TRIBUTARIES

I toss the offending cap to one side, careless hands weighed down by age and anger. Since birth I’ve been raised to be such an obedient, well-behaved gal! The baby hairs are caught in the cap ties at the back, and I yell “Eina!” as these unsuspecting hairs leave my scalp in haste. It stings and I scoff; my mane thicker now than when I was a teenager. It must be the rosemary and coconut oil concoction! I wonder at my severe overreaction and where these feelings are surfacing from. 

I push them down…way … way down.

I stare down at my hands that have seen so much labour eyeing the veins coarse and thick underneath caramel skin. Oh, how prominent these old veins have gotten over the years, and how blue! It lays thick like tributaries making its way oceanside. Paper thin skin and bony hands fold tightly around the blue mug filled with lukewarm water that I gulp down by the bucketsful to avoid getting kidney stones once more.

I have long given up on adorning these hands; no rings or polish beautify them. It is stained with ink: red, blue and green are dotted on fingers and palms from carelessly wielding pen and ink in the marking of creative expressions by those still young and green. I’m careful not to quash dreams and spirit with the swish of my wrists. It can be so disheartening correcting young minds with adult considerations and suggestions rigidity entrenched in old systems to ensure conformity by the masses.

“Be creative!” 
But within this layout, this story mountain, these boundaries.
“Speak up!” 
But not too loudly lest you disturb the peace of others, and not too softly so as not to be heard.
“Perform!” 
But stick to the pre-written script and follow directions by others that know more; know better. 

And yes, take the constructive criticism, it’s for your own good…so you can shine, and others can clap hands for you when you are a good little girl…

who decides:
who is good and who is not.
who is a star and who is supporting cast or extras.
who wins the award and who goes home empty-handed. 
who gets to be read and who doesn’t…

Being a conformist will delegate you to forever be one of the nameless, the faceless, the cog in the machine. In this competition-driven world it is so easy to become voiceless… to fly under the radar… to move through the world unseen…

Be Bold.

Be True.

Be Daring.

Be Freethinking.

Go against the trend, buck the norm and set your own course, pioneering a future along a path less travelled. I long to colour outside  pre-determined staid lines, long for these hands to wander over keyboards regurgitating beauty, or horror… anything that moves the soul and awakens the spirit inside.

I rub two fingers together, pinch my nose, rest my weary head on warm open palms. The 3 fans swish-swishing remind me of the rotary blades of tiny planes jetting me off to tropical shores or isolated forests. 

My hands are unencumbered freely touching rough bark and wet trunks along which burgundy ants the size of small red grapes are marching in uniformity. My hands disturb their deliberate formation, and they momentarily veer off course and then fall right back into line. 

Am I an ant, part of a collective marching forward in a straight line conditioned to not veer off course? One unruly blighter bites me, and it burns and stings, a red welt surfacing much like my unpleasant thoughts. I’m being punished for causing a disturbance to the natural order of things. 

So, I tread carefully on, walking over wet earth and stumble upon the ‘Penan Tree” casually beating its roots to send signals like the beat of a drum. I am mesmerized by the sound emanating from the roots and end up wishing that signalling for help in real life could be that easy. I look up and see the enormous tree branching up, reaching out like hands in prayers paying tribute to the source of it all.

I raise my welted hands mimicking the trees grateful for the bountiful gifts (even for those hard lessons given to me by the big red ants that hurt as hell and left me scarred). And I remember that first and foremost I am a child of God and therein lies my salvation.

These hands are instruments of love and tenderness. 

Of wrath and redemption in equal parts.

It strokes fevered brows and salty skin.

It slaps cheeks in the heat of the night or leaves them cold in the unforgiving light of day.

I raise my index finger to petulant lips to silence him…”Shhh…don’t talk…feel…”as my hands continue to map out my territory on his blank brown canvas all the while perfecting my religion.