An Indian Summer

Indian Summer (googled)- Noun

"A period of unusually dry warm weather occurring in late autumn."

1st stop, Daycare.  Poor Brunz, still rather sleepy...

2nd stop, Yard.  Fact: Where there are horses, there will also be hounds.

3rd stop, Tea.  The Milestone Hotel, 1 Kensington Court

  The tea was more costly than expected, and the sweets lacked sophistication.  The interiors once perhaps grand, felt shabby, but that sense of shabbiness had comforting charm.  Service was attentive and discreet.  

I don't have a sweet tooth, nor do I drink tea.  But tea with Bruno proved to be such a restful, decadent experience, that I wonder about the virtue of tea as a daily ritual...

Hmmm...daily?

4th stop, Park.  Discovered an outpouring of adoration and sorrow for the late Princess, by the Palace Gates. 

  I was never really a fan.  But how not to be moved by a woman who had everything and nothing, or was it that she had nothing, but everything?  I learnt that 17 years have passed, since that horrible, tragic day.

Indian Summer (googled):  Noun

"A period of happiness or success occurring late in life."

I hope the Princess departed, enveloped in an Indian Summer.

Hungry

When I first began learning to dance, I would watch with much longing, the advance class that was scheduled on Saturday afternoons at Dance Arts Singapore.  Mentally I would try and memorise what I saw, and then practised in secret.   Another thing I did was read and re-read every book about dance there was on those two shelves at the National Library (Marine Parade), and just mimicked the movement shapes.  It really didn't matter if I was doing it wrongly, or that there was no one to help me.  I was just so happy absorbing.  In my one glorious hour of ballet class with Tony Llacer, I would go again and again and again, when we took turns to do center work in groups across the floor.  He never stopped me.  He understood, hunger.  Later, God brought to my life, my friend Trace, who invited me to her ballet class.  So that finally at 15 years old, I had a teacher, Mrs HY Skipp, who taught me the correct principles of pointe work.

17 years old, photo credit-  Mrs HY Skipp

I have terrible feet for ballet.  They are too flat.  So pointe work was really difficult for me.  Back then, we also didn't use toe pads.  We literally did it the hard way- one pair of cherished pointe shoes that we darned at the tips to make the satin less slippery on the floors, taped our toes up to offer some relief from the bruising and bleeding, and then the ritual of sticking both feet covered with the shoes into the rosin box.  When all that was done, we would waddle towards the barre, sometimes grimacing.

By the time we came to center work, there were times we could no longer feel our feet.  But hey ho, onwards we would go.  Dancers are notorious for doing things that may seem unhealthy and very punishing to the self.

10:30am and Caroline, my favourite, favourite teacher, says-  You alright to come up front and canter Dumpling down this stretch?

Teacher Caroline is the figure up front.

Like, just canter him for the whole stretch? 

Yup.  It's good for him.  It'll limber him up.

Aloud, I said, Sure.

In my heart, I thumped, OF COURSE!

OF COURSE!

10:40am, Caroline says-  Well done.  Lets see how the both of you get on today, without stirrups.

10:50am, she says- Good, add in some lateral work as well, and now that he is warmed up and willing, throw in some canter, especially on his weaker side.  Don't be afraid to use shallow loops, and some leg yields, in canter.

11:00am At any point, please feel free to let me know if you are tired or if it is too much.

Too much?  I love Too Much!

(*Sorry, no photos illustrating the above as I was too busy doing Too Much.)

I know what it is like to stand on my toes with my toe nails missing.  I know what it is like to remove my pointe shoes and see red seeping through my tights.

By 11:15am, there is some blood and bruising.  But I am unfazed.  I do the whole lesson without stirrups, and when it ends, I ask if Dumpling has ever been ridden without a saddle.  All I feel is euphoria and hunger.  It is exactly as it was when I was 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18 learning to dance in Singapore.

Euphoria is so light, incandescent almost.  Hunger is forceful like the ocean, propelling, thrusting.  One day, I will reach ashore.

Walking Away, Horsing Around- Blackbird, Fly

photo credit-  The Arts House

At our last meeting above, W expressed that they are looking forward to working with me on my next piece.  I am truly grateful for such belief, especially as I am no longer fully in Singapore and definitely not pushing the frontiers of dance anymore.

photo credit- Desmond Chong, Then.  A-Team in rehearsal :)

I think you get to an age, and when you walk away from something that has defined you for so long, there is a peace that comes with knowing who you are, what you have done, what you can do, and what you won't do now, but what you might just do, later.

photo credit- TY Choo.  Maybe, later.  A-Team in rehearsal.

Summie and I were singing in the park-

Blackbird singing in the dead of night...

She turned to me and said- Mom, that was a beautiful piece.  I look forward to watching you dance again!

I was surprised.  Really?

Yes, Mom.  I don't believe you've fully retired from the stage.

I had a good laugh.  You're so smart, I said.

photo credit-  Desmond Chong

Blackbird singing in the dead of night,

Take these broken wings and learn to fly....

Another surprise awaited me when I got to the yard this morning.

I was given a medal!  Instead of saying, "Special" (aka, "LAST"), it said, "Winner"!

Then I was told I was "the rider of the month".  What a fantastic, fun surprise!  I couldn't stop laughing and smiling!  

Laughing and Smiling!

All morning my body felt it was bubbling over with  joy.  The trees, the falling leaves, the amazing Dumpling horse.  Sometimes joy is so hard to contain.

YEAH!

For four years I had steadfastly worked at overcoming a paralysing fear.  It was only this past New Year's Eve that I felt finally free.  That fear had inhabited me in such a suffocating, concrete shape.   

Blackbird singing in the dead of night.

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life...

The Montblanc Businesswoman of the Year Award puzzled me.  The Young Artist Award was humbling, and a national honour that made this displaced Singaporean-born artist, Stand Up, for a moment, For Singapore.  The Chancellor's Fellowship was earth-shattering; there was no other way I could have gone back to school then.

But this little accolade today?  For some reason feels like flight.  I hold it in my palm and see, a beginning, my beginning.  I have another dream.  I'm in no hurry because Summie is The Priority now.  But get there, I will.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night,

Take these broken wings and learn to fly.

All your life...

You were only waiting for this moment to arise.

Blackbird, fly.  Blackbird, fly...

(Blackbird, Paul McCartney)

The (Familiar) Train Journey

Reading, Stonehouse.
Last year I didn't know such places existed.  Now I do.  I pass these towns taking her to school, and on my return journey back.

Didcot Parkway, Stroud.

A year ago, he was here to help.  She was a new girl, in a new school, in a new country.

This year she said, Mom, I can move back by myself.  

I know you can.  But while Mom is still able, I can help you- the bags are heavy.

She was assigned a new room.  We moved one bag yesterday.  We moved another bag today.  She had boxes.  Her friends helped.  I had a train to catch.

Cheltenham, Gloucester.

At Gloucester, the train will stop for a while, then move in the opposite direction.  So I always change seats at Gloucester.

We hugged tightly.  

Mom, don't cry, her voice was stern in jest.

Have a wonderful year, Summie!  Enjoy yourself!  

I kept my sunglasses on.

 London Paddington, my favourite station, arrived.  

Where will we be next fall?  I can't seem to conjure it up.

I wondered aloud instead- What's it like to come from a happy family, Summie?

I never worry about stuff, she said.  Because I know you'll be there for me.

There with her, for her, on the steps of her current school.

A Mommy & Mimmie Day

                                                               We call moments like these-

photo credit- SF, Hummingbird Bakery, Summer 2012

A Mommy & Mimmie Day.

Before school begins, we walked a different route through the park, for a different perspective of things.

We talked about how beautiful nature (in England) is.  We called out to each other to look at this tree and that.  We paused and savoured a fallen leaf.

We wondered aloud about Queen Victoria and Prince Albert.

Then she got hungry and wanted to try someplace different.

I took her to Jak's on Walton Street.  

Bruno and I eat here often.

It's casual, cosy, on a quiet street with taste, serves food with an organic, Mediterranean slant. 

She was pleased.  She ordered a chicken pie with penne pasta and mozzarella salad as sides.  We shared some cake.  Then we crossed the street to look at art.

Gosh, I said, It's Murakami!

Who is Murakami, Mom?  She asked.

Inside the gallery (no photography allowed), she pointed out, Banksy.

Who is Banksy?  How do you know of him?  My turn at asking.

Oh, he did ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOP and there was a lot of press, she said.

I listened to her in wide-eye wonder.  What's not to love about a Mommy & Mimmie Day?  Spending time resting in each other's company, few words are necessary, and yet the day always ends with a memory for keeping, and the learning of something new, from each other.

The Dark Horse (& Her Bad Attitude)

Once upon a time, there was a dark horse.

At 10am when everyone else stood on stage in a neat row, taking their turns to show feats of agility, she stood waiting in the wings, trying unsuccessfully, to stay dry in the pelting rain.

At the end of the 1st Act, ribbons were given out, and she noted the winners-

photo credit-  WVS

In Act 2, she was the last to go.  She watched fully alert at what the others were doing as she had never in her life, been in such a situation.  One of the lead riders charged towards the set of jumps on his big horse, and she watched the horse trip, knocking the poles down.  When it came time for her to get on stage, the Judge very gently told her that there was no need to do any jumping, even though a set of jumps (not terribly high), were laid out.  The idea was to show the horse off- put it through its paces, move in partnership.

***

The dark horse felt the animal beneath her on fire.  She felt his determination and speed, and courage.  She felt the rain beating down their backs.  She knew the ground was muddy and slippery.  

But her moment had come.  Showtime!  How many times had she gone on stage and charged from her heart?  

photo credit-  Ethos Books

How many hours of her life have been spent devoted to practice and repetitive work for just that one glorious moment on stage, where she feels simply, alive?

photo credit-  S Goh- Practice, practice, practice

Daily practice.

The dark horse instinctively knew that without some kind of pizzaz in her routine, she would not stand a chance up against the Top Guns.  So she focused on riding as neatly and perfectly as possible, and with absolute faith in her little pony, added the jump right at the end of her presentation.  It didn't matter that she had never jumped him ever, nor that the terrain worked against them.  The dark horse went on sheer belief in herself and her little pony.

So off they went, soaring.  

photo credit-  WVS

And tasted a sweet second of triumph.

***

Act 3 began with more rain, and the Judge explaining what the objectives were.  She listened carefully and made mental notes.  The rain poured harder, and each rider went with more grit, more determination.  The routines got fancier, longer, stirrups were removed.  The dark horse waited and watched, waited and watched.

The rain froze her limbs.  Her mind started to drift.  Her teeth began to chatter.  Worse, she had to wait in a straight line, unmoving like a statue.  She was again the last to go.  She thought of Petipa, and Swan Lake, and Les Sylphides, and Giselle.  And how horrid it is to be part of an unmoving corps, whose purpose in these ballets were to frame the ballerina.  She felt her interest wane, rapidly.  She began to ponder about lunch; specifically that Thai special for 10.95 pounds in the village.  She wondered if she should order corn cakes or vegetarian spring rolls as a starter.  She decided on fried rice and tofu as her main.

An eternity later, the Judge called her name, and kindly told her how very much she was looking forward to watching her.  The dark horse in planning for lunch and surrendering to boredom and cold, forgot a rule in theatre- that is, the last thing you do, or the last dancer that goes on, is what the audience remembers first/most.  She forgot the other golden rule- where if you raised the bar of expectations with the element of surprise and skill, you are going to have to deliver more in the final act, or else.

Or else, the descent to being average and mediocre is as swift, as it is steep.

The dark horse made the very costly mistake of presenting too safe, too short, too dull a routine.  When she took her bow, the Judge did not even bother concealing horror and immense dismay.

photo credit-  WVS

There was a encore of sorts to be performed.  The dark horse (extreme left) was right behind, with the winner (extreme right) leading the way.  She didn't feel too upset with herself, as she was too drenched and numbed by the cold.  Last place though, sucks.  Especially when everyone else is saying, well done, well done!  The dark horse did not end well.  Period.   

The rosette she received for last place, has the word, Special, printed on it.  Once she changed out of her wet jacket, the word Special made her laugh.  

photo credit- WVS

The green rosette gives her hope.

So she took her hope and her laughter, to lunch.

Bank Holiday Bliss

                                                           Bruno and I have run away.

I am feeling restful.  I am feeling, relaxed.  I am thinking, I could really just live long-ish term, in a hotel, especially when the interiors of the room I am given, color-coordiantes with my wardrobe!

Foreground- black & white dress, Background- black puppy, in a room clothed in black, white, yellow and grey.

No cleaning, no dealing with neighbors, repair works, and speaking to 100 people on the phone.

The 100th person...

There is even proper temperature control, internet services that work within my room, and not just one pair of sash windows, but three.  Oh, and a bathroom bathed in natural light.

photo credit- Number Sixteen

Bliss.

It's Bank Holiday, and if I avoid Exhibition Road, I don't even have to walk into a tourist!  

No tourists in sight!

Bliss.

On the very same day in Singapore, my Baby Cousin got dolled up and married.

Beautiful Baby Cousin Bride & Groom with Popo

When she invited me, she told me it would be a low-key, intimate affair.  I'm only inviting XYZ, she said.  How I wish I could have been there on such a special day.

I looked at my brother's photographs and my heart swells for my Baby Cousin.  I looked at Popo and my heart swells larger.  I can feel it in my throat.

Popo is pushing 100.  Her mind is like a tide, receding.  But here she is, ever glorious, with bubbly in hand.  I know she is happy and lucid today.

Bliss.

*All photographs of Baby Cousin's wedding by S. Wong