Moving furniture...

Today I moved the furniture around - again - for the hundredth time. You see, I get into this mood when I have to do something creative, so it's either painting, drawing or redecorating - not necessarily in that order, of course. I would get up in the morning with this creative urge nagging on my mind, desperate for an outlet. So this time around it was redecorating. Actually I haven't done it for a few months now, and by my standards, that's a long time. Why? Because I have to do it all alone now that I no longer have a maid (but more peace of mind) and the children have left the nest (all too gladly, I'm sure). I've done it on my own before - piece of cake! Only now age is catching up (faster than I like) and moving furniture is not quite the doctor's prescription for moving the joints, is it? Something could simply crack, or worse, become disjointed like the leg of a table when it is moved too much. A daunting possibility, no doubt. Still, it hasn't stopped me. Yet.

Why do I do it, you might ask. Most times, simply for a change really. I like that I can create a new look in the sitting-room, bedroom or dining-room each time I move things around. It might be the same old chair, desk or sofa but with a new twist, or angle, the ambiance changes. And change is always refreshing, isn't it? You don't have to turn the room topsy-turvy every time; you'll be surprised that even minor changes can do the trick. Moreover, familiarity does breed boredom, if not contempt.

If the furniture could talk, they would be saying "Enough! Enough!" Or, "Not again!" As did my children whenever they were roped in to help. While the maid was left with little choice but to humour me, my husband would conveniently escape with the lamest of excuses. But not before cautioning me that I should be mindful of the placement of a table or chair - it might be in the way of his knee! Other than that, he's appreciative of the changes I make - and why not? It cost him nothing, except occasionally the labour of hanging a picture or two. My daughter thinks I have some kind of disorder - a syndrome of sorts - but I think (I hope!) that it's more of a creative streak. Mind you, even when I have other things more pressing to do, I still do it. For that uplifting feeling when I see the end result. Don't you think that's why some women sew, string beads, try new recipes?

Happiness for a Course?

A course on 'Happiness' is being offered at Harvard and in Hamburg, Germany - believe it or not. It was the topic on a foreign TV magazine programme a couple of days ago. Not a gimmick, I tell you, but a serious discourse involving psychology, ethics, philosophy and gymnastics. Seriously, has happiness ever been taken so seriously? According to a source (who appeared dead serious), it was an attempt to resolve our present day woes which are making us "unfulfilled". Simply put, the Course (in no way simplistic) attempts to produce a "reliable, responsible and confident" individual. Which mere education does not?
Baffling thought, really. How does one go about teaching 'happiness' when one can barely define it. Or if one can, is it not subjective? I can't even begin to put 'happiness' in words; it could be one thing now and something else later! Depending on the mood-of-the-moment. The concept of happiness borders on the ethereal, doesn't it? Perhaps, just as well - we could do with something that can offset the cold hard facts that confront us by way of global warming, nuclear threats, terrorism and the like and counterbalance it with something more in the realm of emotional intelligence, can't we? Even if it is for a mere couple of hours a week in the sanctuary of the classroom.

While we lament the soaring fuel and food prices on our home front, I think it is taking its toll on the big companies as well. (No consolation right?). I was at a shopping mall in Ipoh last week and was just milling around a department store when I felt very uncomfortable after about ten minutes. I was beginning to perspire around the neck when all I had been doing was walking around very leisurely. It was the latter part of the afternoon and there was hardly a crowd to speak of. In fact, apart from the sales personnel and the odd shopper or two, the store was almost empty. Then I realised that either the air-conditioning was turned off completely, or it was turned on just so that it was barely detectable. Still, the discomfort was beginning to get to me and I just wanted to get out of there, pronto.
Among other things, I think there are people who go to shopping complexes to escape the outside heat, even momentarily. And while one may have set out simply to browse and look-see, the comfort provided by the air-conditioning could induce one to stay longer. The longer one stays, the more the temptation to spend. Isn't that what the stores hope for after spending millions so we could shop (or window-shop) in relative comfort? Store ambiance and creative displays are one thing; but how long can, and would you stay in a store/shop when perspiration beads start to form? Nothing beats the comfort of an air-conditioned premise; that alone is one of the draws of the shopping mall. Without it, the condition might be akin to the open-air or wet market where you would normally buy whatever you want and dash off. Which was exactly what I did that day. Perhaps it was a cost-saving measure on the part of the store or the complex management, an act of frugality when times are hard. But I think it will turn shoppers away. Worse still, it will be the death of retail therapy (for me, it would!).

The Sufiah Yusuf case begs reflection - on raising children. There is a lot about the case that would no doubt leave many a parent stumped and stymied. As parents, we raise our children the way we think fit under the social and economic circumstances that we find ourselves in. How they would eventually turn out is anybody's guess really. Our tools (for me, anyway) are the education and the upbringing that we ourselves had. Parenting is not a skill to be learnt from schools or books. Or is it? Parenting is a know-how that we pick up as we go along, with each child. Really?

Sufiah's parents believed that they had come up with the best way to school their children - on a strict regime at home under freezing conditions (according to media reports). And why shouldn't they? The three elder siblings of Sufiah - no less intelligent, surely - seemingly turned out alright. So what happened with her? I can only speculate (with no attempt at being Freud).
All parents know that each of their children is different, and cannot be treated like another product on an assembly line. What more a prodigious child. Is she then a victim of circumstances, of well-intentioned parents who had taken the one-size-fits-all approach? Then again it is not her academic achievement that is in question here. Being able to gain entry into Oxford Univ. at 12 was undoubtedly success personified. This alone would have augmented her parents' confidence in their homegrown education system. But what have haunted me since was the mother's fear that it could have been their desire for success that turned the daughter against them. Were they bent purely on academic success that they failed to pay attention to Sufiah's emotional make-up?

As she ponders her daughter's fate, I was drawn to reflect on mine. Being a mother of three, I had my fair share of the challenges of raising children. They are now young adults, trying to carve out a life on their own. They did not turn out as I had wanted them too. And what did I want? That they all enter university and graduate, albeit not necessarily with flying colours nor in the course that I would have preferred. Not all of them did - and I agonised over the 'why' umpteen times.

I did not come from a rich family. There was always food on the table, but no luxuries nor extravagances. My mother was a traditional housewife whose preoccupation was cooking for the household - a husband, a sister, seven children and the frequent (some daily) visitors. It was a mundane life that I recoiled from, helped along by her constant reminder that I had to do well in my studies if I did not want to be bound to the kitchen my whole life. A view that my father shared wholeheartedly albeit not quite in the same vein. For her, it sufficed that I always managed to advance to the next level each year, and my bringing home report cards that had no red marks. My father was the one who set the standards. He was not easy to please. I found myself having to perform up to his expectations every time although he never expressed it. Hence, I grew up with the fear of failing academically, of letting him down. I studied hard in school and always made the grade all the way to university. And, with God's benevolence, I have a good life.

In raising the children, I harped on academic achievement as the only way to success in life. I enrolled them in good schools which we had to pay for. I failed to realise that it must have been difficult for my children to emulate me because they are different in nature. While I had hoped to inspire them to do their best, I failed to appreciate the differences in their ability, needs and aspirations. I never asked them what they wanted. I should have raised them to realise their own ambitions, instead of pandering to mine. Then I realised that my upbringing had been far more significant in the way I raised my children than I had bargained for. I forgot that they were growing up in a different time altogether from that of mine. Perhaps I had imposed standards and values which were not necessarily consistent with theirs, and the only way for them to be true to themselves was to 'fail' me.

I should have devoted my time to helping them realise their individuality and nurturing their inclination, instead of casting a mould for them. It is a lesson learnt and I am humbled by it. I have learnt to let go and can only pray for their happiness. While they are not all graduates, they have qualities that I am proud of which will no doubt help them achieve the kind of success that they want. I have resigned myself to acceptance and while I empathise, I hope that Sufiah's mother can do the same.

Are we making too much of Sufiah Yusuf? This is a case thousands of miles away that has some do-gooders ruffled beyond their senses. Don't we have girls on our own shores who have for some reason or other joined the world's oldest profession? What makes the news? That she was a Maths. prodigy who had gained a place in the prestigious Oxford Uni. at the tender age of 12? Of course that was newsworthy and I remember feeling quite elated as I did last Sunday reading about Cassandra Yong, dubbed the piano princess' in the NST. But does she merit a rescue from the Govt. (or us for that matter)? Is there a save-the prostitutes campaign that has escaped me? I watched the video-interview that the London newspaper had with her, and no where did I sense a call for help! She was actually quite nonchalant about her 'job', and sees no stigma attached to it. In fact, I thought she's enjoying the fruits of her 'labour'.

So why the fuss? Because this is a Muslim girl? Granted that we Muslims have an obligation to see that others are guided onto the 'right' path when they have gone astray. But this is a case thousands of miles away. This is a 23 year old who, prodigy or not, would have weighed her options and made her choice as she deemed fit. Not unlike we mere mortals with average intelligence. Surely her mother and her siblings would have sought help from the local resources. It is not as if the UK is void of Muslim organisations/community services that would be more than willing to exercise their religious prerogative. At the risk of seeming callous, I would say this is really a personal crisis, that does not merit a government involvement, and better resolved by the family, one way or another.

But what should concern us is our ability to handle child prodigies. Have we got such a mechanism in place? Is there provision in our education system for precocious children? Rare though they may be, we should be ready to handle them when they appear. Can we even recognise one among the millions?

Lately, there is the case of Adi, supposedly a Maths. genius for one so young. What's been done about him? The last I read, the situation with him was not quite what it should be if we are indeed concerned about child prodigies. This is a matter that warrants intervention, instead of leaving it to the parents alone. I also recall many years ago of the child (from Kedah?) who could recite the Quran from a very early age. Having received all that publicity then in the media, he is now a mere farm hand. What ever happened to the prodigiousness? Did he lose it, or did we?

A Revelation of Sorts

When the 2007 Ramadhan came, I was determined to embrace it with a deeper sense of meaning on a personal level.For several reasons - one of which being that I was preparing to go for my maiden pilgrimage (Haji) in November, and I wanted the journey to be a blessed one. Much has been written of the preparations that one needs to make for the purportedly physically and mentally taxing pilgrimage. For me, the journey began with the fasting month, and aptly so. For Ramadhan is not merely the act of abstaining from food and drink from dawn to dusk, but abstinence that extends beyond the physical as a manifestation of one's faith. In this holiest of months, I saw it as an opportunity to better myself as a Muslim, and in so doing, hope that I would be on the right path to embark on my spiritual journey in November. At my age, I am grateful for the ability to fast without fear of any repercussions on my health. And I am grateful to the Almighty for a lot more than that. I believe there comes a time in a man's/woman's life that he/she becomes spiritually enlightened, or more so, and my time is now. Although I have been a practising Muslim, I realise it falls short of the addin in more ways than one. For one thing, I have never worn the tudung as a manner of dress except when obliged on certain religious occasions. I had relegated 'dress' to form, not substance, and had somehow managed to rationalise my preference for a westernised mode of attire in so far as it was within the realms of modesty as I envisaged it.

And so it was at the start of Ramadhan that I began to don the tudung. In the beginning, to say that it was somewhat awkward was an understatement. Apart from wanting to look 'nice' in it, I was equally concerned about not wanting to look frumpy and old-fashioned, so I had to find a way to wrap the tudung in just the 'right' manner! This naturally was time-consuming, not to mention a tedious exercise in creativity. Slowly, I found my 'style'; nothing ingenious, but one in which I was comfortable enough not to shrink away from public view. My initial apprehension had nothing to do with being embarrassed or ashamed about donning the tudung; it was more to do with vanity. In time, however, it has bothered me less. I have made minor adjustments to the style, depending on the occasion, and have become quite adept at using the long or the square scarf. My only concession to vanity is that the colour should match my outfit, for fear of coming out in a riot of colours so gaudy it would make someone cringe. I have worn the tudung for over a year now, and can't see myself without it in public, or in the company of 'other men'. The bizarre thing about it is that I have even come to embrace it as an identity which I had forsaken for so long that I am ashamed to have done so and called myself a Muslim.

The Women Who Walk . . .

What used to be the polo grounds in former times, and now named the Taman Rekreasi Sultan Abdul Aziz is a haven for walkers and joggers. The 2.5km walk or jog on paved walkway round the park would provide ample exercise, especially for the ampler ones, with more than ample time. Or for men and women who have come to that phase in their life when exercise becomes crucial to their health, and a daily dose, albeit a mere stroll, would make a difference between mobility and stiffness in their joints. This could be one explanation for the demographics - where there always seemed to be more senior citizens than there are younger ones. And noticeably more women than men.

These women come in all shapes and sizes, adamant to take their place in the 'circle' - not unlike a congregation that has come to partake of a devotional ritual. Such is what it has become - this 'morning walk'. You would find the regulars there on the dot every day from as early as 5.30a.m. - religiously, five days a week - preferring to stay away on Saturdays and Sundays when the park is crowded with children, and their accompanying antics and noise might be too much for eyes and ears that have grown increasingly sensitive with the years. Some women walk alone, others in twosomes, foursomes or more. Couples (presumably husbands and wives) are a regular feature too. While some can clearly be seen to want to sweat it out, others just stroll, amble, saunter or trudge. The verdant green that Nature has so generously endowed on the park, and the pleasant landscape which the Majlis Bandaran has so deftly created make the walk - whatever the manner - rather refreshing actually. The recent addition of a fish pond complete with lotus plants only adds to the draw, and I see a couple of women feeding the fish with leftover bread from home. The crisp early morning freshness is no less enticing, I'm sure, and one has to catch it fast before the sun comes out in full force. Or could the encounter with like-minded friends be a pulling force? The walk - one round or two - almost always ends up either in pockets of animated discussion, hearty laughs or sheer joviality. Then there's the group exercise, a repetitive body movement intent on limbering you up, not to music, but to a count by means of a cassette recording in Chinese, with a leader to boot. The beauty of it - just about anyone can join in - no formality, no fee required.

And the exercise garb? For most, fashion is thrown to the winds, and why not? After all, they have come to 'walk' away their aches and aging pains and to be concerned about fashion would only be another pain in the neck (or wherever). So they come in whatever suits them, and you will see a parade of ankle-length skirts, patterned tights that was yesteryear's must-have, and all manner of stretchable pants or shorts that have seen better days. Of course there's always the handful who must stay trendy at all costs and would walk in the latest exercise gear, thanks to Nike and Elle, body shape notwithstanding. But for most of them I'm sure comfort and modesty dictate.

Since 2006, I have become part of this 'circle' and I walk as regularly as I can. Apart from getting the desired exercise, I have made some friends too. The adrenalin flow from the exercise does make for more willing smiles and lighter tongues. On days, when time permits, I join in the group exercise and now know every step by heart though I have yet to decipher the meaning as per the Chinese recording. Not that it matters.