some mistakes that I can't pay for, no matter what I do. I will just have to live with those. But oh what I would give for another chance...
This song caught me last night, and I can't stop listening to it. It speaks to me, about me, and for me. This is the sort of song that I listen to with headphones on, fist on heart, as if I can bring the music closer to me and I can make the words ring more true. It goes like this:
A crowded street can be a quiet place when you're walking alone
And now you think that you're the only
one who doesn't have to try
and you won't have to fail
If you're afraid to fly
Then I guess you never will
You hide behind your walls of "maybe never"s
Forgetting that there's something more than just knowing better
Your mistakes do not define you now
They tell you who you're not
You've got to live this life you're given
Like it's the only one you've got
Memories have left you broken and the scars have never healed
The emptiness in you is growing, but so little left to fill
You're scared to look back on the days before
You're too tired to move on
What would it take
To get you to say that "I'll try"
And what would you say if
This was the last day of your life
You hide behind your walls of "maybe never"s
Forgetting that there's so much more than just knowing better
Your mistakes do not define you now
They tell you who you're not
You've got to live this life you're given
Like it's the only one you've got
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
Life In Death
Over here in House Of Praise, we have a tradition of not having a tradition. Given our situation, most "Christian holidays" when most churches have special events, we have none. We got no building, uni is closed on (most) public holidays, and even if we wanna do stuff like camps etc these days we just don't have very many people around. So instead, what we do this good Good Friday was we went out, hit a few hundred balls on the local driving range, support the local Chinese business by playing pool, took the van out of my garage, put a long table in there, light up a gas cooker, use the van's seats as portable couches, nicked the church's projector, and have cheapass-cook-up while laughing to Stephen Chow movies playing on the wall.
Normal church types would easily spit this out as blasphemy, not going to church on Good Friday. I disagree to start with, but I can see where they're coming from. And originally this whole thing was just a result of lazy planning on a lazy holiday anyway. I was going to just as easily say happy long weekend, with no mention of Good Friday. I didn't really think much of it. But something occurred to me while I was waiting for the meat in the hotpot to cook. I took my eyes off the screen (or wall, rather) and I saw these bunch of people sitting around in a makeshift living room eating unhygienic food, with car seats as sofa, plastic chairs, and drum thrones, and a baby sleeping in her daddy's arms in a dirty garage.
If Jesus was a Chinese-kiwi and if he hadn't died until today, wouldn't the last supper look something like this? If he was a full-on kiwi it would've been a BBQ instead of hotpot, and Temuera Morisson rather than Stephen Chow, but I'm guessing the setting would otherwise look kinda similar.
While people celebrate his death, I can't help thinking about it like this: If you're a soldier in the middle of battle, and your fellow soldier died fighting, what would you do? Yes you'd be sad, but would you keep on fighting or would you stop and cry for him? Humanly speaking you would do the latter, but I'd think your dead friend would much rather you keep on fighting. Jesus died for something, so I think the worst that I can do is stop the fight to cry for him. Yes that sounds nice, but really? I'm not sure if it would make him happy, if his death so distracts me from pursuing what he lived for. I'd like to think that our little garage-supper was a celebration of his life on a day when in our hearts we remember his death. In his death, let's celebrate his life. I'd like to think he'd be happier with that.
Of course, some who know me might cry out "Hypocrite!" That's true, I'm not always the nicest guy to be around with, definitely not the first name that comes to mind when people talk about sharing life and playing nice with everybody. I got lots of holes in my life, so much that I can't fairly say I'm celebrating his life. I will always fall far far far far short. There are things I wanted to do today that I can't do yet. But we can only do what we can. I hope one day I'll be able to do more justice to the name of Christ I represent.
Today as the world remembers his death, I remember he died to give people lives. So I guess the best way to celebrate that is to eat and laugh and celebrate these lives, mine and my mates' and everybody's, the very lives he died for.
Normal church types would easily spit this out as blasphemy, not going to church on Good Friday. I disagree to start with, but I can see where they're coming from. And originally this whole thing was just a result of lazy planning on a lazy holiday anyway. I was going to just as easily say happy long weekend, with no mention of Good Friday. I didn't really think much of it. But something occurred to me while I was waiting for the meat in the hotpot to cook. I took my eyes off the screen (or wall, rather) and I saw these bunch of people sitting around in a makeshift living room eating unhygienic food, with car seats as sofa, plastic chairs, and drum thrones, and a baby sleeping in her daddy's arms in a dirty garage.
If Jesus was a Chinese-kiwi and if he hadn't died until today, wouldn't the last supper look something like this? If he was a full-on kiwi it would've been a BBQ instead of hotpot, and Temuera Morisson rather than Stephen Chow, but I'm guessing the setting would otherwise look kinda similar.
While people celebrate his death, I can't help thinking about it like this: If you're a soldier in the middle of battle, and your fellow soldier died fighting, what would you do? Yes you'd be sad, but would you keep on fighting or would you stop and cry for him? Humanly speaking you would do the latter, but I'd think your dead friend would much rather you keep on fighting. Jesus died for something, so I think the worst that I can do is stop the fight to cry for him. Yes that sounds nice, but really? I'm not sure if it would make him happy, if his death so distracts me from pursuing what he lived for. I'd like to think that our little garage-supper was a celebration of his life on a day when in our hearts we remember his death. In his death, let's celebrate his life. I'd like to think he'd be happier with that.
Of course, some who know me might cry out "Hypocrite!" That's true, I'm not always the nicest guy to be around with, definitely not the first name that comes to mind when people talk about sharing life and playing nice with everybody. I got lots of holes in my life, so much that I can't fairly say I'm celebrating his life. I will always fall far far far far short. There are things I wanted to do today that I can't do yet. But we can only do what we can. I hope one day I'll be able to do more justice to the name of Christ I represent.
Today as the world remembers his death, I remember he died to give people lives. So I guess the best way to celebrate that is to eat and laugh and celebrate these lives, mine and my mates' and everybody's, the very lives he died for.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Wonderwall
It's been about a year and a half since I properly swam. It's been about four months since last time I had even half-proper exercise. Four times the length of an olympic-sized pool was all I could get out of my body tonight before my left calf basically dropped dead and refused to work anymore. But here's the interesting thing....
Almost everytime, at the final quarter I would hit a mental wall. My legs began to hurt bad, my heart pumping out like a Foos concert, and my shoulders got very heavy. Problem is, the shoulders were what allowed me to lift my face up and breathe. Underwater there is no escape. The first two laps, when I hit that wall I panicked. I took a break like I was gonna die. A few minutes into my break I thought it was weird, because I realized I wasn't about to die afterall. On the third attempt, as expected I hit the wall again. I decided to press forward. The pain didn't subside, in fact it mounted.
But after a while, my body adapted. The pain didn't get any less, but it got more bearable. The wall was still there, but I was pushing it further and further back. When I hit it for the fourth time I realized something. The purpose of the mental wall is not to be destroyed. It is meant to be overcome, it is meant to be pushed back, it is meant to mark your progress, it is meant to be experienced.
It is meant to stretch you.
The sports world call it a wall, and the resulting mental image is about something that you jump over or break through. In the water, I found that it's not true. This wall is something to be experienced. I forgot the taste of hardwork in my mouth, being absent from combat sports for so long. Pushing forward when you think you can go no further, that's the essence of any sports, but combat sports most of all. When your whole body burns with pain and lactic acid, when your entire being screams "Get out!!", that's when your character and mettle are most tested and built up.
In the first two laps I found that I panicked and lost control. I went into the third lap mentally prepared for that, calmed myself down and kept focus. The difference was that I expected it to happen, I knowingly jumped into it. The first thing I needed to do was calm down. The second thing I did was look ahead, not down. I needed to look at where I was going, thrive and not barely survive. I recall that it was around that time that my body began to adapt. I still puffed like I was about to die at the end of it, but at least I actually felt like I was pushing myself and making progress instead of chickening out.
Now, that needs clarification. What is "progress"? It is not that I didn't feel the pain. Feeling the pain wasn't failure, contrary to what I thought previously. Progress is meeting that wall and pushing it further and further back. Progress is not running one mile, it is running a mile plus a little bit on your next try. Progress is not speed, it's acceleration. It should be a measure of how you are compared to how you were, not a boolean value of whether you're already "there" or not, wherever or whatever "there" is.
We hear it all the time, that Life is not meant to be survived. What that cliche needed was a word swap. Swap the word Life with whatever you're facing. It could be another hour at work, or the last three meters in the water. This changed an image in my head about finishing your race. The metaphor of the race is still true, but apply it to everyday life and I think a question needs to be asked: where is the finish line? I think the finish line is variable. It can be a tangible result, or, less commonly noted, it might be intangible. We normally think a day ends when you sleep. What if all the crap you go through today bears fruit in you being more patient tomorrow? Suddenly, you finish yesterday's race tomorrow. Not exactly the traditional way of looking at it.
We are not the greatest version of us today, nor should we. We should be better tomorrow.
If I go crazy will you still call me superman?
My kryptonite
Almost everytime, at the final quarter I would hit a mental wall. My legs began to hurt bad, my heart pumping out like a Foos concert, and my shoulders got very heavy. Problem is, the shoulders were what allowed me to lift my face up and breathe. Underwater there is no escape. The first two laps, when I hit that wall I panicked. I took a break like I was gonna die. A few minutes into my break I thought it was weird, because I realized I wasn't about to die afterall. On the third attempt, as expected I hit the wall again. I decided to press forward. The pain didn't subside, in fact it mounted.
But after a while, my body adapted. The pain didn't get any less, but it got more bearable. The wall was still there, but I was pushing it further and further back. When I hit it for the fourth time I realized something. The purpose of the mental wall is not to be destroyed. It is meant to be overcome, it is meant to be pushed back, it is meant to mark your progress, it is meant to be experienced.
It is meant to stretch you.
The sports world call it a wall, and the resulting mental image is about something that you jump over or break through. In the water, I found that it's not true. This wall is something to be experienced. I forgot the taste of hardwork in my mouth, being absent from combat sports for so long. Pushing forward when you think you can go no further, that's the essence of any sports, but combat sports most of all. When your whole body burns with pain and lactic acid, when your entire being screams "Get out!!", that's when your character and mettle are most tested and built up.
In the first two laps I found that I panicked and lost control. I went into the third lap mentally prepared for that, calmed myself down and kept focus. The difference was that I expected it to happen, I knowingly jumped into it. The first thing I needed to do was calm down. The second thing I did was look ahead, not down. I needed to look at where I was going, thrive and not barely survive. I recall that it was around that time that my body began to adapt. I still puffed like I was about to die at the end of it, but at least I actually felt like I was pushing myself and making progress instead of chickening out.
Now, that needs clarification. What is "progress"? It is not that I didn't feel the pain. Feeling the pain wasn't failure, contrary to what I thought previously. Progress is meeting that wall and pushing it further and further back. Progress is not running one mile, it is running a mile plus a little bit on your next try. Progress is not speed, it's acceleration. It should be a measure of how you are compared to how you were, not a boolean value of whether you're already "there" or not, wherever or whatever "there" is.
We hear it all the time, that Life is not meant to be survived. What that cliche needed was a word swap. Swap the word Life with whatever you're facing. It could be another hour at work, or the last three meters in the water. This changed an image in my head about finishing your race. The metaphor of the race is still true, but apply it to everyday life and I think a question needs to be asked: where is the finish line? I think the finish line is variable. It can be a tangible result, or, less commonly noted, it might be intangible. We normally think a day ends when you sleep. What if all the crap you go through today bears fruit in you being more patient tomorrow? Suddenly, you finish yesterday's race tomorrow. Not exactly the traditional way of looking at it.
We are not the greatest version of us today, nor should we. We should be better tomorrow.
If I go crazy will you still call me superman?
My kryptonite
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