Glory to God!

So here's today's challenge.

When I was in school way back when, my teachers said that when someone paid you a compliment, the proper response in accordance to the social etiquette of the time would be, to thank them. Polite people did that, all the time. I noticed, and I complied with that rule.

Now in fellowship with church Christians, this rule was superseded by a spontaneous utterance of "Glory to God".

As I complied with this new attitude, I learned that King Nebuchadnezzar and Samson got into trouble for not giving glory to God. And that was why we must never claim credit for a gift bestowed upon us by Providence. Understanding the rationale behind this attitude, I began spontaneously uttering "Glory to God"  like my salvation depended upon it.

This morning, my Sifu told me that my new hairstyle looked nice. This compliment started another round of mulling. What should a proper response be? It was awkward to utter "Glory to God" in the context of this occasion and a simple "Thank You" might have sufficed. But o-de-de-dear-dear... In the name of propriety, which would a better response be?

In the end, I circumvented the whole mishmash with a simple thumbs-up gesture. Thank God for thumbs. When words fail, thumbs speak. 

Seasons in our life

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the Heavens. --- Ecclesiastes 3:1 (NIV)

An old buddy gal of mine (Onewa, not her real name) called me up recently for a tele-chat. We chat some, and boy, did we chat some. For more than an hour, we chat some.

We shared our experiences, laughed some, moaned some.

Then we spoke about my recent palpitation and that struggle with an unstable BP reading,  We pushed the boundary of medical discoveries and wondered if we might have stumbled on an earth-shattering revelation, viz:

The pharmaceutical industry is a farce, one motivated by greed. They were makers of drugs who knew not what they were doing while we who knew nothing about drugs, knew better.

How was it that we knew better, you asked? It's simple. We knew every folk remedy conceivable, sworn by many to be the cure for the ailment of our times. By we, I meant the coterie of know-alls who forwarded every new health tip they bumped into. It's probably garlic and lemongrass today or screwpine leaves with shallots tomorrow. The secret recipe is tweaked every other week and most of us have probably drank up enough remedial concoction to last a few lifetimes.

Suffice to say, we, of the pill-popping-bruised-ego generation stood steadfast by this statement.  As we popped another pill into our mouth, we resolved that we will make-do with their pills for the time being, while we waited for the day someone else discovered the one true cure, which will require no expensive pharmaceutical branding. 

And while we laughed at the deranged persuasion in the above quote and assured ourselves that the narrative called for it, the sad reality is that Time had passed us by quietly and resolutely. We have now reached another season in our life.

Wouldn't it be great if our lives were governed by seasons we can control? Wouldn't that be hysterically magnificent?

I thought about the tapestry hanging on my wall. If seasons were the colors on my tapestry, and I get to choose the colors I liked, there would be no picture to look at.

The different seasons paint the final picture of the person we become. This picture will be left behind in a world which will continue to spin on its axis long after we leave. When you look at this from the other end of the telescope, isn't life nothing but a chasing after the wind?

Anxiety Attack!

The palpitation was an uncomfortable experience. It felt like your heart is hammering out of rhythm deep inside you. Your limbs became weak and the slight tremor was troubling. I thought about Michael J Fox. Parkinson's Disease sounded like a dreadful sword hanging over my head.

On this day, about a week ago I suddenly felt very uncomfortable close to midnight. I could not sleep and was feeling agitated and restless. My BP reading was 179/77.  It continued to rise fifteen minutes later.

Alarmed, we headed for the Emergency Room at our friendly neighborhood private hospital. They took my reading.  It was now 206/100.

The doctor who attended to me was a young chirpy man in his early thirties. As he went about studying my readings and chatting cheerfully, I began to calm down. "Doesn't look like a heart attack, Madam.  Don't worry. Its more like an anxiety attack," he said, after listening to how I got to be where I was.

He arranged for a blood test to rule out the heart attack, took my ECG, gave me a 10mg Norvasc, a tranquilizer and something for acid reflux and sent me home.

Two days later, the palpitation began again. This time I set off to see my old GP,. After a few quick questions, we arrived at the problem.

During a routine medical check-up with the doctor at the public hospital, I was taken off Amlodipine 2.5mg because "the dosage is so small it is insignificant." This brought the palpitation and my BP became unstable. My GP reinstated the amlodipine and we are watching to see what happens next.

The moral of this story?

When you're on medication for high blood pressure and things are looking swell, don't rock the boat!

Music Lessons

It has been several months since I started practicing with my Martin. What a joy it was to listen to the sound emitted from the guitar. I learned to play several worship songs but mostly secular ones. Encouraged by the sound of music, I took up ukulele classes too. Along the way, my niece Serena sent me a kalimba, out of the clear blue. I've never heard of a kalimba so you can imagine my amazement and puzzlement when I opened up the box to see a wooden thingamajig with strips of metal arrayed across it. If you have never heard of a kalimba, go check with Ah Goo. (Google)

Last week, I sent my guitar to Joshua to have the strings changed. Elixir strings gauge 0.11 was recommended. Joshua assessed my instrument and told me that the neck was slightly bent, and it would augur well to get it corrected as early as possible. I took his advice.

Later, an old friend of mine (Jac, not her real name) called for a tele-chat.

"So how's your guitar classes", she wanted to know.

"Ah.. I have to stop for a while. My guitar's neck is bent. It's being repaired." I said.

"Didn't that happen before?" Jac asked.

"Oh yes. My first guitar was diagnosed with a sunken neck. It was beyond repair."

"Good grief!" Jac laughed. "I wonder how you played your guitar to have two of them suffering neck injuries. What happened to your ukulele class?"

"Ah... The teacher was admitted into the hospital." 

And we laughed unabashedly, like old friends do. We forgot about the ravages of the Covid variant.  We forgot about the victims who have fallen.  We forgot about the teacher who was admitted into the hospital. We just laughed.

It felt good to occasionally laugh although we were in the midst of terrible times, somber times, grievous times, where people we know fall ill and go.

But who knows what will happen next?  Now, is that brief moment we shared laughing at a matter so painfully trivial that it outshined all the tragedy around us. 

Let us live our lives one day at a time. Forget about long term plans. Listen to the bird chirping outside your window this morning because by tomorrow, the bird may be gone, and if not the bird, then you.

Life can be so tragic that it is almost laughable. 

Of actions and sunken necks.

So I borrowed my son's guitar for the weekly lessons and was troubled by the pain in my *fretting fingers.  

(*i.e. the fingers placed on the fretboard at various position on the strings in accordance to the stipulated chords to produce the sound.) 

This pain is the bane of all novice guitarists who are not accustomed to the repetitive holding of chords in practice or play.

"Your action could be too high", said the Teacher.

"Okay" Like I know what he was talking about.

"Take your guitar to Joshua. He will give you an assessment and recommendation." The Teacher gave me Joshua's address and off I trot to the guitar specialist.

"You have a sunken neck," Joshua declared as he peered at the guitar which was lying horizontal on his diagnosis table. "Your action is too high, right?"

I looked up in alarm. I must look the part, you understand? We're talking about a sunken neck here, for crying out loud.

It would cost an arm and a leg to get the neck fixed so Joshua recommended a new one. 

Not knowing a great deal about guitars, I asked if they had a Yamaha. 

"Well, Yamaha used to produce very good guitars but that was a long time ago. These days they have lost out to their competitors," said Joshua.

"As a beginner, which guitar should I get?"  I asked.

"Kepma. Made in China using very high-end technology. In China, they ranked third after Martin and Taylor." 

I've never heard of Martin or Taylor guitars but I figured they're probably related to Dean Martin and Taylor Swift. (Apparently not!) The long and short of this story is that I ended up buying a Kepma.

We had a jamming session shortly after this and my Teacher gave my guitar a thumbs-up although it was made in China. What's a jamming session, did someone ask? Well, that's a gathering where everyone brought their musical instruments to sing and play.

Several months later, I upgraded to a Martin Dreadnaught Junior.  

By the way, when they say that your action is high, they mean that your strings are too way up above the fretboard. That's why your fingers hurt when you hit those chords. The ideal height is between 2mm to 2.8 mm depending on which of the six strings we're talking about.

Shadows in the dark

Loud voices in the dark startled the sleep out of me.  A woman's guttural retort shot through the darkness.  The cuckoo clock downstairs struck to announce the hour. I counted to four and was pleased for it meant that morning was near.  But the clock continued to strike. Five is good, I thought. It is a good hour to rise, drink some water and read the text messages on my phone.  I frowned when the clock continued to strike the seventh for it certainly did not match the darkness outside my window. I stilled my mortification as the count continued until it finally stilled at 12.  - Midnight!  How utterly disappointing to be awaken long before morning, and how annoying to have to initiate the whole process of getting to sleep, all over again.

The woman's angry retort sounded nearer. I deduced that the voices came from Eddie's (not his real name) house.  He lived in a house directly across the road from the window of my bedroom upstairs.  Unable to return to sleep, I walked towards the window and peered into the darkness.  The neighboring houses were in complete darkness.  A little light illuminated Eddie's porch where a small sedan was parked. Outside his gate was a sinister looking black SUV.

I was right, but of course I was right.  The drama came from Eddie's house.

In my books, Eddie and his family were a dubious lot.  There was the middle-aged man with the permanent snarl and an unfriendly gait who stared fixedly at me when he made his first appearance outside my gate where he parked his car and crossed the road towards the house.  All my warning bells rang. This was not a pleasant man, I thought, as I looked away. Then there was the middle-aged woman with the domineering mien and haughty condescension who would not look at me as she directed her maid to climb up a small ladder to reach the papayas I planted outside my house.  Such a contentious couple, I thought and thought no more of them.

And then, there was Eddie.  He was a young man who wore many faces. There was the smiling face who gave us the Ambarella shrub now growing outside our house.  Then, there was the angry face starring daggers at the sweet young thing who left his house one hot afternoon in another man's car.  Eddie was also the amicable face with the toddler in his arms who stopped outside our gate to exchange goo-goo-ga-gas with our dogs.

Call me curious when I stood at the window peering out into the darkness at this unearthly hour.  The angry exchanges had intensified.  The middle-aged couple was out in the garden not that I could see them clearly.  It was dark so all I saw were two silhouettes arguing at the outer corner of the garden.  Suddenly the woman raised her right hand and smacked the man across his cheek.  His reaction was instant. He struck her. She collapsed onto the garden ground.  I was shocked beyond words.  The woman remained wailing on the ground.  The man extended his hands to lift her up.  She stormed into the house wailing as she went. High above them, at a small window on the adjacent house, a blue light blinked in the dark.  It continued to blink for about 30 seconds after the incident.

More indecipherable sounds came from inside the house.  The black SUV previously parked outside the gate left the scene and then returned.  It did this two more times until finally, for the third time, it rested opposite the gate on my side of the road.  Then the gate of Eddie's house was thrown wide open, the little sedan parked at the porch rolled out into the darkness and out of sight.

I did not understand what had happened and was of half a mind to check with the family who lived adjacent to Eddie's house but the blue blinking lights stayed my curiosity.

This had been a most peculiar night.  The non-closure of an inconclusive drama accompanied by little blue blinking lights had a numbing effect on me. I turned and tossed in my bed, the usual precursor for the slumber which wouldn't come ...

... thanking God in His benevolence, for the serendipitous mediocrity in my simple world.

Of Masks and Men

Who could have envisioned that Vision 2020, as it was first conceived would bring, in its wake, the global pandemic.  Back when 2020 was a mark in the unforeseeable future, I had wondered if I would live to see its fruition.  Live I did and the here and now found me in the midst of a global scourge, mulling over a vision which died in its infancy. This just goes to show that one can make all sorts of lofty plans but Providence had the final say.

This is the beginning of a new year. We are still in the midst of this scourge. I kept myself exceedingly occupied with knitting, zooming and guitaring. I've learnt me a few tune, if you must know, not that I played them well.

If you keep an open mind about learning, you'd find so much to learn. Take guitaring, for instance. Did you know that family chords are a group of chords associated with a certain root chord which existed in harmony with one another. Even tunes need to be in harmony to create a melody. Simple as that was, I found the idea profound and mind blowing. And what's more, I discovered that if a certain key is outside your vocal range, why, you can transpose the chords to an appropriate key. This earth-shattering revelation was an epiphany of sorts. Suddenly, my world was filled with numerous possibilities.  But ~~~ <sheepish grins> ~~~ that's just from the perspective of a novice guitarist still struggling with the dastardly chords to force some semblance of melody out of it.

The lockdown will come to an end. Even the me of the homely kind, had the stir crazy moments too. A restlessness, most unbecoming overtook my sense of propriety and I became almost unreasonable.

On the other hand, Covid 19 did not have a serious impact on my life - YET!  I felt alienated from this pandemic, like a spectator watching a ball being kicked from one person to the next, feeling none of the exhilaration expected from the sport. 

When the pandemic first broke out, I thought about the Passover as recorded in the Bible. The story of Moses who brought the enslaved Israelites out of Egypt to freedom in the Promised Land.  The Egyptian Pharaoh had refused to let the Israelites go.

God sent the 10 plagues to force the Pharaoh's hand. The stubborn Pharaoh was unrelenting and ordered that all first-born of the Israelite slaves be put to death. Following this order, the Angel of Death struck. Every Egyptian first-born of the land died. It was the wrath of God.

I had wondered back when the pandemic first appeared if this too, was the wrath of God.

The global statistics were astounding. The Land of the Free and Home of the Brave  led with a whopping 26 million plus infected. Masked men became the new norm. 

Zoomies emerged from this abnormal situation. I'll have you know that I too became a Zoomie, joining three sessions a week for all kinds of everything.

Other than all of the above, we are all fine. The pandemic, at the moment, is still a spectator sport which we treat with a whole lot of respect. May it keep it's distance for all eternity,