emptybeginnings

I barely sleep through the night. Skin itching everywhere, I toss and turn. The next morning, as I apply toothpaste to my electric toothbrush, I see my reflection. A pair of bloodshot and droopy eyes. Who are you?

I step outside to find Sammy waiting for me. Peering out of his piercing blue eyes, inviting me to play.
I promised to take care of a friend’s Siamese for the weekend. Sleeping over, to keep him company. A beautiful apartment in the middle of Sandton.

How could I forget? I am allergic to cats.

You come over and we go upstairs to sit by the infinity pool with a view of Johannesburg punctuated with purple Jacarandas.

I tell you about Mark. “He gave himself to the world, yet he never found the love he deserved. A man to love him. He had so much love to give.

With a serious look on your face, you tell me, “The way you see Mark. That is the way I see you. You are so beautiful. You are so kind. You give so much. You wouldn’t recognize yourself if you passed yourself by.

Words I will never forget.

“You know… life isn’t easy for people. Have you ever been rejected? Have you ever told anyone that you like them? You have to try.”

We leave the pool and head downstairs. As we sit and talk, half hour passes. “Oh my goodness, look at your face! You’re turning red.”

You see my face change, allergic reaction to the cat. Mirror of truth, you become. “Yes, you agreed to catsit, but that doesn’t mean you should sleep here tonight! You can’t breathe here!”

We used to run into each other at mutual friend’s get togethers, never in each other’s direct orbit. You didn’t like me (your words), and I didn’t think we had anything in common.

Shortly after the lifting of Covid travel restrictions, we are invited by another mutual friend to join 3 other women on a weekend getaway. On second day, we sit casually across from each other on long dining room table. How did we get started, this three-hour conversation? We cry at each other’s life stories lived in parallel. You call me Twin. You say I am like the real twin you lost, a sister who shared your mother’s womb.

Friendship blossoms. You become my sun and my moon. And I too, become your sun and your moon.

12 months later, we find ourselves in the same house, few hours away from Johannesburg. It is evening and we are playing 30-seconds, in opposite teams.

30 seconds is like the American Taboo. One person tries to get her team to guess as many words as they can in 30 seconds. My team finishes a turn and you object.

“Nope, you don’t get a point for that!”
“Yes we do”, I fight back.
“But nobody heard it!” you yell.
“So what? Do you think I would lie to get a point in a game of 30 seconds? If I said it and no one heard it except me, isn’t my word good enough? Don’t you believe me?”

Silence.

“You’re right. I believe you. I’m sorry, Twin.”
“It’s okay.”
And like that, we get through our first argument. Respectfully and quickly.

We spend time together, just the two of us. You seek me out. I appreciate your honesty. You know how to speak to me. I do my best in black and white. You tell me, “You know, I never liked you. I was like, why is N friends with this person? She’s lame. But I know N. She keeps quality people in her friend’s circle. Then you left Telkom. You became a different person. No, you became more of who you are. Then you broke up with your Ex. Then you became even more of yourself. I was like, whoa! Who is this person! I want to spend as much time with you!”

You had every reason to dislike me. In my previous role, I felt as if I was in Dead Sea, treading water to barely clear the water’s edge. Avoiding dead bodies and sharks nearby.

In my new role, I feel safe. Out of water, on dry land. I had shed barnacles and other parasites attached to my life raft. I become me.

You become my cheerleader, and me yours. I teach you how to navigate corporates. How to start slow with investing. The power of compound interests. You teach me how to live in this world, full of social cues and norms I could not see until you entered into my orbit.

You are African. I am Asian. You are brown, me sandalwood. You are sporty; I love books. You are married; I am still figuring things out. Your battery is often flat, and mine is always full. You are neurotypical. I am neurodivergent.

We are more alike, than we are different. A match made in heaven, in this earth, together in time.

You are lovely to me, and I am lovely to you. What have I done to deserve such love? You keep me accountable. You invite me to level up. I do the same, and we celebrate each other.

You push me. I push back. And together, we calibrate and equilibrate. We balance each other.

You open my eyes to the world. I learn to speak the language of neurotypical people. You challenge me to do right by me. “If you signed up for 12 months in Cape Town, why don’t you give yourself the full 12 months?”, You challenge me as I contemplate staying another week in Johannesburg to dilly dawdle.

I can go on and on. And it will, for as long as we shall live. This love letter that continues to write itself.

Last night, my 100-day challenge accountability partner tells me,
“People enter our lives for a season, reason and lifetime.”

With you, I commit to a lifetime of reasons and seasons of love.
With you by my side, this world makes more sense.
Dear Siamese Twin,
I dedicate one of my favorite songs in celebration of our love.

Seasons of Love – Rent (Music Video)

“Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes.
Five hundred twenty five thousand moments so dear.
five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes.
How do you measure,
Measure a year?

In daylights? In sunsets? In midnights? In cups of coffee?
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife?

In five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes.
How do you measure a year in a life?

How about love?
How about love?
How about love?
Measure in love…
Seasons of love…
Seasons of love…

Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes.
Five hundred twenty five thousand journeys to plan.
Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes.
How do you measure a life of a woman or a man?

In truths that she learned, or in times that he cried?
In bridges he burned, or the way that she died?

It’s time now to sing out, though the story never ends.
Let’s celebrate remember a year in a life of friends”

P.S. Yesterday, as I was walking back to my car, I turn to my right to glimpse at my own reflection. Who is this beautiful woman looking so cool and so full of life?

I see me, the same way you see me.

Tall, dark and handsome. Black man with slim figure and long legs. Capable and articulate, in your late twenties, rising through corporate ranks. Women love you, and men look up to you, wondering how you buzz with such confidence. When you smile, your teeth sparkle white. Impeccably dressed, with just the right amount of flair.

We meet at work. I am the cat, you the mouse. Program managing a savings program, my job is to chase you, and you run away from me.

We keep running into each other. In Soweto. At Sakhumzi, I see you sitting down with a man. Among the throng of people, it is early evening as we get ready to run the JP Morgan outside of Wanderer’s. I spot a tall man wearing pink shorts. “Hi Mark!”

I see you at the gym, dominating step class. Always with that broad smile of yours, disarming the skeptic in us.

Disembarking from a London red eye, I drive to work. Wearing the latest London purchase: Pink heels with black and white dress. Behind me you call out, “Yooooooooooooh! Look at those shoes. And these calves! Wow!!!” I return your smile.

We become friends. We attend each other’s birthday parties. Like a bee, you buzz from one social event to the next. Always keeping your word and showing up with all of yourself. You come over one new year’s eve and meet my dad.

One day, you send me a picture. You’re smiling, carrying a man on your back, the same guy I saw you with at Sakhumzi. “Yes, you guessed it!” You come out to me. What an honor. Everyone else thinks you’re straight. You feel safe with me to share your secret. You invite me to join your friendship circle. I am the only one from work to attend your special events.

You are always available to meet with me. Calling me out on my nonsense and celebrating my wins. We are each other’s accountability partners. You move two and half blocks away from my place.

You are raising your two nephews, calling them your children. They call you dad. One day, the two young men walk to my place, carrying a bouquet of flowers. I continue see them around the neighborhood, walking around. You share your parenting principles. “Yes, they must walk! One needs to lose weight. No, I’m not going to take them around in my car. They must earn their keep!”

You are funding their education, a place to live, showing them how to live in this world. Generous with your time, you create a program for your colleagues at Standard Bank. “You know, these people. They don’t speak proper English. They must learn! English is the business language in South Africa. I know, school system is bad, and whatever! But they have to learn now.” You create a series of speaker series to come and speak to your cohort. Fully funded by the company, this mover and shaker. You invite me to speak, and I join you one evening. To say thanks, you gift me a small statue of a woman playing violin.

You live your purpose: Lift others as you rise.

Covid is coming to a close, and it’s already been ten years since we first met.
You send me a photo. Gaunt in a hospital gown, out of your body are tubes leading to a glass beaker full of pink liquid. I can’t stand to look at the screen, as if I am witnessing a scene of a fatal accident. It’s you. I can’t recognize this version of you.

Life’s energy drained from your body, I can’t see you. I need some time to get used to this…
One evening, as I sit down for dinner, your place 250meters from Andiccio. I feel guilty for not walking over. Why am I being such a scumbag?

Few days later, I get a message from mutual friend “Mark’s gone. He passed away yesterday.”

Chemo to fight off skin cancer was too much for your body, your immune system compromised by tuberculosis.
All I had to do was walk over. All I had to do was give you a call. All I had to do was show up to see you, even if words failed me. It is too late, and I cannot undo the past.

An advocate of ‘cameras on always’, I excuse myself from the screen. Like waves, the tide rises, and I swell inside, waves crashing into me. Thoughts of you escape my eyes. My face turns into mashed potato.

A virtual wake with 1000+ people dialing in. More would have joined, had they known about your passing. A colleague and a friend recounts a memory of you.

“We were celebrating with a bottle of champagne. But we didn’t have flutes. Mark was insistent that we needed flutes, so I had to go buy them before he would let us open the bottle. Mark knew how to celebrate. He was insistent in doing things right. That’s Mark for you”

I am so sorry.

I beat myself up into a pulp. It’s easy to get stuck in this loop of self-loathe. And with this pulp, I unroll sheets of paper mixed with guilt. And on this parchment, I rearrange my emotions in black and white to write this love letter to my friend who was once beautiful.

Dear Mark Mandla Nwaila, I miss you.

Parking lot is already half full with groups of people gathering at the starting line. I walk towards them, wondering how I’m going to find my small group, as one calls out my name. I recognize his wavy hair, and I call out another. Moments later, two more arrive. We have all found one another despite meeting only once before.

“I wonder if it’s going to clear. I really hope it does”
“It will… We may even see some rainbows later. Or, it won’t. Anicca”

M starts humming, the familiar sound of Goenkaji, marking the end of suffering. Soothing and familiar, we laugh out loud.

Halfway up, we break through the clouds. Sparkling stars light the clear blue sky. Moving headlights of fellow hikers add to the constellation above and behind us.

We veer left, away from chain ladders, choosing a less popular route. We reach the ridge, just before the last push before the summit. Setting on a flat surface, marveling at the clouds below us.

We’re happy not to summit, having been here before. Happy to escape the crowd. We are blessed to be residents of this great city, not having to hurry. Free to come back whenever we want to.

“I want to jump in, it looks so soft.”

Cotton candy clouds. Layers and depth beyond our wildest imagination separate us from the world below. “Look, it’s like waves!”

Thick white clouds rise. Swell rolls in front of our eyes, slow and gentle. Peaks form, wave circling downwards. Sea spray breaks free, burning through the atmosphere. It looks like a wave, suspended, as if fast forwarding a paused frame.

A man walks on by, playing “a whole new world” from Aladdin. Fitting. I love that song.
Another M starts singing, “Here comes the sun” by the Beatles.

And the sun rises above the mountains, between two peaks, orange and red in front of us, blue and pink behind us. How is the same sky bleeding different colors? We take snapshots of each other and our surroundings. Offering and receiving generous cup of coffee and milk.

A couple plays a game, pushing and pulling each other. Click click click.
Another couple poses, a young and gentle energy. So sweet and joyful, my heart swells with best wishes. Click click click.

“Would you like a fig?”
“I love figs, thanks!”

I didn’t bring a jacket to keep warm. I don’t often dwell. My body starts to shiver, and I need to get moving.

“Bye!”, abruptly, I bid farewell. I need to go, I am cold. I descend quickly.

Later, we exchange photos.
“Thank you for the beautiful photos!”
“Thank you for being beautiful!”
Why do we look better in our still frames taken by others, compared to the ones we take of ourselves?
You are more beautiful and wonderful than you will ever see of yourself.

This love letter is to adventures.
To venturing outside, to unknown territories.
To saying yes to 5am hikes and making new friends along the way.
To imagining the sweetness of cotton candy clouds.
To creating futures with present actions.
To breaking through the clouds, rising higher and together.
To seeing far and wide.
To cherishing what is right in front of us.
Like this mountain, 15 minute-drive from my sanctuary.

Thirteen, a baker’s dozen.
Back in the day, bakers gave an extra loaf when selling a dozen to avoid penalty of selling short weight.
What do you give away for free? How about a smile? A gentle wave? A friendly ‘how do you do’?

Eckert Tolle describes pain body as living life force. Shadow imprinted on our body from the past, combined with ancestors’ and society’s dark energy. It’s also known as Sankara or Karma.

Sometimes,
I play the same game with no hope of moving to the next level.
I find myself in same relationships with the same people with different faces, watching the same old movie.
I run as fast as I can, spinning my wheels, only to find myself in the middle of nowhere.
Stuck in the same level, same movie, same place. In this purgatory of personal hell.

I need to get myself out of here.

What is causing this free spin of wasted energy? Pain body demanding to be fed. It fights to stay alive. Demanding and belligerent, yelling: I am hungry. I will not starve. I will not go away. I have been with you as long as your oldest memory. I am a living life force. I will not perish. Inviting chaos.

Shielding the light of my being.

Building fortresses and moats filled with sharks. Fortifying every entrance with booby traps and machine guns. Block out curtains drawn on every window. Keeping the world out, demanding safety.

Nothing can get in. Nothing can get out. I can’t see. It’s dark.
I ran to you when I needed to run from the present. A safe hide out, in shadows where I could not be found. Yet, truth be told, I didn’t need you then, and I don’t need you now. And I will not run away from you, the shadow you cast, tethered to my being.

When I ran to you, I was a child, behaving in childish ways. Believing in fairy tales and made-up stories.

I now live in the present, in this body, not the previous one. Grounded and integrating into my total being.

I used to look for you. Mistaking you for my favorite sweater my mother knit for me when I was a small child. Red with a hint of white, with brown buttons on the front, and on side pockets. Keeping me warm and cute, this sweater made of love.

And like the sweater, you no longer fit. Too small, too hot, and too itchy.

You are still a living force, not a garment. I hear you. I see you. I have been feeling you arising inside the deepest parts of my body, demanding to be fed. All you want is junk food. You want me to become a zombie. You don’t want air, the light, and clear water. You want chocolate, chips and soda that makes me feel bad. That makes me want to go to sleep. You try to disconnect me from the real world. Yet, I see you are just trying to stay alive, just like me.

I fed you on Tuesday. A crispy waffle with thick coat of Nutella, powdered sugar and small slices of strawberries. The child in me rejoiced, yet why did I crave another meal? Eyes were full, but belly empty. I walked around hungry despite the large calorific content the meal provided.

On Wednesday, I walked to a local joint for pumpkin pancakes and bananas. I felt full right away, feeling my stomach expanding, my being smiling from the nourishment.

I invite you to meet with me. This isn’t working out, you and me. We have no future together, and all you do is make me feel bad. I choose happiness. I choose myself.

And so, this love letter is to you: pain body, sankhara, karma. I acknowledge you so that I can release you. Thank you for showing me where I come from, where I have been hurting, and where I need to avoid. Thank you for showing me the shadows and the past I must face head on and not run away from. Past is gone, and you too, must go.

This isn’t working out, you and me. I release you into the ethers of emptiness. To become dirt, grass, rain. It’s up to you, you are free to go. To make better use of your life force to feed the universe. Our collective consciousness awakens as we become more aware of you. I am the master, and you are a shadow.

I walk to the windows, opening curtains, windows and doors. I release sharks into the ocean, where they belong. I lower the gates. Walls come down.

This love letter is to partings. To severing ties with things and people that no longer serve us. To long overdue goodbyes. Tschüss!

A dozen eggs crack open. Infinite possibilities pour into a bowl. What will you mix into your bowl of gooey goodness? How about the light of your being?

Bare threads criss-cross, piercing soft earth’s surface, sprouting roots of varying lengths and width as they shoot downwards. Ground hardens. Tree sits atop, creating shade through its height and might. Roots continue to travel deep and wide.

I feel a presence.

Who is there? He does not yet exist in this world, an unborn child in his mother’s womb.

He invites me to lay down my roots here, with him, and his family. It’s as if he knew I would doubt his existence. And so, he brought his father, just in case. A clever child. He is here to invite me, with his father by his side. “Will you be my godmother?”
His mother is absent, because she already asked me months ago. A decision I’ve been mulling over. “No” being the default answer. Now, all three implores me.

Saying yes is a commitment to South Africa. A contradiction. I’ve been thinking of uprooting myself and moving back to Korea or the USA. On top of the black chalkboard of a load bearing wall, I had etched my future in white chalk: “Be in Korea by 1 January 2024”.

Saying yes would mean laying down my roots and coming back. A lifelong responsibility I cannot take lightly.

I exercise my free will to accept the universe’s invitation to integrate into my truest self. To commit to a place with a violent past (so similar to motherland) with the power to heal and flourish. With all its imperfections and impermanence.

Still, we smile.

Here, we walk barefoot, plants and small flowers growing between our toes, through the tough soil, texture changing with the comings and goings of the rain.

This love letter is dedicated to our joyful gardener. A small bundle of joy no longer tiny, as he grows strong and tall, just like the tree I saw in my heart. Thank you for showing me my way home. Into my heart, into yours. South Africa, I love you.

I was in deep meditation, sitting on a black cushion, next to my dining room table, in the middle of afternoon, a daily practice. I open my eyes. I call your mother to accept your invitation.

You were meant to join us middle of April, but I had a feeling it was too soon. I joked you’d be born on the Fourth of May. So that I could be that cheesy aunt rhyming fourth with the force of a Jedi every birthday.

You are overdue, or maybe you were right on time.

May the force be with you.

11 is a palindrome. Double manifestations. Two equals walking side by side, holding hands. Skipping as they go, giggling along the way.

Last night, I went to my very first Improv class. Something I’ve been thirsting to try out for years. At a scout hall, next to a gas station. Twenty people of mixed gender, ages and races, though majority is white. I run into a fellow meditator, small world?

We sit around a circle configuration. A kind man invites me to conversation, “Is this your first time?” A polite and gentle exchange. Three of us join for the first time.

We start by saying our names and sharing something that made us feel seen and supported.

I rack my brain and remember an earlier gift from a colleague I met just a month ago. “I’ve been looking for a set of house slippers to offer my guests. The ones I have are too small for the majority of my tall friends with bigger feet. I mentioned this to him once few weeks ago. He remembered and brought me a fresh pair wrapped in plastic bag.”

After each share, we snap our fingers.

We have to start every response with “Yes, and”, a disruption to our usual “No, but”. Moving from the contrarian to community advocates.

We choose to be here, carving out a Monday evening to meet with strangers to partake on an open play of acceptance and kindness. Giving ourselves permission to play and mess up. We are not chasing alpha.

When asked to join the stage, no one hesitates. This feels like the last opportunity to jump on, and jump, I do.

“Three onto the stage” beckons five to jump up. And the coordinator adjusts to fit 5 from the original 3.

Woman sits down in the middle. A pair is made among the four. I’m paired up with Dani, and the two gents with each other. We have to present the lovely lady with pick-up line. Dani and I hook our arms together. We can only say one word at a time, and the partner takes the next word. We have to start with “Hey, baby”, with fake guns made with index and thumb, as if we’re cocking imaginary guns.

Tell us about yourself, the coordinator asks.

Woman: I like to sleep.

Dani “Hey”
Me: “Baby”
Dani: “Are”
Me: “you”
Dani: “my”
Me: “Teddy”
Dani: “Bear”
Cheesy smile, and we go “heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy”
We win this round. The next one.

Woman: I like scary movies.

Dani: “Hey”
Me: “Baby”
Dani: “Do”
Me: “You”
Dani: “Like”
Me: “Scary”
Dani: “Movies”
Me: “Boo!”
“Heeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy”, shooting our fake guns.
She jumps from her chair, and we lose this round.

The next round, we are tied. Congenial collaboration.

Wrapping up the session, we are invited to call out, popcorn style, what we appreciated about someone. I tell a Tafatswa, “I loved the way you jumped up at every opportunity to participate” She responds with, “I loved the way you tried to pronounce [whose name I’ve forgotten already]”

A social evening, an invitation to go for drinks. I pass. “Who is going to Sea Point?” Asks the lady who likes to sleep.

I shoot my hand up, and give Dani a ride home, not too far from where I live. A casual conversation of 20 minutes, she asks, “You’re brave to try this out yourself!”

“Thanks, improv doesn’t scare me. Other things do. I’m trying to actively chase discomfort.”

What did I learn?

Act of three lines. I couldn’t understand what one partner said, and we were put on the spot. I couldn’t advance, because I had nothing to go with. And so, it is the responsibility of the communicator to speak to be understood, not to stand out. A quick lesson, because we move on to the next partner. New act. If we got used to moving on this quickly, we would be further ahead, happier and less afraid to fail. What is failure anyways?

Life is better lived with imagination, with one another. Not imagination alone, by ourselves. Listening intently to invite the storyteller to expand or advance. Tell me more. This is boring, let’s move forward. Expand into the now, before advancing into the next.

This love letter celebrates the act of trying out new things, creating positivity as we expand and advance.

The number 9. Circling into curiosity. Growing legs, expanding into life.
Here is to new beginnings.