And The Clock Winked!

Time Management -thats what I need to straighten my life and stop wasting time! My coach, bless him, used to say that it was an utter waste of time to read the newspapers! I didn't agree with him one bit. I looked at him in a strange way, which prompted him to say "there's nothing in the newspapers except rubbish." I begged to differ. I enjoyed reading articles by seniors and disgruntled parents angry with the school system, Tsunami and volcanic disasters everywhere else, yummy recipes from Foodies and gourmands, and not to forget the Obituary page. Thats a must - somehow. The sports page holds a special place in my heart, not the football so much but the Golf and the Tennis stars and their pathway to glory. The Golf page has lost a bit of its shine for me since the Maestro of Golf fell from grace, and is still unable to get out from under. I used to read the papers from beginning to end and end up with all the dirty sordid details of who's doing what. Filling my life with rubbish. My coach was right! Yesterday I paid the newspaper man and bid goodbye to him, telling him that I would no longer need the newspaper delivered to my front door. He looked at me and with a curt "here's my phone number, call me when you need the newspapers again!" he turned away and left on his motorbike in haste. Oh well! This morning I came out to smell the morning air and as usual to pick up my newspaper and then I remembered - no more newspapers, no more thief-of-time-newspapers, no more rubbish, no more stories of rape and incest, and no more stories of thieves and murderers! I strolled around the garden, watered my drink-thirsty plants, fed my frivolous fish and walked back in through the door thinking 'now I have time for finishing my unfinished quilt and to start another! Now I can respect the extra time I have. I looked at the clock, it was only eight in the morning. I looked again to make sure and the clock winked back at me!

BENEATH THIS TREE!

My thoughts turn to my parents for some reason. They have gone on to the Beautiful Shores, or the Great Somewhere, or in the arms of the Wonderful One, The Eternal One or somewhere under the Tree of Life. My parents made a big and unthinkable move to uproot themselves from Cochin, India and come to a tiny Peninsula called Malaya. It is tiny by comparison - India is so vast and so ethnically vibrant. Yet they set sail on a boat from Madras and made the seven day journey through rough and unpredictable seas to this land Malaya, now called Malaysia. I don't remember them complaining about the weather or the food or the neighbors. They just settled in and enjoyed the fruits of their labour. We had Chinese, Malay and other Indian neighbors who shared their food and recipes, and so we became so entwined with the lives of others, their culture and their likes and dislikes. My parents survived and lived a good life and made this their homeland. My sisters and I were born and bred here. It takes guts and determination to make a new life in a foreign land. For this I admire and honor them, and also for the way they brought us up. As I sit under this tree, I think of the nurturing this tree receives. The tropical rain and sunshine provides almost everything it needs. This morning the rains came in a downpour that provided the showers my plants needed. While I felt happy that I did not need to lug out the hose, other thoughts now come to mind. Parents are like Mother Nature. The nurturing that they provide is enough for the growth of their offspring. The Sun comes up as I write this and shines on the still wet plants and leaves, leaving shimmering pearls that drop off into the wet grass. Our parents have left us with indelible memories and today as I think about them, I can't help feeling the connection between the nurturing of nature and the nurturing our parents provided for us children. Come rain, come shine, day in day out, and even though they are not here with us today physically, their presence is felt and appreciated. My thoughts from under a tree! This tree is a McArthur Palm, or Macarthurie as is locally known.