Your map of uncharted shore of potential

"Hence: every moment of every day of this year, and every year that follows, what I want you to map is the uncharted shore of potential: the capacity of life to dream, wonder, imagine, create, build, transform, better, and love; the infusion of the art of living into the heart of every instant of existence."

- Umair Haque on How to Have a Year that Matters.

I am afraid I am not good enough. There, I said it. Out loud. I didn't see it when I wrote about my niggling fear of life and its potential to grow big and monumental. Or rather, I didn't want to see it.

But as I was sitting in the hall, six thousand kilometres away from my home last month,  next to my good friend, who flew all the way from the five degree Celsius country, witnessing our friend cementing her commitment to love in a ceremony neither of us could understand - I thought to myself;

This is your life - and what are you doing about it? 

You see, none of this would have happened had we followed what Umair Haque termed as a smoking trainwreck of a so-called life. By this - I mean US. Our lives.

Had we devote ourselves to the mere conquests of wedding bands, MBAs and superkids - and not strive to extend beyond ourselves to explore the fullness of human possibility - that girl from the countryside of New South Wales would never imagine that one day she will find a girl in a hijab stepping into her hallway, quietly pronouncing I'm moving into this house. 

This was eons ago. When my life had felt like it had been explosive. 

Now it feels like it fizzles, all it's making is a hissing noise of drowning embers.

I am afraid of affirming my values and beliefs to stay true to who I really am. I am afraid I don't have what it takes to be amazing.

But what I'm afraid of the most is every day, every step I take will take me closer to my fear and further away from my dreams.

Evolution of the faith(ful)

There is a growing presence at my door and I keep trying to ignore it. It's called Life.

With the passing of a New Year, which I welcomed with an equal mix of apprehension and ease, I can't help but feel a sense of trepidation that something big and monumental is to happen. I've been going through my days guarding closely what is dear and familiar, claiming solitude and exception from being among people.

Yet, I know from the deepest heart of my hearts this lurking presence, with its quiet smile and coaxing spirit, will never go away.

Marrianne Williamson says "it's our light not our darkness that most frightens us".

As I sit in the corner, trying to concentrate in my book, tending to my cats, running - in order to drown the niggling knock, knock, knock of my subconscious - I am beginning to realise this tug of war between light and darkness is going to be around more often going down the road.

From embracing fully the faith I was born into, to charting an entirely new path - the prospect is a frightening one.

Nevertheless, there are times in life holding on to what you believe in trumps conformity, and the choices you make could either make or break you.

This is one such thing for me. 

Finding meaning in everything

Sometimes I'm afraid of the kind of person I'm becoming...

This strength, this stoic contentment, this feverish compulsiveness to knead every aspects of my life into perfection - they somehow feels abnormal.

I am supposed to weep, I am supposed to double over with despair, I am supposed to scream my lung out and never wake up.

But I didn't, and it scares me.

Sometimes I would go on about my life. Smiling and laughing and cheering happiness, and then I would stop short and freeze myself - paralysed with fear.

Is it today? I will ask myself.

Is it today? That I will realise that this bright crimson sunshine, clear blue sky and endless green plains are actually a dream and I will be sucked back into the vortex of my own valley of darkness? Is it today? That I will finally see the bleeding, shriveling heart of mine, and scream myself into oblivion? Is it today? That I will see myself holding crutches and find myself unable to walk?

I told someone I loved him, he smiled, and he married someone else. I moved on, we became friends and we live happily ever after.

And yet, and yet - all I want to do is scream.

#4 - 18 November 2012

Today I'm leaving this place.

This formidable mountains and its limestone cave, this generous river that never stopped running as I walk, sleep, laugh and wonder in the past few days.

Having been on one's own with no one to talk to but trees, rivers and the stars, one can't help but wonder about one's life.

For me, one of the very reasons why I signed up for the trip is the inevitable purging of memories -

memories that are past, broken and need to be forgotten.

Sometimes I question myself, did I do enough? Have I taken all of my chances? Have I been brave and courageous, or was I too guarded? Have I conquered life or have I let myself be trampled by it?

I will never know the answers to these questions, probably.

"Perhaps you don't give yourself enough credit", a friend once told me.

Taking actions, and choosing paths based on what you feel, what you believe is right - takes insurmountable amount of faith, too.

#2 - 16 November 2012

I sat by the window, alone, as the scenery outside changes from the suffocating bumper to bumper I have been seeing in the past few days to the quiet and dry countryside of Kanchanaburi. 

There are still development here; tar, concrete, buildings and all. The square road grid and Japanese cars, the men in suits on the billboard and bottles of Coca Cola and Sprite; somehow, these one-size-fits-all development template tend to make you feel like you have never left your city. 

But they are not why I'm here. It's the lush and green spinal mountains, standing tall at the backdrop of the city and forming its backbone, that I'm after. 

From inside the bus, as we inch nearer and the mountains rise above me - I couldn't contain my smile. 

I'm answering the call of the mountains and its water. I'm coming home. 

#3 - 15 November 2012

We were stepping out of the mall when I first saw it.

The crowd were bursting with music, beer and sweat in the Oktoberfest-like atmosphere, and I was getting dizzy from the craziness of it all.

I don't really like crowd. They make my heart race. 

But then I saw it from afar, shrouded in golden light, and my heart quickens - this time for a different reason.

My stride turned into a quick run. I didn't bother explaining my euphoria to my colleagues. I only turned briefly towards them, while pointing in frantic to the other direction. "Find me over there," I mouthed, and then I was off.

Knowing I only had little time in the city and confined to certain kilometre radius around where I stay, I didn't make any specific plans to visit generous temple and wats in Bangkok. I was contented to just roam around its streets and find what little signs of devotion I could in its people.

I don't quite understand my obsession with all things religious. It's just ever since the moment when I found out I have lost my faith (in God), I am always in search of a way to fill this gaping hole inside me. And no matter what I do, I can't seem to fill it.

It makes you wonder if you have some incurable disease no one else can't know what it feels like. It makes you feel as if you are forever missing out on something.

"Having faith is a gift",  I blurted out to my friend. We were standing on the sidewalk, watching the locals stop by and pay respect to the towering Lord Ganesha, the one I was so excited to spot not a moment ago.

To be honest, I envy all of them. For having such devotion, such belief. Some of them are on their way home from work, some of them are itinerant youth with their spiky hairs and low cut jeans, bottles of beer in hand - but they all stopped, knelt, and prayed.

I concentrated my stare on the golden statue - elephant heads, four arms and all - and waited to see if I feel something stir inside.

Nothing, yet again - and I feel like a failure.

"Having faith is a gift", I blurted out to my friend as he walks towards me. A cloud of understanding wash over his face, and he looks at me helplessly. How I wish he knows what I'm talking about.

#1 - 13 November 2012

It is Tuesday. This morning I went out running again. I am beginning to love this ability to move around people so seamlessly, so anonymously.

It's been more than ten years since I am back in Bangkok, and I'm not sure if this lack of fear of the city has a lot to do with my previous relationship to it years ago when I was small, or if it just means that I've grown up, that I've grown formidable and strong that nothing fazes me anymore.

I'd like to think it's the former that's true.

Roaming around the streets of Bangkok in the early morning is beginning to bring home a lot of meaning I've been searching for every time I feel like I don't have enough answers for every questions I keep building up inside myself - 

that I am fortunate, that I am insignificant, that I am big and small and I am capable of doing whatever I want to do and whatever it is I do, they actually don't really matter.

As I step out onto the street, everyone else is already ahead of me. The man who yesterday wore an orange t-shirt is pushing a cart filled with goods. He is probably heading towards the same spot in front of the tower where I saw him yesterday. I tried to outpace him (seeing as I don't have anything heavy to push), but he was faster.

Another man, older, one of his legs cut short by a stump. His skin dark, probably from days and hours under the sun, is washing himself with a small pail of water by his side. He is taking his time, slowly caressing dirt away from his body with a white cloth.

I wanted to look away, but I didn't. 'Feel this." I told myself. I'm not sure how long has he been on the street.

Moments like these are why I go out every day, pushing my body, my emotions and my mind to the limit. This is how I connect myself to the physical world, to the outer world, to make sure I am still somehow anchored, grounded to the roots of what is making my being possible. 

Otherwise I will forever feel as if I am floating, drowning inside myself. As if I am not real, that I need to ascertain - I can feel something.