Dear diary:
Yesterday, my entire family swooped down on me like a flock of giant ibises, and took me away to a magical Zen moment.
My
sister Isabel and her family (except a son who is in America), a brother and
his family, and Sophie and my kids, had earlier arrived in the city
where I now stay, for a quick holiday visit. But I was too swamped with work. I dilly-dallied in grabbing the chance to spend some time with
them.
Yesterday, they conspired to pull me away from work.
First, Isabel emailed me to say we need to talk. I said I'd be free on Easter Sunday. Then Sophie called me at the office, and basically told me off in her
inimitable style:
"Moon, Easter Sunday is too late. What are you doing there
at your office working anyway? For God's sake, it's a holiday break, and all
your family is here. Such a rare opportunity for a get-together. They
didn't see you last Christmas. They didn't see you on New Year's Eve. This time you must go. Your
sister and brother, your nieces and nephews are all here. Jig is here. We are coming to pick you up. Be there in your campus parking lot
by 5 pm sharp. Oh, and buy some bananas. We need bananas."
Typical Sophie. Didn't give me any wiggle space for What if's and Yes but's. She hung up even before I could put in a single complete sentence edgewise.
Now
you must understand that while I had long stopped practicing my
Catholic religion, almost my entire extended family continues the
tradition. And so, this week being Lenten season, the convoy of three vans picked me up and proceeded to the nearest Catholic
cathedral for prayers at the first Stations of the Cross.
They know I don't like plodding through the Stations of the Cross. Ah, but
my proverbial patience is holding well.
Next, the traditional
family dinner gathering at my brother's townhouse. (My brother the rich banker.) We watch the spectacular sunset as
the giant red solar ball slowly sinks into the deepening mountain
shadows.
I won't bother you with the usual details of a large
family gathering... the overflowing banquet (there goes the Lenten
fasting of olden days), the beer (I was looking for red wine), the
familiar banter, the typical "How is so-and-so nowadays?" and "What are
your plans for so-and-so" kind of questions.
Jig plays Pachelbel's Canon in D and Schubert's Marche Militaire.
Sophie and I sneak out to the patio to ask how each other is doing,
to learn details of each other's plans, to sense our lingering feelings for each other. It feels okay. We are very
good friends now.
Finally, it's time to head back to our
separate destinations. We all load up into the vans, still engaged in light
banter, political chat, and casual goodbyes. (We know we will meet again in May for a bigger clan gathering.)
Without intending it, I find myself suddenly alone and quiet at the back of my sister's van.
My sister calls his son, a
robotics engineer working in one of the U.S. northeast's high-tech
companies. It's his birthday. Mother Isabel fondly greets son Tom, who is also
driving to work. Subtropical Cool Night meets Temperate Cold Morning half
a world away.
Suddenly, Sophie has an idea and tells everyone, "Hey, let's all greet
Tom with the loudest Happy Birthday song that we can shout into the cell!"
And so, as the
three-van convoy negotiated the mountain highway in the deepening dark,
you could hear the boisterous sounds of "Happy birthday, happy
birthday... happy birthday, dear Tom!" followed by cheers and hoots. The impromptu chorus wafts into my sister's cell, shoots across thousands of miles, into the headset of a young scientist to cheer him up as he drove to work on a snowy spring day.
"Hey,
everyone," I say as the singing stopped. "Do you recall that Tom's
birthday falls on the same date that Papa suffered a stroke?"
Everyone is
quiet. Yes, we remember now. It means that Papa's 10th death anniversary is coming up in a
couple of weeks.
The convoy stops by a monastery nestled
among the forested hills. The pine groves accentuate the dark. We carefully watch our steps as we go up the winding stairs into the dimly-lit chapel, where a
young monk is playing Bach's Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring.
Everyone is quiet. Some kneel and utter silent prayers. I close my eyes and
remember Papa. This Bach piece was his favorite. We remember him playing it every afternoon.
After
a few minutes of meditation, we ride again and head for the city's commercial
district, already visible in the distance as a thousand festoons of
bright street lamps and building windows that wink and flash in
the evening mist.
The flock of ibises
are going home. But they are going home to different nesting grounds. I
look at Sophie, who is texting someone on her cell. I look at my
brother, my sister, the children, all engaged in hasty last-minute
chats. I have no words to say how I feel at that moment.
Our vans follow the winding mountain highway like three tiny fireflies lost in the branches of a banyan tree.
It is my Zen moment.
I
gaze outside and look up at the night sky. The full moon, resplendent in
a cloudless field of deep blue. An enchanted Lenten evening in a city of
eternal springs. A silver-nitrate photo frozen in instant time. A wisp of dried flowers, pressed between the pages of a book. A knowing smile that
paused to think. A flock of ibises in mid-flight, silhouetted against the moonlight.
I wonder if my nephew Tom in America has the same feelings of profound nothingness as he drives to work on wintry mornings. Like me, Tom sketched a lot. Like me, he learned to play the piano by self-study. Papa, when he was still alive, liked to listen to him play.
I think about my dear friend overseas, and wonder if she sees the same images in her mind as I do.
My reverie is interrupted. Isabel asks, "Moon, hey, are you listening? Where do we drop you off?"
"Oh. Let me see. There. By that supermarket, sis. I need to pick up some groceries before I head home."
And I sense, with a tinge of sadness, the slight flicker of time. The magical moment has passed.
Dear diary: I hoped you liked my story for today. It doesn't have a plot, or a moral lesson, or even a dramatic ending, as a good narrative usually has. It's just there, for me to share.
moonriver posted on Mar 22, 2008
| views: 352
Comments
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runningbear said on Mar 22, 2008....
you are a good story teller. I saw it play out in my mind as you told it. Happy Easter, Moonriver. I too am Catholic and Easter is very special! -
quietone said on Mar 22, 2008....
awe, moon, what a nice day spent with unexpected family members! I felt like I was right there with you all driving down the mountain in the van, with a big ole smile on my face. thanks for sharing. :) -
diabolicdame said on Mar 22, 2008....
I loved reading that.. I could feel the joy as well as the sadness in it.. Thanks a lot for sharing. -
the_infernal_optimist said on Mar 22, 2008....
I love your posts about your family, moon. The warmth and tumbledown quiet happiness you find in them -- and the wistful, almost bittersweet feeling of transience that accompanies the all-too-short gatherings, too -- resonates in my own thoughts of family sparked by this entry. :)
~Infernal
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fearing said on Mar 22, 2008....
I really like the "Dear Diary" post. Maybe you should consider a series? ;-) -
Scottish_GRRL said on Mar 22, 2008....
Dear Moon,I could see it all happening before my eyes! What a wonderful storyteller you are. I do hope that if you if go broader in any publishing endeavors (write a book, NOW), you'll let your SC fans know. What a great gift you have. Cheers, SG -
skald said on Mar 23, 2008....
Yes, I liked you story for today. Your family gathering is vivid in my head. Thanks Moon. -
Battycat said on Mar 23, 2008....
Wow, that was wonderful Moon, moments like that are few and far between :-) -
gingersoul said on Mar 23, 2008....
Moon.....that moon must have been really big to make you stop and wander with your mind in that way....
I understand that bitterseeet feeling of belonging and yet being aware of the unavoidable rule of the time...
Nothing remains, everything chahges....Panta Rei..
I wish you to be attacked again by another flock of ibises ...{{hug}}.
-
queenparanoia said on Mar 24, 2008....
moon that was great in what you guys did for your papa... me and my family went to laguna this easter. we went to the hot springs!!!! =)by the way this is a stupid question...is sophie the mother of your kids??? sorry all i know is that you have a relationship with her.... were you married??? -
moonriver said on Mar 26, 2008....
runningbear -- Happy Easter too (even if belated). Thank you for the nice words. I was a Catholic, but turned atheist when I was 13. I wrote a blog about it. Despite my anti-religious views, I still like to visit churches once in a while, to meditate and to refresh my own spirituality. But I prefer quiet and near-empty churches, you know, when you can hear the chirp of birds under the eaves.
quietone -- Yes, it was a nice day all in all, and although a bit exhausting. I definitely enjoyed the company of sophie and the kids, and my siblings and their families. Thank you for the nice words.
ddame -- You got the feeling down pat. Mostly cheerful, but also wistful and with a tinge of sadness. I always anticipate the aches of separation. Thank you for the nice words.
infernal -- You love my posts? My friend, I doubly LOVE the way you re-describe my stories in your own words. "The warmth and tumbledown quiet happiness..." "the wistful, almost bittersweet feeling of transience..." I think you captured the feeling better in less words. I particularly liked your choice of tumbledown... :-) Thank you for the nice words.
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moonriver said on Mar 26, 2008....
fearing -- Actually, I myself don't see a pattern in when and in what topics I shift to "dear diary" mode. In a sense, most of my blogs are like diary entries. But yes, some entries do sound more personal, more urgent, more unrehearsed, almost whispered in a confidential tone, like I was sharing it to a soulmate in the privacy of our hammock...Lol. Good suggestion. I'll consider it. Thank you for the nice words.
scot girl -- Yes, a few other friends here at Soulcast have also suggested that. And yes, I'm indeed planning to publish a book that would include much of the material here in my blogs. Thank you for the encouragement and for the nice words.
skald -- I also get some of my inspiration from the cheerful tone of your blogs whenever you write about your family activities, my friend. Thank you for the nice words.
batty -- It's so hard to pre-define Zen moments. But when they happen, so long as you're in touch with your soul, you sort of instantly feel it, hear it, like the sching! of a Chinese sword, or the hoot of the midnight owl. Thank you for the nice words.
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moonriver said on Mar 26, 2008....
ginger -- It wasn't just the full moon, my friend.
First, there was that spectacular Lenten sunset.
When we were kids, on Good Fridays, I always recall my father bringing us to a high place -- a mountain, a hilltop, even just the terrace of a convent or church belfry -- to watch the sunset until it grew dark. Then he would say something very melancholy in a spiritual way: "A man dies, the world dies with him. Such sadness."
I had always thought that when he uttered these words, he merely meant the usual Catholic millennial Lenten preoccupation with Christ's passion and death, something that's quickly remedied two days later by the joy of Easter. But no. I later realized that my father was also wrestling with his own guilt complexes about wartime horrors.
(Btw, my father also had other sayings, for Christmas, for New Year, for Easter...)
Like I've said in my other blogs (and you were the first to notice the coincidence too), I became atheist when I was 13. But, curiously, I also tended to become so attached to that memory of my father's melancholy mood on Good Fridays. Watching the sunset again on the terrace of my brother's house must have triggered other childhood memories about my father.
Then, the full moon as it struck the spire of that hilltop monastery that we visited before we went our separate ways. With the monk playing Bach's Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring, more memories of my father flooded in.
My Zen moment wasn't just about me missing my father, of course. You and other commentors are right. It's about missing family. As you said, "the bittersweet feeling of belonging and yet being aware of the unavoidable rule of the time..." ((sigh)) Panta rei indeed, my friend.
But hey! You wish that I be attacked by another flock of ibises? Those noisy, rambunctious ibises with their sharp beaks? Oh please not again... at least not for another month or two. Lol.
-
moonriver said on Mar 26, 2008....
queenie -- Hot springs! Wow. Whenever our clan holds a reunion, the first choice of venue is always a certain hot spring resort. Now to your question: Yes, Sophie and I are still married. And yes, she is the mother of our kids. Next question please... :-)
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TinSoldier said on Mar 29, 2008....
Sorry I'm late, moon.
Not all good narratives require a plot, a moral lesson, or a dramatic lesson, as you should well know and often ably demonstrate.
In other words, I loved reading this. A good narrative takes you someplace strange and familiar at the same time.
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gingersoul said on Mar 29, 2008....
Oh, Moon.....i insist......another flock of ibises would do good to your heart......you know it......:-) -
moonriver said on Mar 29, 2008....
tinsoldier -- Thanks, friend. Yeah, I admit, maybe my college lit teacher gave me too rigid a lesson in narrative writing. Sometimes, describing an atmosphere and what it does to change a mood inside the writer is narrative enough.
Btw, you are *not* late. You were simply bringing up the rear guard. Next time, you be point man. Lol.
gingerfriend -- Maybe, maybe not. But what I'd really like right now is to be part of a twin eagle tandem soaring the higher wind currents, looking for a new aerie...
Comment on "The magical moment of a Lenten moon"
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