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.

The Moon Smiled That Night

The last days of summer brings with it an air of disquiet, as any change in life often does. With the days slowly getting shorter and the gusty winds starting to accrue, it is tempting to stay indoors. And that was what I had intended to do on that afternoon in September after the chores have been done. 

But John had a different idea: the sky was clear and the sun was out that so why waste a perfectly good opportunity to enjoy the great outdoors, he reasoned.  

Last minute whims like these are somewhat made easier by the fact that we live in one of the greenest cities in Europe, surrounded by 2million trees which equate to four mature trees for every person living here. Within five minutes from our house is an open countryside called the Loxley Common, a beautiful patch of green in the fringe of Sheffield popular for bird-watchers, dog-walkers and students of geology.

So at six o’clock that day with still a few hours before sunset, we walked hand in hand along the path made by generations of walkers. The ground along the tracks is strewn by wild flowers that have grown to almost human proportions. We followed the path that led us along the slope of the hill where the heathers have fully bloomed into its beautiful shade of purple. At a lover’s seat we sat down to take on the beauty that nature so abundantly displays. Across the horizon, the top of the houses from the northern side of the city looked like pieces from a board game. But the urban flurry is lost in this piece of heaven where the only sounds you can hear the occasional barking of dogs and the random singing of birds.

We stayed there for a while and I uttered a silent prayer for the many little things that make our cup overflow and most of all, for the ability to see these blessings as they are thrown our way. 

We went straight to the local public house for dinner, a treat we seldom indulge in. It was already dark when we came out and the moon followed us to the car. I remembered reading about a lover who declared: 

"I will give you all the flowers of the mountain."

The author noted that poets in love seem to have very little notion of reality. But at that moment I knew exactly what the poet's muse would have felt , for my own beloved could just as well have said: 

"I will make the moon smile for you."

Because that night the moon did. And I smiled back. 

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."

One Fine Autumn Day

“I wonder what the trees must feel when the leaves start to fall.”

I was thinking out loud while my husband and I were walking through a tunnel of red, gold and orange foliage raining down and swirling around us until finally they land on the brightly carpeted ground.  It was a crisp mid-October morning with barely any clouds in the sky, a perfect day for a photo walk in the park at the bottom of our road.

“I suppose they would be glad, it must be very heavy carrying all that weight on their shoulders for at least six months,” I declared. It was ridiculous of course and John laughed, telling me that it is the branches that are heavy and not the leaves. But I argued that with the number of leaves a tree must carry, it could be very wearing and so they would probably be glad to have a seasonal break. There was no response to that, he is used to these wild contentions.

We carried on our walk, not oblivious to the crunching sound of dried leaves under our feet and the occasional squirrel running across our path as they gathered their winter stash. It was a typical weekend morning at Hillsborough Park: younger children in trolleys while older ones are playing football; dogs on their leads while their walkers are chatting with one another; and cyclists on their bikes while lovers walk hand in hand. Near the bottom of the park was a little man-made lake with squealing toddlers feeding the visiting ducks and geese.

“Britain is not all that bad you know,” I said, taking in the sights. At that moment, it felt very idyllic, the British lifestyle up North, away from the hustle and bustle of megacities (although of course Sheffield itself is a big city that has managed to keep itself suburban rather than metropolitan). Fifteen minutes on the tram and we are in the city centre, ten minutes in the car and we are in the countryside. Our community in Hillsborough is almost like a town: with a shopping district, a Methodist Church, a primary school, a college, a library, a leisure centre and more importantly, home to Sheffield Wednesday’s football ground.

“I didn’t say it was bad,” John replied. “In small doses it is beautiful. But there are better places to live in.” By that he meant warmer and he is right of course. The forecast on the Breakfast News that morning predicted days of mists hovering over the city’s skyline starting the next day, the less exciting bits of autumn was about to unfold. But at that moment, I’ve let the splashes of colours under the bright blue sky make me forget the gloomy days ahead. Yes, there are beautiful days in England but not a jolly lot of them that when you get one, it makes you block out memories of the less memorable days of the year.

Our B&B in Whitby

Booking holidays is not one of my many talents, I leave all that to my husband whose patience extends to reading countless hotel reviews to find us a place to spend the night. I have always thought it was just a matter of searching for the most affordable accommodation. Why should I bother about the hotel when it would be the last place where I would want to spend my waking hours. 

Our B&B experiences all over Britain have changed all that. There is something more romantic about staying in a traditional guest house than in a bland hotel room. 

When we went to Whitby, we stayed in a converted Victorian villa along the main road that leads into and out of the town. We were lucky to have booked eight months in advance as signs outside the houses posted 'No Vacancies' which is well expected during the warmer weekends. 

Our bedroom was on the first floor so we didn't have much of a view (though it was promised in our booking that we would have, an oversight I suppose). But it did have very inspiring pieces of furniture and decorations that creates a nostalgic atmosphere about the place. 

The breakfast room was my personal favourite, it was like stepping into a museum of 60s and 70s music complete with instruments and wall decorations made of album covers. The cup placemat was a rubber CD! 

As expected, the service was also very personal, with the owners engaging in pleasantries and sometimes more meaningful conversations. It felt like being inside an Agatha Christie novel, listening to the other guests discuss about their plans for the day and deducing where they come from just by their accents and their conversations. 

Staying in a B&B is very different from spending a night in a hotel. It is more than an accommodation, it is an experience. 

Dinner by the Docks

Sitting by the dock. Eating fish and chips. Watching the sunset. Bliss!

In its heyday, the Kyle of Lochalsh had been abuzz with tourists staying overnight for the next day trip to the spectacular Isle of Skye. After the controversial bridge linking the island to the rest of Scotland, the visitors skipped the town and what is left felt like a bleak little town gloating on its former glory. 

This impression might seem rather harsh and is largely owing to the two uneventful nights we have spent in the Kyle Hotel, a run-down building that has definitely seen better days. From the dull white exterior which looks like it hasn't had the service of a decent architect, the inside wasn't much to look at either. The long, dark and tight hallways would remind you of Asian horror flicks. The thin strips of walls would wake you up in the middle of the night to the voices of drunken Americans stumbling their way to their rooms next door. The rooms themselves were small and dingy, the sort of place where you couldn't wait to get out of. But for all your woes, they charged more than the lovely bed and breakfasts in Edinburgh. 

We have never met any locals, not on the street and not even on the hotel where we were served by nervous looking young women from other parts of Europe wearing all black and would jump at the orders being barked from the other side of the kitchen doors. But these people smiled and offered a good service at least, making it easier to gobble the greasiest English breakfast we've ever tasted. 

No, I wouldn't say the Kyle of Lochalsh is a romantic place. But one evening in May, after a long day of travelling half-way through Scotland, we had dinner by the docks. Eating our humble fish and chips from a take away (owned by an Aussie), we watched the sun as it was about to set at half-past ten in the evening while the pigeons hovered around us, waiting for their leftovers. 

I live for special moments like this. 

Where the Rainbow Ends

"This must be heaven, this is where the rainbow ends. " ~ A Wise Man

Today hasn't been the best of days. I went to see the GP complaining about stomach pains (someone has been  sticking needles to my voodoo doll, my sister said) that keeps me awake in the early hours in the morning. I've also been coughing some gooey substance that doesn't look so nice at all. Then when I went to the pharmacist this morning, they couldn't dispense the medicine because of some IT malfunction so I was told to come back later in the day. 

But I was working from home and I was loathe to leave the workstation unmanned so I asked my husband to pick them up. Minutes later, rain poured heavily amidst a bright sunny sky so I was naturally worried that he had been caught on it. 

Then the rain stopped and I heard him shouting from downstairs "Olivee look out the front window!" 

And there it was, the spectacle of a rainbow just in front of the house. He rushed back to share with me that magical moment before it fades away and it has made my day look so much brighter.  

It's always nice to be reminded that I have found my heaven on earth, right where the rainbow ends. 

We Didn't Come Here Looking for Love

From the Rascal Flatts Lyrics: 

"She didn't come there looking for love, and the cool thing was, neither did I"

This is an on-going Scrapbooking Project that would chronicle our life in Gibraltar and its still in its early stages. Hopefully it will get finished before we can finally go back to settle down in the warmer climates of Southern Spain. 

A Planter or a Builder?

“Are you a builder or a planter?”

It was hardly a pick-up line but that was the first question he has ever thrown at me and I was too flustered to answer in his native language the conversation never really took off.

As a group of friends, we were crossing the Strait of Gibraltar from a weekend in the Moroccan capital of Tangiers. We were discussing the merits of the Brazilian author Paulo Coelho and he has just been persuaded to read Brida which he was leafing through and where the difference between a builder and a planter was discussed.

I have since made up for the mental block and have since married the man who has made our garden his creative refuge. It doesn’t have to be sunny or warm, rain wouldn’t keep him away. It’s one of those things that make him “like Papa” and for which he is rather proud of (proof that “You marry your father”).

Thus, our idea of a weekend of relaxation is a trip to the local B&Q or for a more expensive treat it’s a visit to the Garden Centre. I love those outings. I get to pick which plants we get to have although they usually gets vetoed as they don’t suit the soil we have or they won’t get enough sunlight needed to survive (what do I know of those things?). I also do my bit of gardening too (without getting my hands dirty) by pointing out which flowers had to go to which pot and where to position them in the garden. Then of course, I get to take the photos when the flowers bloom!

“In his or her life, each person can take one of two attitudes: to build or to plant. Builders may take years over their tasks, but one day they will finish what they are doing. Then they will stop, hemmed in by their own walls. Life becomes meaningless once the building is finished. Those who plant suffer the storms and the seasons and rarely rest. Unlike a building, a garden never stops growing. And by its constant demands on the gardener’s attention, it makes the gardener’s life a great adventure.” Paulo Coelho, Bride

A Garden That Blooms Every Day

I don’t get an occasional bunch of flowers to surprise me, I get to have a garden that blossoms everyday. Love is not about grand romantic gestures but little things that keep the spark alive. 

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. 

When God Answers Prayers

It was the day after my 25th birthday. It was the day I stood up in front of the church congregation for a last-minute testimony to thank God for the quarter of the century past. It was the day I met my Destiny.

I can remember it almost so vividly now. I stood up with all the confidence I could muster. I stared at the friendly faces looking back eagerly at me. I opened my mouth. Then as expected, I started croaking like a frog. But it didn’t matter. I was in the company of the people who would listen anyway.

I have spent twenty-five years walking with God, sometimes stumbling along the way but always getting up stronger after the fall. Most of the time I have been stubborn, insistent upon my desires but I learned that whenever I let go, I could never fall. There have been moments I have faced uncertainties, battled with indecisions but never once did I doubt the existence of the Force that answered my prayers more than not.

But I also do remember telling everyone how despite all my blessings, I still somehow felt disappointed because I was living a life so different from the one I imagined I would have at 25. How I was scared that I would never experience what most people already have. And yet how, despite the gloomy future, I remained hopeful that I am still to see the fullness of the plan my Master has drafted for my life.

I had no idea then that the wheels of destiny started to turn that day.

It was at a joint birthday celebration where the rest of the Filipino community got together a few hours after I finished with the Open Arms. Drinks, Filipino dishes, karaoke and photo sessions are the flavours of the day. And of course, Tita’s friend from the hospital would be coming along later that night.

Most of my friends have met him in April, three months after he came over from the UK with a six-month contract as a nurse at the hospital. I have heard stories about him and received invites to go out with them for drinks or coffee where he was also expected. I was never interested; I couldn’t be bothered to be “talking in English”. Besides, I have never been sociable with men, how much more with men from another ‘planet’,.

So I only had a quick look of him that night (and I thought he’s cute). I wasn’t able to witness his videotaped karaoke performance of “I Swear” in his more-than-one-glass-of-wine state as I was busy with my photo shoots and playing with the little kids. He couldn’t even remember me from that day. I was just “one of faces”.

After becoming an adopted member of the Filipino community in Gibraltar, we’ve met a few more times during the gatherings and the special events but we never talked. Except on one occasion towards the end of July when we celebrated the receipt of our schengen visa with a picnic at the Rosia Bay. It wasn’t even a conversation; I just answered a question or two but that was when he first remembered me.

Then Morocco happened, a reluctant trip I took in August because I wasn’t allowed to take a previously booked holiday in Rome. And so in Tangier where Santiago (of ‘The Alchemist’) began his search for his Treasure I began the quest to follow my greatest dream.

It may be the mystique of the tiny alleyways all over the Medina or the magic of the exquisitely made carpets we have both been talked to buy. It may be the smell of the incense from the little shops along the way or the taste of the kuskus from the local restaurant where a di Caprio movie was shot. It may be the atmosphere of adventure after crossing the seas to another continent or the tone of romance looming over the air. Or maybe all that conspired in merging together two different worlds in one universe.

But nothing magical happened then, except perhaps it made him realize that I was indeed more than just a blur in the traffic of faces that walk past his mundane existence.

When we met again in a camping trip to Marbella, I found myself being drawn out of the cocoon that was my comfort zone. Before I knew it I was talking about myself as I would to people I have known for years. Suddenly I was stripped off my inhibitions, fears and insecurities. And the consciousness dawned on me: this is the man I have only dreamt and written about.

It was such a painful realization because I remembered a Jane Austen quotation from Northanger Abbey:

"No young lady can be justified in falling in love before the gentleman's love is declared, it must be very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her."

But instead of wallowing over my confusion and building more walls that would block the imminent heartbreak I thought I was meant to suffer, I prayed like I have never prayed before. Yet more than a prayer from a weeping child desperate for a toy that would easily break, I surrendered my heart. Because I know He will lead the way, however long it will take for me to get there.

Then just when I least expected Him to, God answered my prayers—a bit too quickly. It was scary at first. Some people thought it was too sudden, how he didn’t even need to earn my heart. I have always been the predictable one: practical and ‘too analytical’. But when I made my plunge into those waters, the first one I’ve ever made in my life, I’ve let go fully.

There was never an ounce of regret. There were no what-ifs. And yes, he is everything I have ever written him to be, his love more than I have ever hoped I could find.

So when he knelt on his knees and asked for my hands, I couldn’t say no. He didn’t really need to ask. I knew of his existence long before I’ve met him. I knew of his love even by just the look in his eyes. I knew of his promise of forever, the moment God answered my prayers.