Reflections

How is it possible that another year has gone by?  As one gets older, time doesn’t move at the pace of the hour glass; it slips and slides like sand between the fingers. All too soon, I’m chasing that last minute before the day is done, and then I lie in bed wondering if I could have done some more.

The end of the year is a good time to reflect on what we have done these past twelve months with our careers, families, friends, and interests. What have we done to change or enhance our existence? Did our careers get a boost or a nudge, or did it plateau and maybe even take a beating? What were the highlights in our family events? The ones that made us laugh, love, or cry? Did we reconnect with an old friend, make a new one or simply kept our friendships active? Where did our interests take us this year—developed a new hobby or nurtured an old one? Did we try to make a difference to someone’s life?

So much to reflect upon.

I am blessed. I am grateful for many things in my life, and I remind myself of these as often as I can—sometimes daily—with even just one thing that makes me smile. One joyful bundle entered my life this year. My granddaughter, born during the first quarter, never fails to lift my spirits every time my eyes fall on her cherubic face, in many expressions, on my computer screen.

My family, at my side all the time, cheers me on as I measure each success by my writing milestones. A new contact or friend, attendance at a new author’s book launch, my first reading, my name amongst other writers—still unknown, but hopefully not for long.

I have edited more than a quarter of my first novel. The fact that I even finished my first draft this year is an achievement I never thought was possible. For so many years I had dreamed of writing a novel, but never got past the first couple of pages. So I am indeed thankful.

For anyone reading this blog, I hope you’ve had a successful year, however you define success.

My Namesake...My Challenge

How convoluted can your name get? If you have a couple of minutes, I’ll tell you my story.

When I was born, my parents promptly named me and registered my birth just like any law-abiding citizens. What’s so unusual about that? It’s a big deal—given that we’re talking about living in India during a time when many Chinese births were not registered until years later.

Owning an accurate birth certificate was quite an accomplishment…it was, until my parents decided to change part of my name before I enrolled for kindergarten at the local Chinese school. Apparently my generational name—the one that was common to all my sisters, unborn at the time—was in conflict with one of our ancestors in China. My parents didn’t think it was necessary to update my birth certificate though.

The curve ball came when I went to an English school at eight—earlier than most other Hakka Chinese kids my age. Rather than use my birth name, I was enrolled with my revised name spelled phonetically. One could argue that my high school certificate is not mine.

Another twist came about when we were allowed to become legal Indian citizens. The birth certificate became an important document. Only problem was that the person preparing my application added an alias. Now here was the perfect opportunity to right all that was wrong, but no…that would have made too much sense. I'll spare you the details—fodder for another blog perhaps—of how a butchered sound-alike of my name was included into my citizenship documents.

When I immigrated to Canada, I reverted back to my legal given name registered at birth…until I got married and adopted my husband’s surname…but that’s the least convoluted part of this story.

Eight Years Old, and All Grown Up

When I was eight years old, I went away to study at a boarding school for the first time--at my own insistence--I might add. My English education began because I pestered my mother to let me study English. The local Chinese school in Tangra, a suburb of Calcutta (now called Kolkata), was the primary school for most of us back then.

My mother relented, and I went away to another city. I had to take an overnight train to get to my school where I stayed for nine months a year with two breaks, summer and winter. Too late...as I tried to get some sleep, half lying on my bedding roll in a crowded train compartment, I was confronted with the reality of what I'd committed myself to. I wouldn't see my mom for the next four and half months. That was enough to bring some huge tears, and I mean torrential downpours, that lasted for a couple of weeks.

During those early days at school, struggling to learn English, I regretted bitterly being a spoiled kid and getting my way. The truth was my mother probably wanted an English education for me, and when I bugged her to let me go, she didn't need a lot of coaxing.

Later, when English became more of a first language to me than my own Hakka dialect, I patted myself for being so forceful with my mother...I actually had the audacity to think that my eight-year old self was responsible for my own educational direction.

My mother's birthday is coming up this week. I dedicate this blog to her for giving me the gift of language.