I Never Wrote You a Love Poem

We do not sing each other love songs
Or write poems or prose on Hallmark cards
We never bother with red roses
Or give surprises on special days
We do not go to fancy places
Or lock our hearts on lover's bridges

Instead,
We listen to birds sing to our hearts
Speak with fondness that need not be penned
We plant seeds that grow with seasons
Make memories on just normal days
We take long walks on the countrysides
And leave our shoe prints on the dirt tracks

No,
We do not speak of love, not really
But tonight, the moon was beautiful
The flowers in the garden have bloomed
The scent in the air carries longing
That I thought of you, quite far away
And finally wrote you a love poem.

The Lion King: A Magical Spectacle

Sat in the Grand Circle of the Lyceum Theater in London while waiting for the seats to be filled up, mostly by students on a day trip or tourists on a short visit to the British capital, I started to feel slightly apprehensive on whether the theatrical version of the Lion King we were about to see would live up to its critical acclaim. 

As a child, my siblings and I were obsessed with the 1994 Disney movie we kept replaying the VHS tape until the rented video nearly got broken. The coming of age movie theme and the memorable songs has made it until now my favourite cartoon film of all time. When I found out about the West End version, I've put it forward on our annual list of Things To Do and John booked the ticket for a day out in February. 

My husband and I are avid theatre-goers, preferring this medium to film, which made me feel more queasy about dragging him all the way to London with a late night train to catch that same day and a baby (who was left with his grandmother) to tuck in bed before midnight. But when the show opened with a bright orange sun rising over the African jungle followed by a procession of animals through the audience including a sizeable elephant, the child in me was reawakened and all cynicism replaced with awe. 

The show brought the African Savannah in all its colourful glory with a cacophonous cavalcade that took our breath away. The impressive animal puppets absorbed the human body into a whole Serengeti of stylised animal shapes, capturing the essence of the animals in the wild while nodding subtly to the human faces of Africa. It was a thunderous spectacle of live theatre with so much thought and detail that went into the choreography it was of little wonder that more than 10 years after its debut in London, even a mid-week matinee show can still command a full house. 

But it wasn't just the visual pageantry accompanied by African drumbeats that made the musical so popular, it also caters to different audiences who would leave the theatre with something to take. My special memories are the shared scenes between father and son, when Mufasa took Simba to the top of Pride Rock to marvel at the extent of the kingdom he would someday inherit and the lessons he attempted to impress on the curious cub. One particular line struck me, when the young lion repulsively pointed at the ugly vultures feeding on dead animals and his father told him that they are only doing what they are meant to do, that everything exists in a delicate balance called the Circle of Life which we would all do well to respect. That awareness is something our own child will also be taught. 

The Lion King is a definite must see, the West End version was nostalgic, breath-taking and soul-stirring, well worth the £45 (cheapest) per ticket  we had to pay. 

The Circle of Life: Image from weblink.

The Sun Rising: Image from weblink.

A Day Like Any Other

Today I won't be getting a 'surprise' bunch of flowers and a box of sweets. We haven't booked a fancy restaurant for an evening meal. Dinner will be a homemade meal of whatever cravings I have at the moment. And like every other night, we would be sat in front of a warm fireplace watching an hour-long BBC documentary on I-player before turning in for the night. 

I hold no grudge against Valentines Day although never once in my 28 years has it been different from any other day. And no, marriage has certainly not made me less of a hopeless romantic, it has in fact made me more aware of simple joys and little acts of love everyday. 

This morning, I noticed how the orchids in our front room have started to grow more buds. When we bought it in early autumn from a bargain shop for  £1.99, we estimate it would last at least before winter. But six months on it is still in full bloom, flowers seem to blossom well in a loving home. 

This is true with all the flowers in our garden where despite the unpredictable weather, the winter pansies are thriving, the spring bulbs are coming out and the leaves of the roses are starting to come back to life. They are the flowers that I get everyday, regardless of the season, not ordered from a florist but lovingly tended by my husband's own hands. 

And because today, we are allowed to be cheesy, this is what he has to say about this subject: 

"Love is not a sudden outpouring of rain but the gentle drizzle that keeps the garden in bloom all throughout the year."

Flowers, poetry and love ~ no, they don't need a special day to be celebrated. 

A Dose of AMS: On Love

The Scottish writer Alexander McCall Smith, the author of The No.1 Ladies Detective Agency and many others, is now my favourite author mostly because of the deep and profound reflections usually mouthed or thought of by his rather flawed but interesting characters. They are people I can easily identify with, some of them even think like me and think of others the way I would have thought about them (which is not always the right way admittedly). 

This particular lines from his Isabel Dalhousie novel, The Charming Quirks of others, is one of those thoughts that could have been my own and because I couldn't have written it better, I would love to share it: 

"We do not need to look for reasons for love - it is simply there; it comes upon us without invitation, without reason sometimes; it surprises us when we are least expecting it, when we thought our hearts were closed or that we were not ready, or we imagined it would never happen to us because it had not happened before. But if I were to ask myself why I love you, or perhaps try to find what is the main cause of my being in love with you, perhaps it is because you are generous in spirit. It is not because you are beautiful, not because I see perfection in your features, in your smile, in your litheness --  all of which I do, of course I do, and have done since the moment I first met you. It is because you are generous in spirit; and may I be like that; may I become like you -- which unrealistic wish, to become the other, is such a true and revealing symptom of love, its most obvious clue, its unmistakable calling card."

Romance and Jane Austen

It was Boxing Day and with John off later on a 14-hour night shift, there was little else to do but sit in front of the television (whilst doing the ironing). As usual, I quickly scanned BBC i-Player but found nothing interesting other than the documentary The Many Lovers of Jane Austen which explored how an anonymous minor novelist in her own time is 200 years later recognised as a unique British literary genius.

I have a complete collection of Austen novels gathering dust on my shelves, along with other books I have promised to read when time permits. I have only read Pride and Prejudice but this afternoon, I had the chance to watch the movie adaptations of her books. Since I first knew him, I have fallen in love with Mr Darcy and have imagined myself as Elizabeth Bennett which perhaps explains my penchant for Korean dramas that follows the same storyline. But alas my love story was not to be the same. No, I fancy that my fate had been more aligned with Catherine Morland of Northanger Abbey who in her infancy, no one would have supposed to be born a heroine. In fact the qualities of her Mr Tilney’s are not unlike those of my husband’s, who first engaged me in conversations as a friend not oblivious to my apparent attraction then later on allowed himself to fall for my ‘candour and open character’, overlooking my occasional flaws.

Watching Jane Austen has made me realise once again how fortunate I am to be born in this generation where my life choices are not limited by my family’s fortune (or lack thereof) and my options on marriage are not restricted by the financial suitability of the union. Yes, I am blessed indeed to have found a man whose love could only equal mine.

I have often written of love, or at least what I have believed of it, before I have found it – of skipping heartbeats, of secret glances and of sleepless nights torturing over what had been and not been said.  Ahh, there’s nothing as romantic and yet as tormenting as unrequited love and for those I’ve had a few. But of true love, I have none but one and the discovery of which have crippled my literary superfluousness. For when one experiences real love, the sort that is felt and lived, one never finds the right words to describe it or talk about it.

I am still as much a hopeless romantic as I have always been. In fact, of recently my standards have risen and they continue to be met. On the subject of flowers, I do not receive an occasional bunch for my very own gardener has made sure that I get to admire them from our window every day. And no, I do not get taken out on casual dates to fancy restaurants but I’m regularly whisked off to embark on exciting adventures far and near. But most importantly of all, my husband shares my father’s most loving trait in that they are both reliable with the house chores, what more could a wife ask for?   

I have not been a fan of romantic movies of recently, not the ones that they tend to make in Hollywood at the moment characterised by movies such as ‘No Strings Attached’. But I enjoyed my afternoon with Jane Austen’s characters, women some have deemed to be filled with emotional restraint and lacking of passion and yet have managed to find their perfect match without so much as baring a flesh. Perhaps this is one of the reasons why Jane Austen’s novels survives through the ages. Virtue is rewarded and true love wins in the end. 

He Exists

For most of my life I have loved the same man…somebody not mine, not yet.



I haven’t actually met him but I have a rough idea of what he looks like. I have a more specific take on how he thinks, what he feels. I have an almost exact sense on how he makes me feel.



I’ve imagined him to be someone straight out of my Korean novellas – rather quiet that’s often mistaken for snobbishness, attractive for his brains and with a Mona Lisa smile that would melt me to my knees.



I love the fact that he cracks weird jokes and tells them when the timing is right that no matter how ridiculous, you just have to laugh. He goes to church almost unfailingly on Sundays, sitting quietly on the corner and uttering his silent prayer. He knows what he wants with his life, doesn’t mind sweating over it or struggling hard just to get there.



He listens to my stories without snoring on me, laughs when I am funny and tells me when I’m not. He likes taking long walks with me, holding my hands, and squatting somewhere grassy to look at the sunset or wait for the sunrise. He enjoys surprising me with a single red rose, a scribbled line from a song or poetry and sometimes an off-tune song that would still sound romantic.



He’s not perfect. There would be times when he would want to chill out with his friends with a glass of whiskey or two and I would mind. There would be moments when he would be a strain to understand. There would be instances when he would make me weep even over trivial things.



But he would know where to tickle my funny bones. His soothing words would ease away my insecurities. His warm embrace would cool away my anger. His kisses would comfort my troubled heart.



I’ve asked God for him a dozen times and He didn’t listen. I tried to settle for someone less, it didn’t work. So I figured, I waited this long, I might just as well wait for him longer.



The thing is, I’ve been told that the man I love doesn’t exist. I’ve never met him. I might never meet him. Or maybe, someone’s already got him.



But I need to believe that he’s out there somewhere, looking for me and wondering where I am. I need to believe that he’s dreaming of me too and anticipating for the moment when our worlds would finally meet, when the distance would no longer be unbearable and when we are finally freed from our uncertainties. I need to believe in his reality because I need to hold on to the hope that one day he would come for me, like a dashing prince in his white horse who would kiss the Sleeping Beauty that was always in me.