THE DIARY OF A DREAMER

ABOVE ALL

2009-06-16T04:54:00.000+07:00

I have been faithful in going to the Sunday morning service lately (if going there twice in a row could be called faithful, that is). Knowing that my weekends in Italy will be (likely) spent travelling outside Perugia, whenever I found myself ‘trapped’ in this city on Sunday, I woke up early, fought against the drowsiness, to walk alone to the church for about 30 minutes, passing through the empty piazza and walking down inside my favorite place Rocca Paolina, where you can find a mixture of antiquity (the ancient city below the ground), and modernity (lots of escalators inside it).

Though I haven’t known anyone (yet) there, I always enjoyed the service (though sometimes, it felt longer than the ones in Indonesia). It is different, yet felt so familiar, thanks to the songs they usually sing. They have a perfect combination of old hymns and contemporary songs, similar to the ones I used to sing in Indonesia. The difference is, of course, here, they are all translated in Italian. And they’re so beautiful in my ears, that every time I came too early, I was busy copying the text into my notebook, or, while we were worshiping, I secretly recorded their voice with my cell phone.

They have a holy sacrament every week, when the congregation eat bread and drink wine from the same cup. And they don’t have a worship leader, only some musicians and singer in front, and the members of congregation, one by one, call out a song that they want us to sing, adding prayers in between. Once, the sermon was conducted in Romanian and translated in Italian, and I had to really concentrate to understand it all.

But when it is delivered in Italian, I usually can follow quite effortlessly, and manage to learn some new terms every week. Last Sunday, the sermon really struck my heart. I’d never thought that listening to a sermon in another language (especially the third language), would be so moving, but it did. The elderly preacher took the first passage of John 5, about the healing at the pool. He reminded us that too often, we acted in the same manner with the people around the paralyzed, who said to Jesus, “Sir, I have no one to help me into the pool when the water is stirred. While I am trying to get in, someone else goes down ahead of me.” He said, we might be sitting shoulder to shoulder with someone, without realizing that he/she might feel that she had no one. And that we needed to be more caring to the sufferings of others.

And I could relate both to the paralyzed and the people around him. At times, it also happened to me… the feeling of having nobody, or at least, no one around me, that is available when I could use companionship or encouragement. And I also realized that, being absorbed in my own problems and worries, I often acted indifferently towards others, who might be in need of my companion, assurance, encouragement, or even, merely a smile and ears that listen.

I was having a rough time with two of my few real friends here. I had been upset, angry, sad, and afraid of losing them, thinking that they were also mad at me, for some reasons. And sitting there in the back pew of the church, fighting back my tears, I realized that it was not fair to place myself as the paralyzed and them as the indifferent people around. On the contrary, it could have been me who failed to see and understand their problems, their suffering.

I’m never good at confronting people, at saying sorry, or starting a conversation after a ‘cold’ war. I’d rather let it ‘cool’ naturally. Yet that day I was so compelled to make the first move, and despite a fear to be rejected by them, I felt relieved to find my own heart filled with affection and forgiveness to them, leaving no trace of anger and disappointment that I had felt before.

That same day, two ‘almost broken’ friendships were healed. In fact, strengthened. And forgiveness, I think, is essential in loving others. Below is the Italian version of Lenny leBlanc’s ABOVE ALL, one of my favorite songs, that reminds me of how much I have been forgiven.

SEI DI PIU’

Su ogni potenza, sopra ogni re

Più di ogni cosa creata intorno a me

Su ogni sagezza e vie che l’uomo ha

Tu eri qui già nell’eternità

Sopra ogni regno e autorità

E meraviglie che solo il mondo sa

E piu dell’oro che in terra so che c’è

Nulla può valere più di te

Sei di più

Di tutto quel che ho

Vissuto per morire così solo

Fiore che è gettato via

L’hai scelto tu

Pensando a me

Solo tu

just curious

2009-06-16T03:32:00.001+07:00

maybe this is the reason the previous note was accidentally posted twice... cos it was automatically imported from my blogspot.
Let's see

EPIPHANY

2009-06-15T20:19:00.001+07:00

After over than two months residing in Perugia as a foreign student, last Friday was the first time I toured the city as a student slash tourist, i.e. having a guide slash Italian language teacher explain the historical arches, buildings and streets around Perugia, in the first outing session of our cultural class (after two months learning in a classroom only!).
Knowing more about the stories behind those buildings (dated thousands years ago), I could not help imagining how hard life must have been back then, when people lived in constant fear, of the enemies, of the war, of being killed—so much that it seems to me, all their construction technique was based on security reasons. They had narrow and winding streets to facilitate escaping on foot (and avoid the enemies’ arrows), they had a kind of stairs that they could fold afterwards, to make it harder for the enemies to invade their house, etc. And as I passed those streets and absorbed the historical facts, I wondered if back then, there was also a girl like me, with the same passions and lots of things in common, who could have been my close friend, had we lived in the same period of time.
And my imagination, like always, did not stop there. It went on and on and on. But the thing that struck me most was, I’d never felt so inspired like that before, even since I arrived here in Italy. I have passed those streets and seen those buildings lots of time before, and yet I took them for granted. They have grown familiar and usual for me, to (almost) lose their (historical) meaning, and I am so glad that now I can see them in a different point of view.
Of course, I don’t blame myself for being ‘blind’ for the first two months. Being in an adaptation process in almost every aspect of my life, plus fighting against the loneliness (that every now and then assaults me, esp. when I feel so cut out of the life of my beloved ones in Indonesia—skyping regularly ain’t enough to cover their absence around me) and having to go back and forth to the questura (immigration office) to apply for my stay permit, left no much space for any creativity or curiosity.
And I have been a slug in writing, something that I enjoy a lot and I want to do all my life. I don’t even write my journals faithfully anymore, while there is so much to tell and so many things and feelings I want to remember afterwards.
So, the outing last week was not only improving my knowledge in history, but most of all, it inspired me. It recovered my curiosity and enableb me to (once again) imagine. And despite of our laments of too much sun and being hungry, I think I would love to repeat the tour, maybe by myself, and allow myself to see once again the locks that the lovebirds put in the lamps near the market where you can view Assisi, or pass the Street of Peace, where two arguing people (or families) made peace.
It’s so amazing what an outdoor lesson can do to you after spending so many hours in the classroom. I think we should do it more.

BETWEEN ‘ippopo-TAAAAAAAA-mo’ AND ‘ippo-POOOOOOOOO-tamo

2009-04-21T04:22:00.000+07:00

I’m (starting to be) frustrated with my Italian, period.
I thought being here would boost my language skill instantly. In fact, I knew more Italians in Jakarta than in the whole Perugia, which, as far as I have seen, is packed with foreigners. Foreigners are everywhere, in my house, in my school, out in the streets…..
Not that I have anything against the foreigners here, really (I’m one of them too)… I love making new friends. In fact, I always make serious efforts to get to know my classmates better. It is so fun to observe each of them; how the native English speakers have difficulties in rolling their ‘r’, how the Chinese students get confused distinguishing ‘l’ and ‘r’ (which is fatal, cos both sounds are used widely in Italian and contrast to each other), or how the Russian and Portuguese speakers often pronounce ‘d’ as ‘dz’. The Europeans usually speak more fluently, in a faster pace than the Asian ones, who prefer the slower professor and are too fond of writing everything (that my prof often seizes their pens in order to get their attention). One of the most outstanding Chinese students is named Lin (the girl who said that she liked me instantly, remember?)---I suspect she studies for hours everyday, reading lots of books and memorizing new words every night. She is so studious and brilliant, and yet she demands me to teach her two new words everyday, thinking that I (who don’t feel studious or brilliant at all lately) know more than she does. I often have to rack my brain, cos almost every time I come out with a relatively difficult word, she already knows it. And yet, I am perplexed to find her sometimes struggling with the words that I consider simple and easy, like entusiasta, atmosfera, and other words which you can guess easily.
“How come you know all of them?” she asked me one day. “Well,” I said, a bit confused. “Cos they are similar to English, and also to Indonesian.”
And then she explained to me that between Italian and Chinese, there are no similar words, not even one. And so it opened my eyes that it must be hard for her and other Chinese students to study Italian, not mentioning the struggles in pronunciation.
Indonesians, I think, are a lot luckier. We can roll our ‘r’ easily and most of the sounds in Italian are the same with those in our own language. My biggest problem is the accent. I don’t know (yet) how to ‘press’ in the right ‘place’….and I still have to learn a lot to singsong my pronunciation… (for instance, taking from my friend Daniel’s example, not to merely say ‘nutella’, but to singsong it into ‘nu- TEEEEEEEEEEE-lla).
And now I have just found out that pressing the wrong syllable could draw incessant laughter from the Italians. In Jakarta, I was reprimanded once for saying ‘FEEE-lice’, rather than ‘fe-LIIIII-ce’. Now luckily I have a help from an Italian who is willing to yell at me every time I ‘hit’ the wrong syllable. But the problem is, my memory is too short to memorize the right ones. At first I made a hypothesis that most of the accent falls on the penultimate syllable, but then I found out that in some other words, the accent could fall in the first, or second syllable. There is no fixed rule really… all I have to do is to get my ears used to it and to imitate how the Italians speak. Now, in the class, I’m always busy marking the accent below the words as the professor speaks. And I have a plan to record the voice of a native Italian saying a list of Italian words to analyze the ‘rule’ (if there’s any). And of course, among the list there will be the beloved word IPPOPOTAMO (hippopotamus)--- and when I have gathered enough proofs, surely I’ll try to formulate the rules to it (I’m sure they exist!!!!!!!!)

ON TRANSPORTATION

2009-04-17T04:22:00.000+07:00

Though most of the time I walk to everywhere here in Perugia (that at all times feels like hiking), there’s a lot to be said about the public transportation here. I have taken most of all, which includes train, bus, and mini metro (Jakartan friends, do not assume that mini metro here is like metro mini there haha!).
Mini metro is the newest of all, the rail was launched in January 2008. I took it with my American friends, and they said it reminded them of the capsules in the Incredibles movie. My Russian classmate said that when she first saw it, she was taken aback and said to herself, “Wow.. Perugia is high-tech!”—it is handy for her because she commutes everyday from Fabriano to Perugia (which I think takes about 2 hours by train), and then from the train station, she takes Minimetro to arrive to the campus. However, according to our Italian professor, the Perugians are divided into two groups, those who love it and those who hate it—the latter group is a lot bigger. It is because the establishment of it took a lot of money, but the route is relatively limited. So those who have paid the tax for it and yet do not have the privilege to enjoy it became angry.
The city buses are handy too… and a lot of time, people just don’t pay for it… I just realized that two days ago, when I had to go to the Agenzia delle Entrate (sorry I don’t know how to translate it, it’s an office where you can get some official documents done) to get my codice fiscale (national insurance number) with all my roommies (who are all, but one, Europeans, but I wont mention any name or country here), because the house owner really pressed us to do it asap. So off we went by a city bus, and when I asked them why we did not buy the tickets first and whether we would pay it directly to the driver later on (just like I had learned and had done faithfully before that), they just grinned and said nothing in the bus. And when we finally arrived, they just got off and I followed them (because they had stayed here longer so I thought, they must had known what they were doing). On the street, one of them told me that people just do it because they never check whether the passengers have the tickets or whether they stamp it in the machine or not. But I actually did not feel right about dodging out the responsibility (yeah, call me goodie goodie) because it is the Italian government who pays for my scholarship here. Anyway, on the way back, for some unknown reasons, they all chose to buy the tickets.
The stamping regulation is also applied for the train. When I took it on my way back from Florence, I had to run because the train would be leaving in a minute. Unfortunately, I forgot to stamp it (which they call ‘validate’ here), and had to run back to the machine for being afraid to be fined. Luckily I could hop into the train before it departed and was thankful to hear again and again, the threat of 200 euro fine for those who travel without the ticket or not have their ticket validated. There was also a scene I would not forget. From my window I could see a pair of youngsters smooching as they boy would leave the girl soon. The train conductor was trying to remind them that the train was about to depart but they ignored him totally. When the train finally moved, the boy ran and tried to open the door, which the conductor sternly refused to open. So, he just missed the train from smooching too long, and I had to chuckle to witness it—it was more stupid than romantic, I think.
The next day, when I told my professor about my travel (only the stamping rule, though), he said that next time I just don’t have to worry about it because they will never fine a foreigner for not observing the rule. And like my friend once advised me, if they ever try to, just pretend you don’t understand Italian and explain in English that you have just arrived there and know nothing about the rule.
Still about the bus, even since I arrived here, I’m always stunned to see how gorgeous most of the Italian bus drivers are. I really mean it! Some of them could easily come to Indonesia and get a role in the sinetrons (kind of Indonesian soap opera). I have this crazy wish to take a picture of each of them and compile them and then put them in an album on facebook—just to let my Indonesian friends see them and convince them that I’m not exaggerating. The last bus I took was when I went to Gubbio. As I sat in it and stared at the Tom Cruise looking driver, I thought about my wish and planned the words I might have to say to him to have a permission to take his picture. Maybe something like, “Sei bello, posso fotografarti?” (you are goodlooking, may I take a pic of you?)—but I was afraid that it might sound like a cheap pick up line. So I thought I might just say “Posso?” (May I?) and then click my camera and before he realized it, I would have gotten off and run.
Well, I did not have guts to do neither of them. In fact, when we arrived in Gubbio, all I could say was, “Grazie e ciao!” (thank you and goodbye!), with the camera still inside my bag.

A FUN CLASS ON GOOD FRIDAY

2009-04-10T04:16:00.003+07:00

It is strange for me that we have a class on Good Friday in Italy, while most others have a week off for Easter (it’s not fairrrrrrr!!!).
Anyway, out of the three different classes, my favorite is the main one—grammar. And most of the grammar classes are held in the campus near my house too, so it is convenient to walk there, probably only 3 minutes. The others are oral exercises and a class on Italian culture, held in a farther campus. To reach it, I have to walk for 20 minutes, passing a busy street and then a winding path down to a kind of valley, with flowers blossoming everywhere. It’s beautiful, but after a long day, climbing up to go home is very tiring….
And I did not enjoy at all the first two encounters of my Italian culture class, because the professor talked too much, and I found it extremely hard to keep my eyes open, let alone to concentrate. After our first meeting, I had to drag my feet to the second. And today, on Good Friday, there was also her class at 11.00-13.00.
Sometimes, I am tempted to skip this class (like many other students do), esp. if it is held in the afternoon when napping or strolling around the centre is much more appealing than sitting in a classroom, but I keep telling myself that I am here to study and I have to be faithful even in small things like that. Even if it means killing my feet walking to the campus more than once in a day.
Anyway, today I had fun because the teacher found another way of teaching us. She said we would play a game, then she wrote five random words and asked us in group, to write a passage using the 5 words. And then, each group should present the story one by one. And at the end of the reading of each group, she threw a chocolate to each member of the group, and the lesson ended an hour earlier, maybe because she also wanted to go home faster since it is Good Friday.
And I was just amazed because all of my classmates seemed to be really good at writing, and their stories were beautiful, even much better than mine!

ps. here i attached the view from the window of the restroom of the farther campus

MY FIRST DAYS IN PERUGIA

2009-04-08T04:15:00.000+07:00

It’s been over a week since I first came here, and my studies at the University for Foreigners just started two days ago.
I remember that when the bus we took from Rome’s airport arrived here, upon seeing nobody out in the streets, my first impression was that Perugia must be a dead city. It was beautiful of course, but dead empty. No car, no people, just silence. But then I found out that it is because on Sunday, people here just rest and don’t usually go out. But on Friday and Saturday, people flock the piazza until past midnight---so crowded that it is impossible for any car to pass the city centre.
My first week revolved around trying to get rid of the jetlag effects and deal with the registration/enrolment procedures—which involved preparing lots of documents and standing in a long queue. And oh, the placement test too… on the third day of my arrival. I did not bring any book here so I did not study at all for it. And on that day, I was not feeling so well. To make things worse, there was a Korean student sitting behind me, reading each question with a loud voice and ruining my concentration (which was already distracted by fatigue). I wanted so bad to turn to him and yell, ‘silenzio!’, but I changed my mind for not wanting to make any enemy. There were around 5 sets of questions, which increased in difficulties, and the students should stop when they found it too difficult to do. I stopped at the fourth, which consisted of a passage, and then the students should paraphrase it. Sadly, it should be my strong points, because I love writing so much. I understood the text completely, but the words just did not come to me, and my head started to spin. So I just gave my answer sheet to one of the supervisors and then came back around an hour later to have my result and a short interview. The funny thing was, every time the supervisors called out a Chinese name and nobody raised hand, they always came to me, stared me into the eyes and called the name once again, and I had to shake my head a lot.
There are 6 levels of the Italian courses here (ranging from the lowest to the highest): A1, A2, B1, B2, C1, C2. They told me that I made it to B2 and then asked me to go enroll myself to the secretariat, where all other students also went.
Rather than spending much time in a long line, I decided to look for the office of Prof. Silvestrini, the director of the university slash a good friend of my previous Italian professor, Prof. Contardi, as he had suggested before, to just say hi and present myself as his ex-student. He was very friendly and said I could come to him whenever I needed help. He was kind of expecting that I would go to C1, but I said that the fourth set of questions was too hard for me and I did not finish it. He put me in his class and said that I might skip the next level (C1) and go directly to C2 (which lasts for 6 months), so by the time my scholarship period ends, I will have completed all levels and get my diploma.
After talking with Prof. Silvestrini, I went back to the secretariat where the line was still long, though had became a lot shorter than before. I stood there for a while, thinking that I might faint anytime, cos my head started to spin again. Luckily he appeared and without saying anything, snatched all the documents I was holding, went inside the secretariat, and came back 5 minutes later, beckoning at me to leave the line and follow him to his office once again, where he handed me my student card---all ready in less than 5 minutes! (wow, talk about power!).
There are 30 students in my class, 11 of them are Chinese—which I thought too many at first, expecting a more international class. But apparently I am luckier than Betty, who becomes one out of three non Chinese students in her class. And even Mehdi, my Afghan friend, said that he was once in a class where all other students were Chinese. Well, knowing that, I am really happy with my class, where there are also students from Germany, Cyprus, Brazil, Venezuela, Czech, Australia, Spain, Korea and Japan. On my first day, I struck my first conversation with the Czech girl and Australian boy (all in Italian—proud proud! ;), and then a Japanese girl sat beside me, pointing at my Batik gown and said that her sister loved that kind of clothing. Today, the second day, a Chinese young girl intentionally moved from her seat to sit next to me. And then, after a brief greeting, she said, “Yesterday when you introduced yourself to the class, I don’t know why, but I instantly liked you, because you seemed so sweet.” – I was so touched by her words, esp because I don’t think I’m sweet when I’m nervous!
So after all, my first days are not so rough… in fact, they went smoothly. I even got a chance to be visited by my friends (one of them I had not seen for three years!) and to travel to nearby cities (Assisi and Florence) on my first weekend in Italy. The most challenging things are the weather (which I still find too cold for me—even when there’s sun!—I always wonder how come a sunny day can still feel cold), and the winding, up and down, all similar alleys/roads. I often find myself panting, esp when dragging grocery bags. And I keep getting lost….and maps are no help at all because I can’t read them!

But umm… other than that… I’m really fine… and so thankful for facebook and skype—which allows me to connect with my family and beloved friends back home.

Buona notte!

MY FIRST FAUX PAS (OR WHATEVER YOU MIGHT CALL IT) IN ITALY

2009-03-31T04:13:00.000+07:00

For the second time, I woke up around 4 am (though last night I went to bed around midnight) and could not go back to sleep. So, I thought, rather than tossing around in my bed, maybe it’s better for me to share my (first) experience(s) in Italy while eating an apple and facebooking.
Well, I should say that I seem to be losing my confidence in speaking Italian among those who speak it so fluently. I always get tensed and nervous whenever they talk to me too fast, and it worsens my understanding. And to come up to a stranger to ask something, I still have to summon my courage first, and plan my words ahead of time. I’m so lucky to have some people here who are available to help me and of course, to have Betty with whom I can suffer the confusion together and laugh at our mistakes afterwards.

Well, here are some examples of my faux pas (which surely will keep adding on in the following days)

1.I went to the right side of the car of my friend Fabio (who picked us up at the bus station) while he went to the left side to open the door for me and Betty, and suddenly realized that I was no longer in Indonesia when he motioned to me to enter the car from the left side. And then, when he asked about the number of my lodging, I said centotrentacinque (135) instead of the correct one centocinquantatre (153). Only after he called the owner of the house, we ‘got’ the right number, which was clearly written on the identification tag of my bag!

2.When I went to the tabaccheria (tobacco shop that also sells postcards, phone cards etc), instead of saying ‘possiamo comprarla qui?’ (can we buy it —the SIM card— here?), I said ‘possiamo venderla qui?’ (can we SELL it here?)

3.Just as we were about to enter the hall of the university to meet Mr. Rondelli, the person who’s in charge of the scholarship, we were stopped by one of the elderly ladies with lots of keys in her hands. We thought it was an important thing, so we listened to her, but it turned out that she was offering us a room to rent. She insisted that we had to at least look at it because it was cheaper than the room we ‘d already rented and it was very near. Though I preferred to meet Mr. Rondelli asap, I just could not say no to her, cos she was old and I had pity on her. So up we went to her house and after looking at it, out of courtesy, we asked for her phone number though we had decided that we did not like it. And just as we were about to enter the hall for the second time, another elderly lady stopped us and said the same thing. Well, this time we knew better and continued to look for Mr. Rondelli inside.

4.Following the instructions of the two security guards, we went further to look for the secretariat office but we were stranded in another room with a waiting lounge. The people inside seemed to be busy talking with some people so I went to the only Italian looking guy seating in the lounge and asked where we could find Mr. Rondelli (in Italian). He stared blankly at me and in halting English, explained that he was German and did not speak Italian at all. He was pretty stressed out himself because he just wanted to enroll for a course and he did not know what to do or where to go because when he came to the front office to ask for some information, they only spoke Italian or Chinese. Then I decided to use my eyes rather than my mouth in finding our beloved Mr. Rondelli and finally could spot the word segreteria, which was nearby. And yes, Mr. Rondelli was there and was really nice, especially because he spoke Italian really SLOW and CLEAR—a very understanding man! In the front office, while we asked for the form to ask for the stay permit, we were helped by two patient Chinese girls –who answered in English every time I asked a question in Italian, and answered in Italian when I asked in English. Well, at least , finally half an hour later our forms were completely and appropriately filled in.

5.After that, because we did not have any food supply yet (cos we were too tired to shop the day before and just wanted to crash in bed and unfortunately had to say no to a very nice invitation to a Birthday party extended nicely by a friend of Vlad and Voica, our Romanians roomies), we did not have anything to eat for breakfast and thought we would be okay cos we had some instant noodles around 4 am. But around midday, we were hungry (Betty even said she was started to tremble), so we rushed to a pizzeria-which was not even opened yet. When finally we found a place which sells some pizza, I just pointed to one and Betty, wanting to know whether there was meat in the topping, tried to remember the Italian word for meat. But we did not know how to say ‘topping’. So we were standing there, pointing to a pizza and like two idiots, asked to the puzzled shopkeeper, ‘ Questa e’ carne?’ (is this meat?)

6.Our two Indonesian friends, Edwin and Flora, laughed at my choice of gelato flavors. They said fruity flavors didn’t match with chocolate ones. But I actually do not consider this as a faux pas cos I enjoyed it no matter what eheheh

Now my apple is finished and so I will try to get back to sleep!

KNOWING WHERE HE IS DOESN’T MEAN THAT I DON’T MISS HIM

2008-10-23T10:05:00.000+07:00

It’s been quite 5 months since he went away, leaving me with the memories and longings to see him again, to hear him laugh and tease me again, to love and be loved by him again. I know I will, but while waiting for the time to come, I have to deal with these feelings. They say that grieve lessens but does not dissipate, and until then the healing will be incomplete. How true it is.
I don’t have the least of doubt of where he is right now, though it is sometimes hard to imagine such a perfect place -- where there are no tears or sorrow--, amidst this broken, imperfect world. And when I wake up in the middle of the night, think about him and shed a tear or two, I wonder if he also misses me out there. And if the thought of me mars his perfect happiness with a tingle of pain, a pain of being separated from the loved ones, I truly hope that he never thinks of me. After all, he had always thought of me first during my almost 27 years of age.
And, thinking that where he is right now must be full with joy, indeed gives me a great consolation and enables me to grieve with hope all this time.
But I miss him still. I miss listening to him humming in the morning, I miss watching him reading on his couch, sipping coffee and commenting on my latest literary work. I miss laying my head on his shoulders and letting him know how much he meant to me, despite the lack of words exchanged.
However, instead of weeping over this great loss incessantly, I’d rather give thanks for the years, months, days, hours, and seconds that I spent together with him, in our unconditional love, the glimpse of another love, which is greater than life itself. After all, not every kid in the world has the privilege of being raised up by a good and loving father like mine.

MY DREAM LIST IN ITALY

2008-10-20T16:05:00.000+07:00

(Position DOES NOT determine degree of importance, I just jotted down whichever came first to mind)

Meet/visit/go out with/see my Italian/European friends (some I have not seen for ages, some I have just met, some I have never met but have known for years through correspondence—friendships can happen in so many ways after all). *

Meet Gianluca Pagliuca and thank him personally for planting a seed of passion for Italy in my heart, in the first place, which eventually grew stronger day by day. *****

Lick gelati italiani and baci Perugina to my heart’s content, without getting fat cos I’ll be walking around a lot. *

Watch the live concert of Neri per Caso and sing OFF stage with them (used to be ***, but now * thanks to Mario)

Go to the Trevi Fountain and throw three coins there. One, to come back again, two, for a beautiful romance, and three… for a live happily everafter, or whatever… ****

Have a one-lap riding with Valentino Rossi *****

Learn to dance Tarantella and eat Cazu Marzu in the South **

Spending night in one of the trulli di alberobello, feeling like Snow White **

Watch Rigoletto or La Boheme in Piccolo Teatro Campopisano Genoa, and have a nice passeggiata in Bogliasco **

Be a valedictorian at the end of the academic year, and make my Italian teachers proud of me—which also means that by that time I’ll be speaking Italian without having to think first and will never again feel frustrated of not being able to express myself freely in that most beautiful language in the world! ***

Visiting Cremona to see the violins and revive my passion in it (that I have to suppress now due to lacking of time)—not yet sure if I’ll take mine there, though… 20 kgs only! *

Take a gondola and enjoy a nice evening in Venezia under the stars and moonlight, with a sweet guy singing one of Patrizio Buanne’s songs for me… come prima, più di prima, t'amerò ****

Watch derby della madonnina in Giuseppe Meazza stadium, wearing Inter’s shirt and feeling like a true tifosa. Yea, FORZA INTER!! *

Visit Appiano Gentile and ask Marco Materazzi about what he really said to Zidane that got him a famous head-butt, and oh… take a picture with Javier Zanetti and Jose Mourinho! ***

Stop being shy and be more ‘aperta’ like the Italians…be a talkative person, talk to each one of them and absorb as many Italian vocabs as my brains can hold (without really breaking ‘em). ***

Get some mimosa and feel special on the woman’s day (ohh shoot! I’ll be there after 9 March, unfortunately) ****

Learn the art of ‘being elegante all the time’ and ‘cooking like Italian moms’ ***

See the snow (for the first time in my life!) falling slowly from the skies like flakes of cottons…ROMANTIC!!!!!!!

And the list can go on and on as I dream away… (which is my full-time job right now!)…ooh, la vita è veramente bella!

*Definitely will be done and I can’t wait to do so! (oohhh… 5 more months to go!)
** Might or might not come true, depends on how much time and money I’ll have
*** Needs a lot of work but still possible to achieve
**** I know… I know….I sound cheesy and corny, but that’s me!
***** Yea, right… who do you think you are? Wake up, dreamer!

ANGOLI DIVERSI

2008-09-22T11:47:00.000+07:00

HURRAYYY!!!!!!!
Finally I can listen to all the songs from the newest album of Neri per Caso, Angoli Diversi… thanks to my friend Stefania who sent them to me after knowing that I could not find the album in all the music stores I went to in Jakarta.

Ohhhh…. It’s so good to hear the great voices of Mimi, Diego, Massimo, Ciro, Mario and Gonzalo, after waiting for their new album for so long!

Listening to them sing brought back the memories when I was 19, so crazy about them that I did my best to get a chance to meet and talk to them before they held their concert in Bandung, the city where I studied. I have no regret though I had to rush out from my mid-exams and skip another class just to meet them. They were AWESOME!

Thanks to them, my passion for Italy expanded and grew stronger. Thanks to their songs, I got to learn how to pronounce the Italian words when I had just begun my autodidact learning.

By the way, is there anybody who can help me identify the singers with whom they collaborated in this album, besides Mango in ‘bella d’estate’ and Mario Biondi in ‘what a fool believes’? I don’t know many Italian singers besides Laura Pausini, Eros Ramazzotti, Georgia and Andrea Bocelli—looking forward to get to know more once I arrive there!

NON VEDO L’ORA!

ONE STEP CLOSER

2008-07-07T09:52:00.000+07:00

I remember the thought that crossed my mind while I was walking to enroll myself in an Italian evening class. I told myself, “I’m taking my first step to Rome.” Talk about faith!

Last week, as I was waiting to enter the Italian embassy to sign several documents for the scholarship, I recalled that statement and (again) told myself, “I’m one step closer to Rome.”

Indeed, Rome will be the first city in Europe I will set my feet in next year…(ayy….time, please do fly!).

I did not complain of having to spend my whole morning mostly waiting and waiting, cos I got to talk a lot with other scholarship winners. Together with those who are taking master and doctoral degrees, we are in 11, enough to form a soccer team!

And, as we shared the same excitement and worries, bonds were fast built. Most of us have to leave for Italy at different times, different cities, different universities. But there is one person who will study at the same period of time and same university with me (only different length of time, she got 6 month scholarship, I got 9), and so we plan to go together and share an apartment.

Before I met her, I asked my teacher whether it would be possible for me to stay with an Italian family, to expedite my learning their language and culture, and he said he would seek that possibility. Now I changed my mind, cos I’m just so excited to share an apartment with her.

You know why?

When we started to talk, she told me that her intention of learning Italian was because she wanted to study in a conservatoire afterwards. And, upon hearing the word conservatoire, I immediately asked, “What do you play?”

Can you guess?

Yeppp… VIOLIN!

(I am now mentally packing my stuff—violin included—to go to Perugia! And I promise, no matter how long the flight will be, or how boring the bureaucracy will be, no matter how freezing the winter will be and how strong the homesickness will be, I WILL NOT COMPLAIN of anything, while I am there!)

TIME TO SAY GOODBYE

2008-06-23T10:29:00.001+07:00

To the Italian squad from the EURO 2008 championship!
WOAAAAAAAAAAAAAA…………………….. so saaaaaaaaaaaddddd….
But my prophecy (read my previous blog post) came true… I only got to hear fratelli d’Italia once more, i.e. last night… and that was it........

(sniff..sniff.. still weeping with Pirlo and De Rossi!)

ps. maybe this is the sign i should stop fare piccole ore!

DOV’E LA VITTORIA?

2008-06-18T10:59:00.000+07:00

…had been the question I asked to the Italian soccer team during this Euro 2008, for they failed to win in the first two matches.
Last night, the long awaited victory finally showed herself, when they defeated France 2-0. Both teams failed to show their best performance, I daresay, but the second goal from Daniele De Rossi was superb, though.

Sigh… the next match against Spain (most likely!) will be terribly hard for gli azzuri.. especially because Gattuso and Pirlo will be absent due to the two yellow cards they got, and also because Toni has been infertile so far.

Ah well, at least I got to hear their national anthem once again.. (this is the first tournament in which I could sing it along from the beginning to the end… laugh at me, but I used to memorize the lyrics before going to sleep and hum to myself while dreaming of Italy.…)

Fratelli d'Italia (Italian brothers)
L'Italia s'่ desta (Italy has arisen)
Dell'elmo di Scipio (With Scipio's helmet)
S'่è cinta la testa (binding her head)
Dov’è la Vittoria? (Where is Victory?)
Le porga la chioma (Let her bow down)
Chè schiava di Roma (For the slave of Rome)
Iddio la creò (God has made her)

Stringiamoci a coorte (Let us gather in legions)
Siam pronti alla morte (Ready to die)
Italia chiamò! (Italy has called!)

SI!

TIME ENOUGH FOR TEARS

2008-06-02T09:20:00.000+07:00

This week has been the toughest I’ve ever faced, as I have attended two funerals of my beloved ones. First, my dad, and then, 6 days later, my colleague Eva.

And as I stood there watching their final seconds on earth, I could not help wishing my tears had been of a phoenix, so they would have not been so powerless to do anything for them. Thankfully both died peacefully, but the memories can be more painful than any sharp knife. There’s nothing I can say or do that can take away the pain of losing them.

Of course I am grateful to have been able beside my dad during his final days, talking to him, letting him know how much he meant to me and how I loved him, listening to him singing my favorite childhood song despite his struggle for air, while I rested my head beside his, and the pillow became wet with my tears because my heart had no room except for sorrow and fears. I still wanted to do a lot more for him, and I always wished he would be there on my wedding someday. But upon seeing his condition, I realized I had been so selfish to demand that from him—he had been always there for me. So I changed my prayers—I prayed that I would be there when he needed me, when he breathed the last (it was granted).

Still, it was killing me to see him suffer, and I learned to understand why the Father turned His face away as His only Son suffered the death, cos I felt the same too. I wanted to run away, hide myself somewhere, so I did not have to see him slumped in the hospital bed, skin and bones, with swollen legs and pale face. I‘d never seen him so weak and old like that before, and all I could do was just holding his hand crying, wanting to help but was unable to.

And all he was worried about was me, whether I got bored staying all day long with him at the hospital room, whether I had spent a lot on his medical care, whether I would get fired if I kept staying with him and skipped work too long. He was he, the best father I could have ever asked for. A simple man who only knew how to work hard and sacrifice for his family, the one who loved my mom unconditionally, and would’ve been more than willing to die for his children should’ve it been necessary. And, as if he had known my secret fears, he kept showing us a confirmation after another of his true faith, making us sure where he is now. He’s home and he’s free. And like always, he is waiting for me there with his assuring smile—until I too am called home when my time comes. And what he has now is far greater than anything I could give him here.

But I still cry over him, especially when I’m alone with the memories.

However, I knew my life had to go on, so three days after the funeral I came back to work, received the condolences, and even could laugh and trade teasing glances with my colleague Eva—and all I could think of was how pretty she looked that day—who would have thought, it was her last smile to me, cos the following morning, she became a victim of a hit and run accident, banged her head hard, had a fatal hemorrhage, and lost her consciousness. It was heart-wrenching to see the doctor take off all the sustaining machines and let her die, leaving a mother, a husband, and three kids who wailed for her, and a lot more people who would miss her so much. Gone is my motherly friend, who always helped me and stood up for me, encouraged me to pursue my dreams, took a good care of me as if I had been her family—she even secretly planned to cook for my oncoming birthday, wanting to cheer me up after the loss of my father. I don’t remember ever getting upset with her, not even once during the 6 months of working together everyday, side by side.

I wish this week were just a dream, a nightmare, and I could wake up the next morning still having them around. But it is not, cos bad things also happen to good people. Even so, I still can say, God gives, God takes away, blessed be the name of the Lord.

STOP RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!!!

2008-05-12T16:29:00.000+07:00

People, stop turn over your calendars!
Clock, stop ticking!
Earth, stop revolving!

Let me enjoy being 26 a lil bit longer, please?

SEARCHING WITHOUT HOPING TO FIND….

2008-05-06T09:15:00.001+07:00

….. and waiting for something I did not want to come true. That was the ‘title’ of my life chapter last week.

Yea, after feeling an extreme fatigue, intense headache, sore in my joints, nausea and tummy-ache, I was struck with a terror of having to repeat my nightmare two years ago, when I had a close brush with death.

So I frantically searched for red spots all over my skin, and waited for the more convincing symptom of dengue: a sudden high fever, which would cause you to grit your teeth in cold while your body is as hot as a stove, and which would turn my fears into reality: dengue fever for the second time.

Even thinking about it made me shiver with fears, and imagining those lonely hours at the hospital drove me to tears. As I lied awake in my bed, with a spinning head and without any energy left on my sweated body, I sobbed and could not help picking up a bone with God. Why me again? Why this time, when I have so much to do and I cannot tell my mom of my worries, since she has had enough from taking care of my sick dad?

But luckily the good sense got the best of me and I started to pray that God miraculously would spare me from that darned disease. Distant and rare my prayers were, He was and is and will be faithful to hear me.

The following morning, instead of getting worse, I felt so much better and relieved and soooo happy that even if somebody had dared to step on my feet on purpose, slap me on both cheeks and insult me flat out, I don’t think I could’ve gotten angry. Amazing how gratitude can make you much more patient, eh?

(I’m also so grateful for those caring people who love me enough to share my worries and burdens, amidst my paranoid state of mind!)

….AND ALL IS WELL THAT ENDS WELL

2008-04-30T09:30:00.002+07:00

So it is with my Italian course. It was fun from the beginning to the end, period.
If you think three months are too short to bring people together, to care and respect for each other, you’re dead wrong.
During the last three months, I’ve grown to love my classmates and teacher at the Italian Institute a lot—it is like having a family to share the two evenings in every week with, while mine is far away from Jakarta.

Of course, before we got to know each other better, it was a lil bit awkward. The professor even complained once about how serious we were, how not-smiley we were when trying to comprehend the grammar. And he commanded us to be more relaxed, to smile and laugh more, and just to enjoy ourselves.

And, since he walks what he talks, it didn’t take long before his sense of humor infected all of us, who later on became experts in giggling, snickering, and laughing, til he started calling our class a manicomio (lunatic asylum).

At first we were probably a little bit shocked (not too bad, though) with a teacher who often calls us brutta, matta, asina, bugiarda, vipera, zitella (ugly, crazy, stupid, liar, viper, spinster) and whose favorite sentences are vuoi sposarmi? (would you marry me?), and mi dai un bacio? (would you give me a kiss?), whose famous line in Indonesian is: Saya guru paling ganteng, paling manis, paling pintar di seluruh jagat raya! (I’m the handsomest, sweetest, best teacher in the whole universe!), and who loves to suggest his students to wear mini-gonna (mini-skirts). Even though we might’ve shaken our heads at his jokes, played the devil’s advocate every time he boasted about himself, and, more often than not, said no to his marriage proposal(s), none of us doubted that he is a superb teacher—a teacher to the core.

He made his own modules, and came to the classroom well-prepared. He knew how to explain the complicated grammatical rules in a way that is easy to be remembered and understood, and though at first he seemed to scare most of the students by yelling their names to answer some questions, we finally knew that it was part of his sense of humor, that he meant no harm, and that he knew what he was doing, shaping us to become smarter. He also knew how to balance the knowledge and fun, and made both get along well by a lot of fun intermezzos, like singing some songs together, recite a poem, reading a lot of jokes, and listening to his life story. Once, he even dragged a young Italian guy he found at the library to our class, to be grilled by our ‘shameless’ questions (are you married…would you marry me… would you give me a kiss…would you give me your heart--kind of thing), which that poor guy could fortunately dodge out of some (oh, I think it’s too premature… I can’t live without my heart…).
And oh, then I fully realized that we had become so much like our beloved teacher! (After all, it is just natural that we repeat what we have often heard, right?)

Maybe it is an evidence that we actually are fond of him (though of course, we would rather die than admitting it in front of him!), but we did show him how much we loved and respected him last night, when we celebrated his 55th birthday.

Even a week before the exam we had plotted to organize something special for him, and assigned certain persons to be in charge of the gift, wine, food, music, and invitees…(and, since most of the ladies are fashionable, we decided to wear cocktail dresses). The heavy rain killed our hope to hold a garden party after the class. Instead, we gathered in the lobby and partied there (no lesson at all!). Accompanied by the beautiful music from the harp, we sang the Happy Birthday song (in Italian version of course) together. What a night to remember, with lots of joy and laughter. I just hope that it would also be memorable for our professor, and would at least reduce his many ‘nightmares’ of living in Jakarta. I overheard one of the teachers teased him, “So after all this, can you still say you don’t like Indonesia?” and he just smiled. And I hope, that smile means, “No, I’ve changed my mind now.”

Above is the picture of our gift for him. More pictures will follow later, after I gather them from other classmates (who, apparently, have better cameras and were more diligent in taking pictures)

MY ONE REMAINING BIGGEST DREAM

2008-04-27T09:40:00.000+07:00

It feels like yesterday, when I rushed to the Italian Institute to enroll myself in a language course (just like I’d always wanted to do, but never had a chance), and then waited impatiently until there were enough people to start a new class.

And I still remember those feelings I felt, while I was walking there to have my first lesson, that Thursday night, about three months ago. There were butterflies in my stomach, and tingling sensations which crept all over my bones, and to every tip of my fingers; the same feelings like I had when I touched my own violin for the first time (after wanting it so bad), or after a call from a publisher who told me that they liked my script and wanted to publish it (after waiting for that good news so long) -- feelings I often feels when I’m………. in love.

And I guess I am.

I’m in love with music, writing, and Italian language. Those are my three biggest dreams and desires. Funny how people often mistook it.
They teased me of having a crush with a male violinist when I stood amazed at the beautiful melody he played and told myself, “Someday I’ll be playing it too.”
They thought I was writing my own romance and experiences in my book, while I only imagined and made things up.
And having seen me so motivated in learning Italian over the years, toiling with those complicated grammatical rules by myself, they often suspected me of having an Italian boyfriend (while I’ve never had any).

Do people think it is really impossible to be so passionate about things just because the way they are?
Surely things cannot stand alone, they’re always interrelated and intertwined somehow, and one thing can lead to another, but when one thing is too dependent to the other, what happens when the other one is finally gone?

True passion survives the time test, and love is stronger than pains. It indeed is. My love for music strengthened me to practice diligently (until my nails were all cracked and dry, and my shoulders and hands were sore and rigid), my love for literature kept me writing for years (despite those rejection slips I got), and my love for Italy –oh can’t you believe it—has made me even willing to put aside those other two!

At first I was trying to be a super woman, juggling so many things at once (two jobs, a violin course, long writing hours every night, and Italian lesson twice a week) but then I realized that I’m merely a human being with normal energy that runs out easily—so I’ve got to be wise, I’ve got to make priorities.

God has been so good to me (He is all the time!). He graciously granted me a place in the student orchestra last year, several months after my book was out in the store. Those (among other things) had been in my prayers every night. Never mind the many wrong tunes I hit in the concert, never mind the not so good sale of my book, I still counted it as my two biggest dreams come true.

And so I’m still waiting for the third one to happen. I long for the day when I can finally be in Italy, to see, feel, taste, learn, and enjoy the language and culture which have inspired me a lot, in ways that are too broad and profound to be described by words only.

Now the course is about to finish after the final exam last Thursday, but that doesn’t mean that my learning process is over. The ending of something is always the beginning of something else. I’m still hungry and thirsty to learn more and more and more, until I can speak Italian fluently and effortless, not mixing up the verb conjugations, not stammering to find the right words, or being frustrated of not knowing how to express myself properly due to the lack in vocabulary.

They say, Tutte le strade portano a Roma (all roads lead to Rome), and I can only say, “Amen, amen, amen.”

SHORT ARDENT AFFAIR

2007-11-29T16:25:00.000+07:00

It was love at the first sight.
He was so cute and sweet, and he returned my affection whole-heartedly. He was crazy of my gentle strokes, and I could not stop thinking of him. I did my best to make him happy, and I think I did, to some extent.
But then I had to say goodbye and leave him. It was so ironic—I who loved him so much could not stay to be there for him, and those who could stay didn’t know how to love him as much as I did, and didn’t care too much of how he was feeling either.
And so our love affair lasted only for three days. They said I was responsible for his broken heart which was fatal. They implied that it was my too much love that killed him. But I could accuse back that it was their lacking of love which could not make him survive.
Well, he’s gone now. And these tears won’t make him back. He was fragile and defenseless anyway, and maybe it was for his own good that every suffering he’d felt was taken away so quickly, along with his short life.
Nevertheless, I still wish he were still there, getting bigger, barking louder, wiggling his tail upon seeing me, licking my toes, or climbing into my lap to be cuddled. And I promised I would love him more.

A SONG FOR ERINA

2007-07-30T16:19:00.000+07:00

WITH HOPE
This is not at all how
We thought it was supposed to be
We had so many plans for you
We had so many dreams
And now you've gone away
And left us with the memories of your smile
And nothing we can say
And nothing we can do
Can take away the pain
The pain of losing you, but ...
We can cry with hope
We can say goodbye with hope
'Cause we know our goodbye is not the end, oh no
And we can grieve with hope
'Cause we believe with hope
(There's a place by God's grace)
There's a place where we'll see your face again
We'll see your face again
And never have I known
Anything so hard to understand
And never have I questioned more
The wisdom of God's plan
But through the cloud of tears
I see the Father's smile and say well done
And I imagine you
Where you wanted most to be
Seeing all your dreams come true
'Cause now you're home And now you're free, and ...
We have this hope as an anchor
'Cause we believe that everything God promised us is true, so ...
We wait with hope
And we ache with hope
We hold on with hope
We let go with hope
(Steven Curtis Chapman, 'Speechless')

GRASS IS GREENER ON THE OTHER SIDE (??)

2007-08-12T16:19:00.000+07:00

To be honest, it never crosses my mind to pass somebody’s yard and compare his grass with those on mine. Literally, I mean… but, is it really true that grass is greener on the other side of the fence?
It depends on how you view it, or with what angle you view it, really.
I’ve been chatting with some friends who are seemingly living my dreams, and yet they, to some extent, expressed a desire to trade place with me (which made me ashamed of complaining anymore).
But, how on earth could that happen? Didn’t they also dream the same dream with me? Rather than being dismayed to know that actually things we had thought green have lost its vivid color as time passed, I rejoiced knowing it.
Oh, please, don’t judge me too fast. I’m not rejoicing over my friends’ complaints or their being dissatisfied, be they have achieved their dreams while I’m still fighting for it. I rejoiced because it made me aware that every grass is actually green (cos when they dried up and became yellowish, we call them hay, right?). And, knowing that no place can ever make problems absent in our lives can teach us to be thankful for the roses, and not complain for the thorns (ehm..., please excuse my using cliché here).
So, every time I listen about someone else’s burden, instead of being discouraged like I used to (and I thought it was sympathy or empathy, whatever you may call it), I now have learned to feel relieved, that we actually have our own problems, and no one is too immune of them (and my relief doesn’t mean a nasty thing, like when people rejoice over their enemy’s defeat or fall). This sense of relief doesn’t kill any compassion or other loving feelings we ought to feel when someone dear to us is troubled. But, by not being dismayed ourselves, we are supposed to be able to help them better, and see things in a clearer way, rather than being blurred by excessive and unnecessary sentimentality.
I’m also thankful for the sadness that still tingles my heart and the tears I sometimes shed for the suffering of other people, which proves that I am still capable of loving and caring for others.

ROSES ARE RED

2007-08-20T16:21:00.000+07:00

Just like my mum’s. Growing beautifully in our garden. Sometimes (or too often), our old neighbor would come in her wheel-chair to ‘rob’ it, and my mum was never too cheap to part with her flowers, thinking that it might be one of a very few things that could please someone in that golden age (what else, can you think?).
Anyway, what I want to write about is not those red roses, but the white ones, I saw them in a skinny tree out there in the pavement, sandwiched in between hard cement and white wall of somebody else’s fence. I was struck to see lots of flowers in her tiny slender stem. How could she bloom in a situation like that? How could she refresh my eyes when she did not look refreshed herself?
What a revelation. I want to be like that too, as a person. No matter how small my world feels at a time (which surely happens to all of us), no matter how suppressed I feel, I still want to be a blessing for others who see me. But sometimes, I am too cheap to even make an effort to smile, when my own heart is not in the mood for love, or whatever you might call it. Instead of blooming like those sandwiched roses, I might’ve been caused an eyesore to others with my snappy words and bad mood. And I truly regret it now.
I might be in need for positivity right now, but it is not an excuse to be negative myself.

BOUND TO BE HOME

2007-09-11T16:23:00.000+07:00

Most people (who I know of, at least) aren’t content to be where they are.
It’s relieving to know that I’m not the only one. Yet it’s also alarming to think that a place you’ve imagined would make you a happier person (if only you could live in it), apparently has failed to do so to others (who are already living there). A dreamer wishes to see more of the world, and yet has to fret because her humdrum routine work makes her feel as if she’s being grounded. And yet a world traveler might long for a year when he can finally settle in one place rather than moving around like a nomad. A woman in her mid-thirties might long for a long-awaited soulmate who’d come to snatch her from her ‘weird singlehood’ (as my friend Danielle put it) and make her his queen in some Timbuktu land where she once has been. And maybe they will breed a litter of kids so she won’t have to be alone anymore, won’t be confused anymore of what to do when time is abundant. And yet a young wife with a handful baby to raise thinks she’d give anything to just have 5 minute for herself, to be alone, to be quiet, without having to worry about breastfeeding her kids, putting up with mom in law, or her once romantic husband who’d grown cold. Or a youngster who dreams of being an expat, living and making money in some far away country, tasting new cuisines he only hears of in some culinary shows on TV, and yet has to be satisfied feeding himself with instant noodles, especially at the end of a month when he has spent nearly all his last month’s salary and has not yet received the next.
And those were a few examples to mention. And like I told you before, I am one of them too. Above all places in the whole universe, I want to go to Italy, and maybe some of you are already sick of hearing me say those words again and again.
Few days ago a friend of mine sent me a well-written short story depicting Milan (which made me rack my brain and flip my dictionary in my efforts to understand it---it’s in Italian). It didn’t tell about the exquisite panettone with gelato inside which would make your mouth water, nor about the exhilarating soccer match in San Siro stadium (which I want to see one day), nor about those tame doves which would surround you in front of the famous Duomo. In short, it was a story of Milan from the point of view of someone who probably had lived there all of her life. Down to earth, realistic, and at some point, poignant too. Strangely, it made me think of Jakarta: Same problems, similar dilemmas. Then why on earth do I (still) think that I would enjoy Milan (or at least tolerate it more) than I do Jakarta?
Beats me.
I’m a kind of person who’s easy to please but hard to satisfy. But I guess, most of us are. We tend to think that other places must be better, must be more pleasant or exciting than where we are now, simply because it is different than what we’re accustomed to. But once the honeymoon period is over, we are faced with the same old drudgery, and start to long for somewhere else. Again.
Is it selfish to be so?
Some self-conceited people do think so. One of them accused my selfless and talented friend of being selfish simply because he said he wanted to go abroad. Why not stay in your homeland, there are lots of souls needed your help, lots of chances to serve the Lord here—were the bases of the accusation. The thing is, that man is not God, and who is he to judge my friend whom he’d just met once? And if he also left his own country to be here, then why smirking at someone else who wanted to do what he himself had done? A dear friend of mine implied a similar accusation to me a while ago. I understand why she thinks so, though I have never been in her position. But I grieved over her failure to understand me simply because she has not been in my position.
I don’t think it’s a sin to want to be somewhere else. I believe it is fine, as long as you can still be grateful for everything you enjoy and learn here, and even for the troubles and challenging things you have to face now, not that you should pretend to enjoy what you can’t, but to realize that they are usually the things that shape you into a better person.
For me, this awareness of the impossibility of being content in one particular place is also a kind of epiphany. It shows me that nowhere in this world will really make me feel home. Cos I’m not home already, there’s always a part of me longing for somewhere else where I’m meant to be. Hey, you’re wrong—I’m not talking about Italy. This place must be much more beautiful than any place we know of, so beautiful that we hardly can imagine this place exist at all. And that’s where other problem lies, i.e. in our inability to have a proper imagination or picture of that place.
(Now I’m gonna quote C.S Lewis heavily) We actually have some symbols to help us imagine it—yet, because of their limited brain, people are usually too dumb to understand. Some of them sneer that they do not want ‘to spend eternity playing harps’ (heck, I love violin so much yet I don’t think I want to spend more than two hours playing it at a time!). Those symbols are used to express the inexpressible. Music for ecstasy and infinity, crown for divine splendor and glory, and gold for timelessness of that place (cos gold doesn’t rust). And if it is not enough, the absence of pain, fear, sorrow (and all those unpleasant feelings) is added on.
Unfortunately, I know that some people are not going to make it, no matter how hard they’ve tried (try to be good as you can, try to give as much as you can, at the most you can only be the least imperfect person in the world, but still perfection won’t allow imperfection in any amount), if they know not the right way to go there. Anyhow, the questions that remain with me now are: what if some of them are people we know, or worse, people we love and wish well? Will the remembrance of them and their absence in that place make us sad? (while it is said there will be no tears), or will we be too consumed with joy that we forget about them? (which sounds selfish to my ears). Again, my questions don’t mean that I doubt about the existence of that place. It is rather like someone who still doesn’t grasp all the formulae while she fully believes that mathematics do exist.
Alright, to those who’ve been patient to read until this far: If you happen to be longing to be somewhere else and wonder whether by wanting it you’ve become an ungrateful chap, I just want you to think it over again and never let your dreams go so easily (unless that still small voice urges you to, which I think will not happen too often, cos when we become more united with it we tend to have similar thoughts and desires), just because some people insensitively misunderstand and judge you. Cos who knows if the tug is actually inspired by something greater than your own desire and longing for adventures and experiencing new things?
But don’t delude yourself that there will be a perfect place in this imperfect world. No, not until we get to that place beyond this world, in which we finally will be able to say, ‘we’re bound to be home, and this is our home for eternity, and we don’t want to go elsewhere anymore’.

CORAGGIO!

2007-06-29T16:14:00.000+07:00

I was awakened from my slumber by a beep of my cellphone. The message reads:
When God leads you to the edge of the cliff, trust Him fully. You know why, only one of the two things will happen: Either He’ll catch you when you fall, or He’ll teach you to fly.
I was struck by the power of encouragement in it. Yeah, it’s something I can really use today, after getting one of the worst news in my life.
If I look back to my endless efforts, buoyant anticipation, high expectation and unwavering confidence, along with unquenchable enthusiasm and unbeatable determination to get what I really want and what I believe I really deserve more than anyone else in this world, of course, ending up not getting it, nay… even not being given a chance to prove it in the first place, is supposed to feel like a slap on my face, a pierce in my flesh, a wrench to my heart and a blow to my head.
BUT, to my surprise, I found myself so matured dealing with it, calmed beyond explanation and I haven’t even shed any tears so far. In fact, I slept soundly. What a miracle, to realize that my hope is not lost, my passion is not dead yet, and my love is not fading away, at one sentence or two from some people who don’t know me well, hence don’t have the slightest idea that they have slammed the door right before my face when I was hoping so much to enter inside, because they chose to close their eyes at my hard works.
That’s okay. I have done my best, and that’s what really counts. And no… no… their no will not end my life nor kill my hope. Rather, it is like a rod which makes a horse run faster, faster, and faster….
I believe everything is beautiful in its season. A seed has to die first to be able to grow. Lazarus had to die first to glorify the Lord when he finally was resurrected. So have I now, learning how to die. It’s not too painful when you understand that it is not the end. Rather, a beginning of new life.
Most important, I am not afraid anymore to keep dreaming big. When it’s not turned out the way I have expected, I believe it’s only a temporary sleep, not eternal death. A delay, not a cancellation. A closing of one door, but the windows are still wide open. Yeah… coraggio!!!!!!
(thanks for the sms, Ryan… it was like a drop of water when I was walking in the desert)