This Is Your Life, Really.

Do what you love, and do it often. 

If you don’t like something, change it. 

If you don’t like your job, quit. 

If you don’t have enough time, stop watching TV. 

If you are looking for the love of your life, stop; they will be waiting for you when you start doing things you love. 

Stop over analyzing, all emotions are beautiful. 

When you eat, appreciate every last bite. 

Life is simple. 

Open your mind, arms, and heart to new things and people, we are united in our differences. 

Ask the next person you see what their passion is, and share your inspiring dream with them. 

Travel often; getting lost will help you find yourself. 

Some opportunities only come once, seize them. 

Life is about the people you meet, and the things you create with them so go out and start creating. 

Life is short. 

Live your dream and share/wear your passion.

~Ong Jiin Joo

http://wp.jiinjoo.com/?p=1005

One Forever Moment

By Graham Porter


Loading the car with the paraphernalia of our youngsters, ages three to nine, was hardly my idea of fun. But precisely on schedule, and at a very early hour, I had performed that miracle. With our vacation stay on Lake Michigan now over, I hurried back into the cottage to find my wife Evie sweeping the last of the sand from the floor.

"It's 6.30 - time to leave," I said, "Where are the kids?"

Evie put away the broom. "I let them run down to the beach for one last look."

I shook my head, annoyed by this encroachment on my carefully-planned schedule. Why had we bothered to rise at dawn if we weren't to get rolling before the worst of the traffic hit? After all, the children had already spent two carefree weeks building sand castles and ambling for miles along the lakeside in search of magic rocks. And today they had only to relax in the car - sleep if the liked - while I alone fought the long road home.

I strode across the porch and out the screen door. There, down past the rolling dunes, I spotted my four youngsters on the beach. They had discarded their shoes and were tiptoeing into the water, laughing and leaping each time a wave broke over their legs, the point obviously being to see how far into the lake they could wade without drenching their clothes. It only riled me more to realise that all their dry garments were locked, heaven knew where, in the overstuffed car trunk.

With the firmness of a master sergeant, I cupped my hands to my mouth to order my children up to the car at once. But somehow, the scolding words stopped short of my lips. The sun, still low in the morning sky, etched a gold silhouette around each of the four young figures at play. For them there was left only this tiny fragment of time for draining the last drop of joy from the sun and the water and the sky.

The longer I watched, the more the scene before me assumed a magic aura, for it would never be duplicated again. What changes might we expect in our lives after the passing of another year, another 10 years? The only reality was this moment, this glistening beach and these children - my children - with the sunlight trapped in their hair and the sound of their laughter mixing wind the wind and the waves.

Why, I asked myself, had I been so intent on leaving at 6.30 that I had rushed from the cottage to scold them? Did I have constructive discipline in mind, or was I simply in the mood to nag because a long day's drive lay ahead?

After all, no prized were to be won by leaving precisely on the dot. If we arrived at our motel an hour later than planned, no 40-piece band was going to be kept waiting. And how could I hope to maintain communication with my children, now and in later years, if I failed to keep my own youthful memory alive?

At the water's edge far below, my oldest daughter was motioning for me to join them. Then the others began waving, too, calling for Evie and me to share their fun.

I hesitated for only a moment, then ran to the cottage to grab my wife's hand. Half running, half sliding down the dunes, we were soon at the beach, kicking off our shoes. With gleeful bravado, we waded far out past our youngsters, Evie holding up her skirt and I my trouser cuffs, until Evie's foot slipped and she plunged squealing into the water, purposely dragging me with her.

Today, years later, my heart still warms to recall our children's laughter that day, how full-bellied and gloriously companionable it was. And not infrequently, when they air their fondest moments - all but them - are among their most precious.

Shared in Starmag by Jasy Liew

Reach Out For Mum

By Tam Yong Yuee


As Mother's Day neared, my mood turned pensive. The rain pattered on the water convolvulus (kangkong) patch in my backyard. The kangkong leaves are extended, like arms stretched heavenwards, unashamedly glorifying in the life-refreshing rain. Like a child with outstretched hands rushing towards his mother's open arms, reaching for that warm, comforting embrace.

My mother passed way over five months ago. I sensed the desperation (or was it fear?) in her face during the last moments. There are some religious and some superstitious explanations for that. Whatever. It was heart-rending, to say the least. If she had just slipped away in her sleep, I could have accepted it more placidly.

To my simple, finite mind, I could only interpret that desperate clinging to life as the hurt of being forcefully wrenched away from her loved ones.

In life, we take many things for granted. Mother's love for one. Mothers may not express their love in very apparent ways. But tucked snugly in a special corner of their heart, it is there, ready to be dispensed anywhere, any time.

How often when we need her help, she is there to look after our children (her grandchildren), or to prepare that delicious home-cooked meal to warm the stomach and heart - unconditionally.

Yet, it does not take a lot to please her. Just reach for that phone in your pocket or handbag. It will only take a few moments of your precious time. I had often seen how my mother's face lit up as she talked to her offspring on the phone.

So those of you who have the time for your mum today, don't let it end there.

Consecrate a prayerful and loving thought for her in your heart each passing day. May God bless all mothers!

From Starmag

Thanks For The Laughter

By Vishalini Sankaran


Over the years of my life, I have had countless friends. The one thing similar among all of us was the presence of our grandparents. We always had something to say about them, be it good or bad. I remember a friend who said that she never saw any of her grandparents because she was born after they had died. I vividly remember feeling sorry for her. As a little child, I thought my grandparents would be around for good. The thought of their dying never crossed my mind.

But as I became an adult, I began to accept the fact that human beings are not immortal. But my childlike belief still lingers. Secretly, I wish that my old bones will never perish. I lost three of my grandparents pretty early in life. But my maternal grandmother was there all through the years with us.

Grandmother was more like my friend ... my dearest friend, I would say. I remember her for the laughter and gossip we shared. I can hardly recall her reprimanding me for any reason. We used to sit and talk, and she would update me on the latest happenings in the family - with the added "spices", of course.

I remember her sitting at the patio of our house peeling kilos of ikan bilis, for me to take along when I went abroad to study. She would be peeling from sunrise right until sunset. When I peeped on her, I would occasionally see her stretching her stiff neck, due to her small body bending over too long in one position. But when I asked, she would deny the pain. Talk about being selfless.

But now, at 26, I have lost my best friend. Together with her, I have lost my tea-time partner and my story-teller. Now, neither I nor anyone would know the many stories she had in her head. My heart aches when I recall the days of laughter with her. She was an example of pure true happiness - something we miss in this busy life we lead. Oh, how I miss her.

An old African saying comes to mind: "When a grandparent dies, it is like a whole library being burnt down." Happy Mother's Day to the mother of my mother. Thank you for giving me the reason to laugh heartily.

From Starmag on Mother's Day

Someday Is Here And Now

A friend of mine opened his wife's underwear drawer and picked up a silk paper wrapped package: "This," he said, "isn't any ordinary package." He unwrapped the box and stared at both the silk paper and the box. "She got this the first time we went to New York, eight or nine years ago. She has never put it on. Was saving it for a special occasion. Well, I guess this is it."

He went over to the bed and placed the gift box next to the other clothing he was taking to the funeral house. His wife had just died.

He turned to me and said: "Never save something for a special occasion. Every day in your life is a special occasion."

I still think those words changed my life. Now I read more and clean less. I sit on the porch without worrying about anything. I spend more time with my family, and less at work. I understand that life should be a source of experience to be enjoyed, not survived. I no longer keep anything. I use crystal glasses every day. I'll wear new clothes to go to the supermarket if I feel like it. I don't save my special perfume for special occasions, I use it whenever I want to.

The words "someday" and "one day" are fading away from my vocabulary. If it's worth seeing, listening to or doing, I want to see, listen to or do it now. I don't know what my friend's wife would have done if she knew she wouldn't be there the next morning, this nobody can tell. I think she might have called her relatives and closest friends. She might have called old friends to make peace over past quarrels. I'd like to think she would go out for Chinese, her favourite food. It's these small things that I would regret not doing if my time comes.

I would regret it, because I would no longer see the friends I would meet, or write the letters that I wanted to write "one of this days". I would feel sad because I didn't say to my brothers and sons, not enough times at least, how much I love them. Now, I try not to delay, postpone or keep anything that could bring laughter and joy into our lives. And each morning, I say to myself that this is a special day. Each day, each hour, each minute, is special.

Sent to Starmag by Lee Chen Hoe

Seize the Moment

Letter from an 83-year-old:

I am reading more and dusting less. I'm sitting in the yard and admiring the view without fussing about the weeds in the garden. I'm spending more time with my family and friends and less time working. Whenever possible, life should be a pattern of experiences to savour, not to endure.

I'm trying to recognise these moments now and cherish them. I'm not "saving" anything; we use our good china and crystal for every special event such as losing a pound, getting the sink unstopped, or the first Amaryllis blossom.

I wear my good blazer to the market. My theory is if I look prosperous, I can shell out RM28.49 for one small bag of groceries. I'm not saving my good perfume for special parties, but wearing it for clerks in the hardware store and tellers at the bank.

"Someday" and "one of these days" are losing their grip on my vocabulary; if it's worth seeing or hearing or doing, I want to see and hear and do it now. I'm not sure what others would have done had they known they wouldn't be here for the tomorrow that we all take for granted.

I think they would have called family members and a few close friends. They might have called a few former friends to apologise and mend fences for past squabbles. I like to think they would have gone out for a Chinese dinner or for whatever their favourite food was. I'm guessing; I'll never know.

It's those little things left undone that would make me angry if I knew my hours were limited. Angry because I hadn't written certain letters that I intended to write one of these days. Angry and sorry that I didn't tell my husband and children often enough how much I truly love them. I'm trying very hard not to put off, hold back, or save anything that would add laughter and lustre to our lives.

And every morning when I open my eyes, I tell myself that it is special. Every day, every minute, every breath truly is a gift.

People say true friends must always hold hands. But true friends don't need to hold hands because they know the other hand will always be there.

I don't believe in miracles. I rely on them. Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we are here, we might as well dance.

Sent to Starmag by Lydia Chin

When Are You A Grown-Up?

By Susan Campbell


We ask children, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" and we expect them to name an occupation - fire-fighter, teacher, the president.

We never ask them - "And how will you know when you're a grown-up?" - because we don't know ourselves, and our confusion might scare them.

When I was a child, I formulated my own definition of "grown-up". Grown-ups were so dependable that they drove cars through the night, and you, the child, were safe enough to go to sleep in the back seat.

But after a certain age, you realised responsibly driving through the night is not the be-all you once thought it to be.

So when are you a grown-up? When you get your first credit card? Your first pay cheque? When you first have sex? At age 21? When you have your first child? When your parent dies?

We worry about the stress we place on our adolescents, our almost-adults, without ever asking whether introducing the idea of adolescence opens the door for an adolescence that never ends. Ours is one of the few cultures in the world that want to have a space between childhood and adulthood, where the young person is given a shot at adult behaviour without adult consequences.

Is this good? Maybe not, because if you look around, it would appear that adolescence get stretched further and further into one's 20s, 30s and 40s.

But who am I to talk? Through no fault of my own, I am a baby boomer. We who vowed never to trust anyone over 30 can only see that age through the rear view. Yet many of us look a tad arrested, developmentally speaking.

Look at Enron. Criminal behaviour, sure, but shockingly, childishly selfish, too. Listen to the sabre-rattling from the US president, which sounds like nothing so much as seventh-grade "mine's-bigger" locker room talk. A day of reckoning, indeed.

Things being so confusing, I humbly offer the following list, randomly selected, tried and true by its author, as a way of knowing when you've achieved grown-up status.

You know you're a grown-up when you accept the following:

• The smoke alarm will start chirping precisely at 2.38am. Every time. And you will get up bleary-eyed and fumble through a drawer for a new battery and take care of it, but not before you've wandered through the house wringing your hands trying to ascertain precisely which alarm is chirping. And you will be back in bed by four, at the latest. Every time.
• When the phone company sends you a bill, it is serious in its desire that you pay it.
• Same with the credit card company.
• One day, you will stand at Blockbuster and endure some young pup's snide comments about "your music" or "your movies" that place the entire boomer culture in a dusty denim-covered box that smell slightly of patchouli. And rather than fire off a retort, you will smile and think, "Keep on living, sweetheart."
• Conversely, your movies, your music and your clothes will eventually be recycled as high fashion, and the most you will be able to muster is bemusement. Of course! Dennis Hopper is God! So is Peter Fonda! And Americans all smoke marijuana, marched against the war in Vietnam and went to Woodstock to roll around in the mud! That's precisely how I remember it, too! Now, if I could just remember how to make a peace symbol with my hand...
• Someone will always be the first in line. That someone will rarely be you.
• You will come upon a 20-year-old picture of yourself and think two things: 1) My God, I've been alive long enough to have 20-year-old memories, and 2) I have aged.
• You'll find yourself relying less on those unguents that promise you youth in a bottle and more on good old Ivory soap and Noxzema.
• The day will come when you know fewer than 20% of the people on those magazine end-of-the-year list of famous, sexy, interesting people. And you'll care even less.
• You will wander through the house searching for your keys, only to discover they were in your hand the whole time.
• Same with reading glasses.
• Along those lines, you will walk into a room and forget why you bothered, but you will notice something in the room that amuses you, and you won't feel too bad about the whole adventure.
• You will cultivate the ability to say "I'm sorry" and mean it.

From Starmag