Superman

I’ve always found Five for Fighting’s ‘Superman’ oddly soothing.

I can't stand to fly I'm not that naive
I'm just out to find The better part of me
I'm more than a bird I'm more than a plane
I'm more than some pretty face beside a train
And it's not easy to be me

I wish that I could cry Fall upon my knees
Find a way to lie 'Bout a home I'll never see
It may sound absurd But don't be naive
Even heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed But won't you concede
Even heroes have the right to dream
And it's not easy to be me

Up, up and away, away from me
Well it's alright You can all sleep sound tonight
I'm not crazy or anything

I can't stand to fly I'm not that naive
Men weren't meant to ride With clouds between their knees

I'm only a man in a silly red sheet Digging for kryptonite on this one way street
Only a man in a funny red sheet Looking for special things inside of me
Inside of me
It's not easy to be me


But when I was asked to perform it last night, somehow everything clicked.

I cringed when I was introduced with an accolade, knowing there are colleagues who resent that I’ve been given some award. Just that morning I reached school to find that the banner proclaiming my victory had been slashed. Hmmm.. hopefully I’m not next.

And then I performed the song and every word just made sense.
The unspoken expectations on me. Little Miss Bubbly who happens to have lots of workable ideas.

I wonder about that colleague who envies me,
We’re the same age. I’ve got a national award. She’s married with a kid.
Does she have a right to envy me and do I have a right to envy her?
‘I wish that I could cry
Fall upon my knees
Find a way to lie
'Bout a home I'll never see’

Silly woman. What’s there to envy?

I'm just looking for special things inside of me.

Christmas thoughts

Just finished reading 'Flowers for Algernon' by Daniel Keyes, about a retarded man who becomes a genius through a scientific experiment. It reminded me of my questions as to whether it is better to be smart or simple. I realise that it is a moot point since I am what I am. But the important thing is how I choose to respond to those around me.

From the 13th chapter of First Corinthians :
1 If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but do not have love, I have become a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. 2 If I have the gift of prophecy, and know all mysteries and all knowledge; and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. 3 And if I give all my possessions to feed the poor, and if I surrender my body to be burned, but do not have love, it profits me nothing.

Neither my intelligence nor my knowledge nor my efficiency nor my sense of matrydom and desire to help count for anything. It is a relief.

4 Love is patient, love is kind and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant, 5 does not act unbecomingly; it does not seek its own, is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered, 6 does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth; 7 bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

During my jog this morning, I kept tearing as I mulled over the past year, and more than that, the past ten years. In Dec 1996, I received Christ as Lord and Saviour.
As I meditated upon what love is, I realised I have loved and been loved in a myriad of settings, all unplanned, unrehearsed, all flowing naturally from relationships founded on increasing trust. And I marvelled over the perseverance that God has shown in loving me despite my misgivings, my turning-aways, my failings.

I feel blessed this Christmas.
Happy birthday Jesus.

Miscarriage

The word ‘miscarriage’ keeps popping into my head.

‘Miscarriage’ – the expulsion of a foetus before it is viable. Before breath and life and growth. Somehow, something happens. A fall, a slip. Fall, falling , fallen. A slip of the tongue. Could it always be that a fall and a slip prelude a miscarriage?

But a miscarriage is also the failure to attain the just, right, or desired result, as in a miscarriage of justice. But who is the one to judge on what is just? And whose desires are in play when one talks about desired results? Is it a miscarriage if one party desires it and one does not?

Miscarriage – also the failure of something sent, as a letter, to reach its destination. A sense of forlornness. A letter sent in hope and not replied. Hope aborted, no, not aborted since it is not deliberate, miscarried.

But beneath all the word play, there is calm and quiet and loss and resignation and sadness.

My overanalyzing mind wonders if this is about the incident in question or about the context in which it occurs, of just turning 30, of spending the night surrounded by colleagues talking about children, of losing losing hope that I will be held and accepted by someone I love and respect.

Forlorn. But I press on.