Ich glaube, daß fast alle unsere Traurigkeiten Momente der Spannung sind, die wir als Lähmung empfinden, weil wir unsere befremdeten Gefühle nicht mehr leben hören. Weil wir mit dem Fremden, das bei uns eingetreten ist, allein sind, weil uns alles Vertraute und Gewohnte für einen Augenblick fortgenommen ist; weil wir mitten in einem Übergang stehen, wo wir nicht stehen bleiben können. Darum geht die Traurigkeit auch vorüber: das Neue in uns, das Hinzugekommene, ist in unser Herz eingetreten, ist in seine innerste Kammer gegangen und ist auch dort nicht mehr, – ist schon im Blut. Und wir erfahren nicht, was es war. Man könnte uns leicht glauben machen, es sei nichts geschehen, und doch haben wir uns verwandelt, wie ein Haus sich verwandelt, in welches ein Gast eingetreten ist. Wir können nicht sagen, wer gekommen ist, wir werden es vielleicht nie wissen, aber es sprechen viele Anzeichen dafür, daß die Zukunft in solcher Weise in uns eintritt, um sich in uns zu verwandeln, lange bevor sie geschieht.- Rainer Maria Rilke
My dearest granddaughter,
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My own mother belonged to a race native of Northern Borneo called “Kadazan”. When I was young, visiting my own grandmother, I would be completely surrounded by the culture and the language of my mother’s people. While the culture is part of my identity, it at times felt foreign to me, mainly because I frequently visited Borneo, but have never lived there for long periods of time. I did not know the language, although through the years I have tried (and failed) to pick up bits and pieces. But I loved the stories and the legends of my mother’s people, and there is one that I love above all: it is the legend behind Mount Kinabalu. This mountain lies on the Crocker range in the heart of Borneo, and is the highest peak of South East Asia. Since the mountain and the surrounding forest have been turned into a tourist national park, many have since ascended and descended its peaks. I remembered that the recommended time frame for the hike would be two days for any given visitor, but a native living near the mountain, a Kadazan, can climb and descend that beast within hours and always within a day, even with a loaded, heavy backpack. The legend tells us that there was once a Chinese prince who travelled far and wide in a boat to the land of Borneo in order to find the world’s most precious pearl. The pearl itself was rooted deep within the heart of Borneo, right in the middle of this mountain, and was heavily guarded by a ferocious dragon. Now, no man has ever tried to steal the pearl and yet keep his life, but many have died trying. This prince, however, sought to defy the odds and was determined to win the pearl for himself. Like all wonderful and mystical fairytales, the prince, with his mighty sword, engaged the dragon in a long, dangerous battle for the pearl, and with one great swift, he killed the dragon, and took the pearl for himself. Sadly, the legend did not pass to us more details regarding this mighty battle, but we are very sure of such an outcome. The prince decided to stay in Borneo, and here in this land, far away from home and all familiarity, he fell in love with a Kadazan girl. And she fell for him, too. Again, not many details on the unfolding of their love for each other – how they met or what troubles did they face, what more battles did he go on to fight for her and what passionate and brave deeds did she do for him – we do not know. But the legend skipped all of such things and went on to tell us that she fell pregnant with the prince’s child. And the whole fairytale attitude to this legend seemed to have taken a horrible twist by narrating to us that it was at this period, when she was with his child, that he left on his boat to return to China. He left her. Pregnant and alone. She fell into deep depression and longing for him. She yearned for him so much, that everyday she would ascend the mountain in order to look out for his ship, hoping that he has changed his mind, praying that he would come back to her. And on top of that mountain, she would cry and wail for him, for she loved him still and could love no other. She fell into such a deep sadness that she died on the mountain and turned into stone. When one looks very closely at the peak of this mountain, one can make out an image of a pregnant woman lying down. Hence, the mountain was named “Kinabalu”, “kina” being the Kadazan word for “Chinese”, and “balu” being the word for “widow”. Kinabalu. Chinese widow.
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I remember everything, including the memory of him leaving me.
I remember the sudden upheaval of sadness, like an arrow through my chest, with its force so great that I can’t help but fall into what seems like an unending abyss. It was a tsunami-like wave, the sadness and the tears. I remember physically gripping my chest, wondering why an emotional heartbreak can actually manifest and feel like an actual hole in my heart. I remember the whiskey and the wine that I drank in a manner so excessive, just so that my mind could sleep in order to forget, at least for a few hours, that he was gone, and he was never coming back. During those moments, it felt like I had lost myself, as I had lost something that I was so certain about. How could I have been so wrong? That was my constant question. Not unlike the Chinese widow, I waited, longed and wailed and willed for him to come back to me. He didn’t. And I never saw him again.
However, the wave, to my surprise, eventually passed and eased into a throbbing thorn, and the pain eventually became unconscious to me. The tears eventually dried up, and my mind started focusing the other aspects of my life, trying to return to some sense of normalcy. But I’ve never forgotten, because he has become part of me and my identity – he changed me, like how a guest that enters a room would alter its atmosphere. Not that the pain have passed or the memory forgotten, but rather they have joined themselves to me to a point where I can no longer extract myself from them – he is now part of my narrative identity. You must understand, dear child, that this does not mean that I have loved your grandfather any less, or that I’ve never loved him at all. On the contrary! 60 years of marriage – and one that remained miraculously loving until the end. If that is not love, I don’t know what is! But there are certain chambers, pathways and memories within me where I have not allowed your grandfather to go, because no amount of connection or intensity between two people can ever bring perfect union or understanding between two hearts. Till this day, when I see a white Mitsubishi van, or a German Shepard dog, or when I think of Oriental Parade, I would remember him, and secretly smile. As to why I cherish him, or at least, the memory of him, to this extent, that in my old age I still think of him – the reason is simple: you will remember the people whom you truly connected with, and the intensity of such a relationship is unforgettable.
What is the point in all this, you might ask. What exactly am I trying to say? I ask that you remember this: that if and when you have the joy of experiencing such a connection, take the chance. And if your heart should break, remember that the wave, as shocking as it is, would subside. Do not allow yourself to be turned into stone and permit the sadness to be your primary identity, but rather let the tears be part of you, and never your all consuming obsession. In the vicissitudes of our existence, I have learned that to arm my heart by heavily guarding it would also rob it of its spirited function; but to allow it to become chaotic would do exactly the same. Remember that the sadness are moments of tensions, of punctuations, but it is our inability to see past the wave that would cause us to be caught and drowned in it. I will not ask you to avoid troubles – that is impossible. Neither will I ask you to approach love with a heavily armed and overly cautious heart – all love carries risk. But I would ask you to master the wave, and remember that the tide must eventually go down.
And to end, let me narrate to you what he once wrote to me:
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Happy birthday. I love you.
Always,
Grandmama.
Reality and Mirror 