Bus Journey

"Life is but a walking shadow.
It is a tale told by an idiot,
Full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."
----William Shakespeare, Macbeth

This blog is neither full of sound nor fury. The complete absence of sound is due to, in no small part, my inadequate grasp of the complexities of midi sound files and the fact that they take an eternity to upload. And by and large, the reflective theme of this webpage is narrated in a mild-mannered tone. Not much fury to speak of, then. So the only link this site has to the above quote by Macbeth is that it carries many tales told by the same idiot.

But can that be right? I'm not disputing about the part about the idiot; but is it right to say that life signifies nothing? Oh, certainly not, you say, before going on to eulogize on the fulfillment that love, honor and friendship brings. But even if life signifies something, does death wipe its meaning away? Does it count for nothing in the end?

Most of us see death as a black hole that takes everything away, and so are afraid of dying. Zen Buddhists who have given up their material possessions and mortal wants have nothing to lose, and are at peace with the notion of dying. While I'm far from being spiritually enlightened, I think that death does not necessarily have to take away, but rather it can give meaning to life.

During Chinese New Year, it is customary to visit immediate and extended family members; a grand family reunion, if you like. This festival has always been a joyous and boisterous occasion to renew kinship, where literally the young and old congregate. While the festival was an exciting opportunity to have fun with my cousins in the past; now that we're all in our early twenties', I'd taken more interest in the older folk in recent years.

It might be a morbid and inappropriate thought given the celebratory occasion, but yet beneath all the festivities, in my mind's eye I see them dying. Their hair thinning and graying with each passing year, their faces wrinkling with age, and their eyesight increasingly beginning to fail them. And as my mind played back to my grandfather's funeral seven years ago, I saw myself at my aging relatives' traditional Chinese funerals, head bowed and knelt in front of their coffins, looking up and wondering if my converted Christian cousins were in attendance.

Albert Schweitzer wrote: When the path of life leads us to some vantage point where the scene around us fades away and we contemplate the distant view right to the end, let us not close our eyes. Let us pause for a moment, look at the distant view, and then carry on. Thinking about death in this way produces love for life. When we are familiar with death, we accept each week, each day, as a gift. Only if we are able thus to accept life---bit by bit---does it become precious.

So, instead of being afraid and pretending that the sceptre of death didn't exist, it might be more comforting to acknowledge that our limited time on earth makes us treasure and appreciate the people around us more.

I don't know where my ideas about death came about, but my grandfather's passing when I was fourteen taught me a lot about acceptance. I was very close to my grandfather, him having been a strong influence in my formative years with both of my parents working at that time. The line about people being harsh on their children but doting on their grandchildren is definitely true.

Anyway during that difficult period I had lots of negative emotions bottled up inside me. I was angry that certain people could just turn on the taps and weep unabashedly in spite of how they'd treated my grandfather. I was extremely guilt-ridden---for it was me who had discovered my grandfather when he was struck down by his stroke and didn't have the faintest idea of what to do. I was angry with my cousin for crying anyway even though he was too young to understand what death was, I was angry with my father for not being there at that ill-fated moment even though he might have, and above all I was angry at my own sense of helplessness.

I only got over my torment when I saw my grandfather again, in my dreams. I was walking towards the bus-stop opposite my house on my way to school as usual. Then I noticed that it looked the way it did ere its renovation a few years ago. Had time turned back, implausible as it may seem? Curious, I continued walking, studying the old bus-stop intently. There was an elderly man in blue shirt, black pants and shoes sitting under the shelter---my grandfather. Rapturous, I ran towards him and sank into his embrace, feeling his warm, comforting figure wrapped around me once more. I told him how much I missed him and that I loved him, oblivious to the crowd at the bus-stop.

One by one, the commuters left the bus-stop to board their respective buses, whilst I sat there confiding in my grandfather all the while. Eventually the bus to take me to school came, and my grandfather beckoned me to board it. I shook my head, looking searchingly into his benevolent eyes. Go, he insisted. Your bus is here. Reluctantly, I boarded the bus, and waved goodbye to him one last time.

That morning, I woke up basked in a light from a higher power. My grandfather used to walk me to and from primary school, and he had returned to release me from my torment. His journey was complete, he could now sit down resting at the bus-stop; but my bus had come calling, and I had my own long, arduous journey to undergo. But whenever I suffered bouts of motion sickness, I could always take heart, safe in the knowledge that my grandfather would be waiting for me at the terminal station.