….AND ALL IS WELL THAT ENDS WELL

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

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.”

CORSO ITALIANO E UN PROFESSORE MATTO!

Well, after waiting for twelve years, two months, three weeks and four days (I’ve been counting, you know)--- I finally got an opportunity to learn Italian, the most heart-charming (for me) language in the world, formally, in a class, with other students, with a real Italian teacher (rather than groping with all those grammatical rules and tenses only by looking at books, by myself)--- and it just started last week!
So, hurrrrraaaaay!
I managed to convince (with a little bit of efforts) the institute to allow me to skip to the second level—making me nervous and dread to be the most stupida in the class—but thanksfully it did not happen.
And let me tell you about my teacher, Professor Raffaele Contardi, who claimed to be the best Italian teacher in the whole universe, who already knew how to say ‘I’m a handsome man’ in Indonesian, and who snorted ‘bugiarda!’ (meaning liar) when I said I agreed with everything he’d said (and yeah, I did lie a little!).
In short words, he is a RIOT! (and by the way, I mean it as a compliment, just in case you wonder)
He would storm in the class, bombard the students with Italian words which flow so smoothly and super fast from his mouth, making me envy of his eloquence. Most of the students were just taken aback, taking five seconds or so before finally managed to utter the response, making him grow impatient—and he was not reluctant to show it. So far I think I had done pretty good, sometimes got a ’brava!’ when I could fire back fast. And most of the time he used me as his translating machine, asking ‘come si dice in Indonesiano?’ for almost every Italian word he taught us.
Though he (almost) yelled all the time, complained about the absentees, bragged about himself, flirted with some beautiful students, grilled the rather slow ones, and could not care less to slow down despite so frequent raised hands with a protesting sigh “troppo veloce...troppo veloce…(too fast..too fast..)’, and also his threat to throw us out of the window (our class is on the 2nd floor, btw) if in the next lesson we cannot introduce ourselves and rant all the words in 12 seconds, our class was full with laughter and spirit he carried within every motion he made. Once or twice I even had to dodge my head out of his always moving around hands, afraid to be slapped accidentally.
And I ENJOYED IT A LOT!
I felt that I did belong there, where my favorite language was being taught as it is used by real Italians. And all those years in waiting finally paid off (of course, this is just the beginning, because I still long for a day where I can where all the people around me use it and I can blend in the culture as well).
So two hours felt like five minutes for me. The crazy professor suggested to continue until
10pm, and I wanted so much to nod in agreement (this time I didn’t lie!), but my head was stiff motionless for the fear of being booed by other students who could not wait to go home. And so my craving to still sit there and listen and talk Italian made me feel like una studentessa matta, a crazy student.
And I guess I am. I’m too much in love with the language that it hurts too much to stop. But that’s ok, cos una studentessa matta just fits in to learn with un professore matto, or, like Toto Cutugno puts it, un Italiano vero.

THE COOLEST ITALIAN MOVIE

http://tcc.itc.it/people/rocchi/fun/europe.html
check it out!
I had a big kick out of it! Never thought that Italians are so much like Indonesians, in soooo many ways! (I guess that's why i always have a soft spot for it in my heart!)
EVIVVA ITALIA!

THE AGONY OF WAITING

Been only weeks, but feels like a century
Lots of questions asked, but it remains a mystery
Love, or temporary infatuation?
Hope, or merely just an illusion?
Time, won’t you soon tell
Please, make all go well
Once again, on that same crossroad
One path is narrow, the other is broad
Where should I tread?
For going forward, I dread
Time, won’t you soon tell
Please, make all go well

MY FIRST LOVE….

…was sweet, and indeed hit the spot. It tasted peachy, a bit tangy too… all in all, refreshing!
Don’t be taken in too fast, my friends… I’m not being sentimentally romantic, I’m talking about a drink I had in a Chinese restaurant yesterday.
Yes, it is called First Love, such an eye-catching phrase in the menu, sweeter to read and imagine than, say, Drunken Chicken or whatsoever weird names for the other foods listed on the main menu.
Upon hearing the name of peach, I succumbed and ordered one. And I was not disappointed. So if I had been asked, “How was your first love?”, I would have answered (referring to the drink), “My first love was sweet, without the least tint of bitterness.” But in another context, I probably would not say so.
My first love (unrelated to the drink) was kind of rough, more bitter than sweet, lots to remember, but more to (wistfully) forget. And come to think of it, I look at being in love as a double-edged sword. It could protect, but also could hurt. It is also like a fruit; could be sour, could be sweet. And it is only sweet, when it is not unrequited!

CHRISTMAS REFLECTION

As I listened to the pastor’s message yesterday in the morning service, I was reminded by a question I used to struggle with.
As a child, I used to wonder and remain puzzled about one particular thing that the Bible told.
Why did they kill Jesus?
(Yes, of course apart from what I had known that Jesus came to die, and it was his purpose of condescending to this lowly earth, so he might die in our place)—but still, how come they killed him?
It was just too much for my child mind to comprehend, how come people who had seen him doing good for so many people; healing them, blessing them, feeding them, teaching them, liberating them, loving them, had a heart to flog, ridicule, and eventually put him to death in a shameful way—hanging on the tree?
Didn’t they see what I see in his cross? I don’t see the shame in it, I only see love, great love that made him stay there willingly, nailed and bled, while he could have come down if he’d wanted to.
Why did they hate Jesus, so much to want to do away with him?
The pastor phrased the reason in one sentence: Jesus did not fit in their religious system. It didn’t matter that he fulfilled all the prophecies in the Scriptures, they rejected him because he did not appear the way they wanted him to.
I too, in my life, have often acted the same way as they did, to some extent. Judging the books by their covers, judging people by outward appearance only, while what matters most lies inside us. When my sight is blurred by worldly things, I miss out the most important ones.
So, while it’s Christmas, I want to ask the Lord to once again cleanse my eyes so I’ll be able to see with a childlike manner, with a childlike faith. So as I see the helpless Babe in the manger, I would not mind the manure, would not mind the dirty stall full of animals. Instead, I would be amazed to see how low God was willing to stoop for me and you. And since I don’t have gold, incense, or myrrh, all I can do is to bow down all of me in front of him, and give him all I have: my welcoming heart, warmer than the heap of hay in his manger.
HAVE A BLESSED CHRISTMAS, MY FRIENDS!

(HE) LOVES ME, (HE) LOVES ME NOT

There are two kinds of guys that drove me nuts: stalker(s) and cool prince(s) charming. They both are annoying in their own way when they rub my back in the wrong direction. As being opposite to each other, they always prevail to make me grit my teeth, in annoyance, or in frustration. And maybe (or so I hope), all girls can sympathize with me to some extent.
Princes charming are aloof, untouchable, and despite their being near physically, they are still unapproachable, like a ball thrown too far, completely out of our league. When we wish they would call, or impatiently and frantically wait for any text, still the phone doesn’t ring nor beep, and the inbox remains empty. Sometimes they compel us to give them a green sign, and we reluctantly do, but still they wouldn’t bother to budge. They always create the same feeling inside me the way Latin music does, makes my feet wanna tap and swing around when I don’t have a partner to dance with. They make us thrilled for a while, but then the thrill is fading fast like a rose lacking of water.
Stalkers, in other hand, seem to be also blind (or ignorant, or indifferent?) towards our signs to shun them away. They make phone calls like daily ritual, sometimes to a frequency of taking your pills: three times a day—as if our schedule only consists of talking with them while we don’t even enjoy the conversation, and desperately think how to end it, and later, when it is getting worse and no longer bearable, we try to avoid it as often as we can. And oh boy, you’ll be amazed of how persistent they can be!
For me, friendship develops gradually—from an acquaintance, friend, close friend, more than a friend, and God willing, perhaps he is that long awaited soulmate. And so, a friend of a friend who you’ve just met one or twice is being unfair when he demands more time than what you have or are willing to spare for your own friends.
And also, there are some seasonal friends—those who were part of our stages in life and now as time has passed and you’ve changed a lot, you two might not fit in anymore to each other—and so he also has to start from the beginning again. And if he is not patient enough to go through the friendship phases I mentioned above, and trying to skip some initial phases instead, I find him very intrusively demanding, impolite, and extremely bugging. He is just like blasting rock music when what you really need is tranquility. He robs your peace by always pushing but never understanding.
However, the only question with me now is this: If a prince charming starts acting like a stalker, will he make you super-thrilled with the lavishing of attention, or will you downgrade his position to a ‘stalker category’ and lose your interest in him? I happen to have not a chance yet to test the hypothesis. But as for me, no matter how deeply I am attracted to somebody, I cannot let him have my whole time—I still need some for my family, friends and girlfriends, and most of all, being an introvert, I need time for my own self.
In this case, my previous objection towards long distance relationship starts to dissolve itself. In short words, I’m willing to try it even though I know that there will be times when all I can do is sitting alone on a bench in a garden, tearing the petals from their core one by one while sadly whispering to myself: he loves me… he loves me not… he loves me…. he loves me not…..he loves me.

SAY NO TO PLAGIARISM

As most people know, writing is one out of million other things I enjoy to do, and one of a few things I take seriously. However, I only have two books on creative writing (of course I’ve read more than that).
Since a friend asked to borrow the only one I have with me now, I took it out of the shelves and reread it again since last night. Personally I don’t think it was great, but last night I thought it was good, esp. the chapter on metaphors, the subject I like the most.
HOWEVER….. five minutes ago, as I reread some files on my computer in the ‘creative writing’ folder, I came across an old document that my formed boss downloaded for me, called OWL Writing Guidance from Purdue University Online Writing Lab. And guess what… I found out that the metaphor chapter I just read in the book was just exactly a translated version of a part of that writing guidance! Not only the definition, even down to the sentence examples!
As I furiously looked for any citation or reference which would take off my offence and objection towards what I suspected as plagiarism, I felt my heart breaking cos there was none!
What makes it outrageous, the writer is one of the famous ones in
Indonesia, won a prestigious prize and was awarded as the best literary writer by a well-known magazine several years ago, and is teaching creative writing in a learning center!
I TRULY HOPE that he just forgot to put the citation/reference, and did not omit it intentionally! SAY NO TO PLAGIARISM!

SHORT ARDENT AFFAIR

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.

ON DUCATI DAY and STONER’S METAMORPHOSIS
I know it’s a lil bit late to say this, but following my fave racer Valentino Rossi’s example of being a good sport—I just want to congratulate all Ducati fans on their triumphant day last Sunday in Motegi, Japan.
It’s also amazing to see how fast a cocoon turned into a butterfly—from a ‘Crashy’ Stoner into Casey The Winner.
Vale finally found the best rival—hopefully next season will be much more fun to watch—full adrenaline too!

MUSIC OF MY HEART

I’ve been feeling musical lately.
Maybe it is triggered by the intensive orchestra rehearsals at my music school and my daily two hour practices at home.
I really love to be there, in the hall upstairs, where lots of chairs are arranged neatly, two for every music stand: we are seated in pair then, and there’s no fixed rule where to sit, as long you find someone with the same position (first, second, or third fiddlers). We all mingle there, from every age (elementary school kids, teenagers, up to grown ups in mid-forties). Some additional chairs are put nearby to anticipate the laggards.
Sometimes I am one of those laggards. But despite the yells to hurry up from the annoyed teacher and music conductor, I enjoy those rushing moments when we climb up the stairs, two steps at a time, then go inside the small room to put our violin case on the floor, open it up quickly yet carefully, tighten the bow and set up the shoulder rest as fast as we can. Though most of us usually don’t have enough time to apply the rosin into those smooth fibbers, we can still smell it from the residue not yet wiped away from the last practice.
Then we fly to the hall where the music is already playing.
We violinist are lucky never to be singled out for any false tunes (though we hit them anyway), but receive the reproach(es) as a group, unlike the poor and only one drummer, or guitarist, or bassist. The worst is just a playful poke of the teacher’s baton to correct the position of our hands, legs, and backs. We don’t mind his yelling at us, really. It is taken with a grain of salt, and though we loudly boo at his suggestion(s) of prolonging the rehearsal hour, we actually won’t mind lingering there a little bit more.
I think music is beautiful. I can’t agree at all with a close friend of mine who thinks that music is not more than a disturbing noise. He is one of the two people I know of who don’t like music, almost hate it, I dare say. However, our different opinion about this subject doesn’t reduce my respect and affections I have for him.
Anyway, I have learned to enjoy some ‘disturbing noises’ as a music as well. I will never forget the beauty I found in my nephews’ kiddy talks as they fussed over me soon after my hospital release over a year ago. Their loud and cheerful voice could barely contain their joy of seeing again their once almost dead aunty. And it mortified me to remember how many times I had chided them for making those sounds when I needed a peaceful time to nap or study.
I’ve also grown to appreciate the moments when I woke up to the sound of the rustling leaves, tossed by a morning breeze. From my window I can see some almost withered roses nodding a good morning for me, while at the same time keeping their petals from dropping with impressive tenacity I almost cry watching them. They won’t be there too long.
But soon I’ll be comforted with the sound of my parents chattering in the kitchen or dining room. Sometimes when I am not too sleepy, from my bedroom I can catch a word or two of their conversations, hear their pleasant chuckles as they banter light-heartedly, like a song to my ears, affirming that they are already there for me, ready to smile at and love me unconditionally, and the thought of it warms my heart beyond words.
I know they won’t be there for me forever, neither will I for them. I hate to think of it, but someday we must say goodbye too. But I will always keep their ‘morning song’ in my heart, as the most beautiful music of all.

BOUND TO BE HOME

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’.

INTER OH INTER......

After leading 1-0 with Dejan Stankovic’s beautiful goal, Inter could not maintain the position only four minutes before the game was over! Alas! They only got 1 point in the first match of Italian league this season.
And I was just stunned to realize that until Francesco Toldo was played after a fatal blunder of Julio Cesar that sent him off for blocking the ball outside his penalty box, there was no Italian player on Inter squad. Materazzi was not playing, and Grosso has moved to
Lyon.
And so, Inter was full of stranieri, mostly Argentines and Brazilians.
I was so disappointed by their performance, period.

ROSES ARE RED

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.

TICKLED BY TICKS

Funny how small things could create big problems. I believe I’d been tickled by ticks (read: bitten). Yeah, it did not almost kill me like mosquitoes did once, but still it is so annoying to feel the rash all over my body for almost three weeks.
I thought I’d get rid of it once I finished the doctor’s medication, but I had to come back for another one and I begged him not to give me any pills which had made my appetite ran wild, almost uncontrollable.
He nodded, yeah yeah… those pills increase your appetite. But the fact is, it made me a hungry monster all the time, thinking of what I could gobble up next. Huh. Not that I care bout my weigh. It’s just, I hate being controlled by something I should be able to control.

GRASS IS GREENER ON THE OTHER SIDE (??)

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.

A SONG FOR ERINA

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')

REMEMBERING ERINA

Today I just found out that my dear friend Erina (29), a young and dedicated doctor who was serving in a remote area in Papua, was killed in a car accident after she helped deliver a bleeding pregnant woman to a hospital in Fakfak. To save her last patient’s life, Erina decided to drive the ambulance herself throughout a winding and dangerous road. On the way back to Kokas (where she worked to substitute another doctor), her car slipped and fell to a ravine of 20 m depth. The nurse who was with her broke her leg and climbed up to ask for help, while Erina was injured badly and passed away on the way to the hospital.
And because I was traveling, I did not follow the news on TV or newspaper, and nobody told me about it until today (I guess they all assumed that everyone knew about it since it became a highlighted news lately). Anyway, I heard another friend talking about the death of a young female doctor in Papua several days ago, and I directly remembered Erina, wishing it was not her. Her last email to me was sent from Fakfak, on May 24 (she congratulated me on my first novel and promised to get a copy when she is back in Bandung), so I drilled my friend to find out whether it was her, but she could not remember any details, so I convinced myself that there must be lots of doctors in Papua, and it could’ve been somebody else.
This morning, before my devotional time ended, my cellphone beeped. Three sms notifying and confirming her death. I fought my tears but gave up. I remembered the times when she drove me home after our Tuesday Bible Studies, listening to her fave Josh Groban’s songs, talking about the future and her medicine studies. I remembered how she willingly helped out with the SRT project I was working on back on my SIL days. She even drove my teammates to her local clinic outside Bandung, where they could interview some of her patients for the project. I could not join them because of my dengue fever. My Mom said, on TV she saw those villagers weeping over Erina’s death, saying that she was such a loving, hard-working and attentive doctor. She was a light there. Not many doctors are willing to help poor people in remote areas. Erina was exceptional.
To think that her life was so brief and had to end so abruptly, in a tragic way, really saddened my heart. I don’t understand why God took her so soon, surely she could be used to help more people with her talents and godly desires. But who am I anyway, to ever question God’s wisdom? One thing that consoles me right now is the assurance that she is now with the Lord, smiling, and happy to have finished her duties on earth, even accomplishing her final task perfectly.
Erina, I am so proud of you. I will always remember your radiant smiles, your heart of gold, and your gentle spirit. Surely you’ll be missed a lot here, but someday we will see each other again, in heaven.
(One of the news about her death: http://www.detiknews.com/index.php/detik.read/tahun/2007/bulan/07/tgl/16/time/152105

ASIKNYA AKSI ROSSI!

From 11 to 1, and Il Dottore is back in the business again!
So fun to watch MotoGP Assen with the two guys of my life, all of us were hoping to be entertained with a great race, and ended up satisfied by the cool performance of Valentino Rossi.
To be honest, for me it’s hard to choose between si Rookie and si Rossi… both are impressive lately. My head usually picks Stoner, but of course, my heart goes for Rossi always (maklumlah, kita sebangsa dan setanah air huehehehe…)
Last week my head was right, this time my heart won in the three last laps, which made everything more fun and more entertaining. And, it was so beautiful to hear Fratelli D’Italia again at the podium.
Also congrats for Hayden for tasting his first podium this season, but….VIVA VALE PER SEMPRE!