A Meaningful Life

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Do you Believe in Magic?.”

You have been transformed into a mystical being who has the ability to do magic. Describe your new abilities in detail. How will you use your new skills?

I would want to have a mysterious glow that is sensed more than seen. I would be able to heal injuries – any injuries – with a touch and some concentration (it shouldn’t be too easy!)

I would make a name for myself as a doctor who cares, and whose patients always, always survive.

So, for example: a friend has a cut? I would brush it with my fingertips, and it would heal at twice the normal speed.

A patient is struggling to make it through? I would use my powers to help him heal, and bring him back from the edge.

I can’t save everyone. If I could, I think more problems would be created than solved. But I want to make my impact on the world. I want to feel like I have helped in some way – I want to have a meaningful life.

Today I had a conversation with J, someone increasingly dear to me. “Everyone wants to be happy,” he said. “It’s only how they get there, what path they take to achieve happiness.”

We don’t always know what we desire, deep down. Sometimes we choose wrong. We make mistakes, we learn from them, and thus slowly understand who we are.

At the moment, I believe having someone to share the good times and bad would make me happy. I just want to share the moments. Smile, laugh, confide, sit next to him and feel his warmth.

I don’t want a power that would make this happen, because then it would lose its essence.

But a healing power would be good. I wish I had it, really.

Love,

Y.

You Could be my Way of Life

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Can’t Drive 55.”

Take the third line of the last song you heard, make it your post title, and write for a maximum of 15 minutes. GO!

I love…

the way you give me your jacket even when I say I’m not that cold.

the way you give me high fives and fist bumps; the way your fingers curled around mine when I spontaneously took your hand for two seconds.

the way you make me laugh, no matter my mood.

the articles you send, always with a note to make me smile.

the way you always ask about my day, and listen when I answer. I love how you listen to me, and consider before replying.

how being with you broadens my horizons, makes me think about new topics, brightens up my day. And I love your laughter.

I might have a pretty bad crush. You’re worth it.

Love,

Y.

Marriage! Babies!

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Connect the Dots.”

Scour the news for an entirely uninteresting story. Consider how it connects to your life. Write about that.

Today I was eating muesli on the kitchen floor… Let me rephrase that: I was sitting on the floor and spooning it from a bowl. This isn’t a reflection of my family’s circumstances (the rest of ’em dine in the living room with placemats, real chairs, you know the deal), just my bad habit.

I put the bowl atop the newspaper pile, so Angelababy’s face was absorbing all the milk spills. For those of you who don’t know – and I don’t know her either, I’m quoting the newspaper – she’s a celebrity from China who just had a princess-themed marriage.

My princess days ended when my older brother made Ken have faux sex with Barbie; as for marriage, well, wait till I have a boyfriend. My parents forbade a relationship on the grounds that I needed to focus on studying (“Until when!?” “Wait till you’re 21, dear.”).

I had one anyway, but broke up because the guy was my best friend, and I couldn’t see him as anything more.

Recently I’ve started seeing someone, and my parents are ecstatic, really – I think they were beginning to worry if I was lesbian – and I’ve been thinking a lot.

For example, the idea of having children before 30. It’s good for you, good for the baby, but what about your career? Did I study for 5 years (that doesn’t include residency) only to settle down and raise kids? Do I even want kids? But after 30 the child has increased risk of Down’s and other chromosomal abnormalities.

Perhaps this is one of those things better solved when you get to it; talked out over tea with your partner.

I also think my gut is laughing hysterically on my pelvic floor. You know what? I’ll think about this more seriously after I have my first kiss.

Asian family. You know.

Love,

Y.

Evil isn’t ugly

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Wicked Witch.”

Write about evil: how you understand it (or don’t), what you think it means, or a way it’s manifested, either in the world at large or in your life.

I once read that if evil was ugly, the world would be good.

Thing is, evil isn’t grotesque. Evil has many faces, and we know it can masquerade as good, as normal, or even as omission of action (ie. doing nothing).

I believe evil is when someone intentionally hurts another person – and doesn’t feel remorseful. I don’t know if there are people who are wholly 100% evil, but I do know that people have moments of it.

Sometimes it’s as simple as a choice: do I do this? Do I not? In a split second we determine who we are. The good thing is, we get to make this choice every moment of the day. So make the good ones. Be the best we can be.

Love,

Y.

Moments Ago

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Ode to a Playground.”

A place from your past or childhood, one that you’re fond of, is destroyed. Write it a memorial.

If it was my home, or the park opposite, I would be sad. Otherwise, nothing else really matters. Much has changed, but I haven’t taken notice.

As time passes, the buildings, neighbors, food stalls, pets, and roads keep changing. I have lived here all my life, and I have never seen this place (exactly this way, with three blooms on the bushes and the leaves strewn just so) before. Everything is old, but with the wind everything is made new.

I find it harder to catch the present than the past. If I was to write a memorial, it would be to the moment just passed, whose air I am still exhaling, whose keyboard-touch still lingers on my fingertips.

It’s been a hell of a ride

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Immortalized in Stone.”

Your personal sculptor is carving a person, thing or event from the last year of your life. What’s the statue of and what makes it so significant?

It’s a stethoscope! A delicate winding stone stethoscope! Five months ago I began my clinical years of study. That sounds nice. In reality, we were thrown in the deep end. We sank with strict instructions not to attempt anything without supervision, to keep the patients (and ourselves) safe.

Too many of us turn callous to protect ourselves. The hospital can be scary, more so when you’re new. But we can’t afford to be scared; we cannot freeze. Medicine applicants are screened for empathy, yet the empathic heart stings when a patient yells in pain; shrivels when a patient dies. That is still no excuse for sub-par performance.

So some people grow callous – the ones that don’t know how to protect their hearts, and the ones who only care about keeping their ego safe. One day I may join their ranks, insidiously, not realizing what has happened. I rely on writing to be the mirror that reflects who I am, keeping me real.

My stethoscope has revealed heart flutters, congested lungs, obstructed bowels, aneurysms, and more. It bridges a gap between me and the patient, and the weight around my neck reminds me to keep my head level (nose straight, not in the air), and be the best I can be.

Big dreams, small dreams

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Lazy Learners.”

Is there something you’ve always wanted to learn but haven’t gotten around to? What is it and what’s stopping you from mastering the skill?

I’ve always wanted to learn how to cook deliciously. I can fry an egg, sure – I can chop vegetables and put ’em on a hot pan too! I’m not saying the end result would taste nice… Hence, I would really like to learn how to make something delicious.

It shouldn’t be that hard, since I’m not eyeing a Masterchef apron. I just want to cook something I’d be proud to serve a friend. And do it without breaking too much of a sweat, or too many plates.

What’s stopping me? Well, I always tell myself there isn’t enough time. And I live with my family, so my meals are cooked. Easy peasy.

If  I was dead set on making something that would impress my (future) boyfriend, how would I go about learning? I guess I would start off by cooking on weekends! Hey, that wasn’t too hard. I’ll try this weekend. Let y’all know how it goes! 🙂

Love,

Y.

Crisscross

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Yin to My Yang.”

How do you define the term “soulmate,” and do you believe in the existence of such a person — for you?

This is going to hurt. That’s my first thought when I read the prompt. I had a soulmate; perhaps I have one still, I don’t know. We climbed mountains together, and he always looked out for me. When I stared at the night sky and felt depression crash overhead, when I could only articulate “don’t you sometimes wonder if it’ll never end?”, he was there. He listened.

He never fails to answer my call, and he took me out for the ball. He has never touched me without waiting for me to initiate. I’ve never felt like anything less than a treasure in his eyes.

But the trouble is, it scares me. I wasn’t ready for it, and now I don’t want it. Despite everything, I don’t feel a spark between us, only a deep understanding. Is a spark really necessary for a relationship? I think it is. Is it necessary for a soulmate? No.

But is he still my soulmate? Can he be my friend without being my lover? And finally, is that too much to ask?

Hell. It would be good if we could just be the best of friends. It seems so petty, so transactional, after writing it. He did this for me, I should do that for him. Let me just end this way: love is a beautiful thing. But it has its ugly sides. Nuthin’ you never heard before.

Instant Water

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “When Childhood Ends.”

Write about a defining moment in your life when you were forced to grow up in an instant (or a series of instants).

I come from the school of thought that believes we aren’t mature beings who know how the world works, or what the hell we’re doing now, just now, yesterday, or tomorrow. Really the majority of humanity is clueless while pretending otherwise, making it up as they go along. Most of us do a pretty good job of it, too!

Yes, there are instances in life which hurt us and leave their scars deep within. When a loved one dies or when our other half betrays us, we cease to trust. We lose a part of ourselves. We change.

But this is an emotional reaction; it’s cause and effect, almost a knee-jerk reaction. Who we are when lightning strikes determines how we react to it. It’s not a process of growth, it’s an exposé.

Rather, it’s the small things that make us change. When we snap at our colleague unprovoked, how many of us sit alone later in uncomfortable silence, and reflect on why we did it? Perhaps we were jealous. Perhaps we were afraid.

Self-reflection requires courage, courage to hear truths about ourselves that we would rather bury. It is not easy to confess, even to oneself, the ugliness that lies at the heart of the ugly things we do.

But it’s necessary. It isn’t self-debasement. When we listen with compassion to our ‘ugly’, neglected self, we come to understand that it’s just hurt, and lack of love. It’s a small curled up bit of nastiness that is really just the embodiment of our cry for help, for understanding, for love. When we can embrace all of who we are, we can listen to others with empathy, and understand when their bits of hurt act out.

That’s growth. That’s maturity. And it starts with reflecting deeply, not by reacting outwardly.

Courage

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Pay It Forward.”

Tell us about a time when you responded to an act of kindness with one of your own.

I tend to repay kindness with awkward gratitude. Dude opens the door for me? Oh, thank you *nervous smile*. Best friend backs me up in a tight social situation? I’ll smile warmly through a rush of gratitude.

I enjoy playing the role of the damsel in distress; it’s easier, people look out for me and take care of me. I might even try to justify this by saying that my presence brings out the best in people. I give them an opportunity to demonstrate their kindness.

Of course, this is pure manipulation. I find the world a scary place, so I look for a protector. However, in the process of accepting this cloak of vulnerability, I also give up the right to be firm, be bold, and be brave. Fear quivers in my pores. It will continue to do so until I accept that I am not easily destroyed, and I do not need someone to shield me from life.

I’m not – not! – advocating that we should refuse all kindness. This is what I am saying: that I wear a facade that charms people to take care of me, because I feel I need that to survive.

And perhaps I did, a time not so long ago. Perhaps this was a mechanism I learned since young in order to keep my heart safe. But I’m growing now, and I can’t bud and flower unless I overcome this.

The last time someone was kind to me, I smiled shyly, grateful from the bottom of my heart. The next time someone is kind to me, I will smile and thank them sincerely. And then I will listen to the part of me that believes she is capable and strong, and from that part I will reach out and help someone else.

This is my courage, and this is my pride.