There’s a superstitious belief that when you break a mirror, bad luck is sure to follow, and it’s 7 years at that. And often, a cracked mirror is disposed of quickly.
Now, if indeed I were to wake up one day to find the mirror crack’d, I’d see a much better world. Not perfect, not even close to it.
Yet, around me, beauty would shine more strikingly than ever just like in an eclipse —
the moon’s mystifying form, sans its own light, renders her more beautiful than the blinding light of the sun…
My mirror crack’d, thus I could see myself more clearly, through my neighbors’ eyes and mine;
Perhaps in a world without mirrors, people would be more humble, quiet, content…
We’d become more in touch with ourselves less the self-consciousness that would otherwise distract us from our real purpose in life — and that can allow you and I to journey on with humility, simplicity, sincerity…
Truly, when our mirror of self-vanity cracks open, it reveals the real gem beneath our facade, our mask…
Each of us becomes a beautiful broken piece from that shattered glass of superficiality and pride.
Oh I’ve been dreaming about this for so long, but if only I could have a Robot, I’d have a pair of BionicEyes that can scan my mind, as I write.
You see, now that I’m earning a living out of creating content for websites – I realize that writing cannot all be fun, especially when running out of time, and there are still loads of articles to read and curate.
And so, if ever I could, I’d command You, Robot, my dear BionicEyes, to do just this one Big task:
Capture, collect and gather all the thoughts that have been running here and there in my mind, and flash them onto my screen, so that all I have to do is just to re-arrange them as neatly, logical as I want them to be…
Not wanting to use my keyboard any longer as I curate an article, when my wrists are tired – my dear Robot – Be my Eyes and set all the ideas right before me – on the screen – Now.
This is not to say I do not enjoy what I’m doing. On the contrary, it delights me immensely so.
Yet, times when I do want everything automated, except thinking itself…so please, my BionicEyes, come to my rescue!
The Name’s The Thing, yes. It feels good naming some things. Just like My Writer Pad, one among several journals I keep. And my Writer Pad’s name is — Sean George. How it came to be, I will tell you.
Sean stands for the name of my long-time Hollywood crush — the ever so debonair Sean Connery. I’ve liked him more since watching him in “Finding Forrester” and in “First Knight.” The way he carries himself like true blue royalty can still make me swoon for the moon, letting my imagination go wild with his hypnotic gaze and deep strong voice. Sigh….
Then, George comes from the name of one of the main characters in a short love story my Korean student, a nun, and I read, discussed in class. At the end of several weeks of digesting the story, my student said she hoped I’d find my own George. Well, here he is, together with Sean.
With that name, it’s easy for me to be lured to come to Sean George, my Writer Pad, bare my soul, with my words streaming down on its pages.
Et tu, Brute? — this oft-quoted famous line from William Shakespeare’s play, Julius Ceasar which most of us studied in English literature speaks of deception, the ultimate betrayal of one’s closest friend. Can you imagine the shock, the bleeding pain and disgust Ceasar could have felt at seeing his most trusted friend Brutus among his assassins?
Automation has made it possible to produce so many objects — from bread to shoes — without the intervention of human hands (assuming that pressing a button doesn’t count). What things do you still prefer in their traditional, handmade version?
Nothing gives more joy to me than food or drink made from scratch – like brewed freshly-ground coffee, just the aroma of it is enough to perk me up long before my first sip; and nothing tastes more heavenly than fresh-from-the oven bread or cake my son has baked…and what instant soup can ever compare to the delectable scent, oriental flavor and rich texture of traditionally-cooked soup, one that you cook with meat bones and tiny-diced veggies and spices for close to 4 hours?
I just love thick hand-crocheted shawls, just like the ones my mother patiently handmade for me, for nothing else can give that feel of warmth and coziness on a rainy or cold day or night. And I cannot resist the beauty of hand-crafted decorative items that can adorn the home, or be used for a purpose — native food baskets woven from bamboo or rattan, cross-stitched table runners and doilies, hand-painted bowls, to name a few. Thus, I look back with fondness to my grandparents’ house, similar to the photo above, inside of which were hand-crafted objects, like their wooden intricately-carved furniture and hand-sewn lace curtains.
I still relish handwritten notes and letters, as well as writing longhand in my various journals, some of which have been handmade with recycled paper, stitched at the edges with lovely yarns of thread.
Traditionally cooked food or drink, handmade objects, are always a delight to have, for they bear the imprint of the person that made them. They are feasts to the body, soul and mind, and each toil that goes into the making of that special object or food carries a tale of Love, a handiwork of the Heart.
When I am grown much much older, and my granddaughters will have been bigger, I shall tell them all about these…my handmade tales of love.
Looking back to the 21st of January, I cannot recall if I ever made any predictions as to how this year would turn out to be. Yet, grateful I am that 190 days later, I find my life abloom with dreams I’ve nurtured deep in my heart, bearing fruits much more than I expected. With more faith, confidence and courage, I trek on headlong to the path that awaits me.
“Your mind is like a garden. Tend it well by filling it with positive, encouraging, faith-building thoughts throughout the day.” – Maria Fontaine