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Finding The Happy

Looking for joy in all the right places

A First(ish) Easter

Growing up CofC had meant eschewing major traditional Christian events like Christmas and Easter on account of them both being pagan festivals, rebranded and rebadged.

So for 40 years, I didn’t have a particularly churchy Christmas or observe Holy Week. The CofC in Canberra didn’t ever plan a shindig on Good Friday, while the church I grew up with in Singapore used to spend that public holiday hunkered down in a whole-day retreat.

(At some point in the ’90s, the leadership decided that our annual retreat should really be called the annual Advance — which, on hindsight, is SUCH a typically Singaporean thing to say. (“Towards excellence, prosperity, and progress!”)

And while that recommendation missed the point entirely of why churches have retreats in the first place, and while I joined in the collective groan-eyeroll young adults are obnoxiously famous for, we turned up anyway — 150~ of us advancing en masse to the outskirts of the central shopping district to pray, learn, eat nice food and discuss godly things before taking a group photo.

By the mid-noughties — certainly by the time I was in Australia — they were back to calling it a Retreat. I don’t remember a single lesson from those halcyon days working out my faith in the basement function room of the Pine Tree Country Club. But I remember sprawling on the carpet while I captured our group remarks on mahjong paper — mind-mapping was still very business vogue then — and hoping to score a seat next to my crush of the season and just, generally, enjoying myself between lectures.)

We never did the Easter Bunny, though. Unlike Australia, Easter doesn’t even qualify for a public holiday in Singapore, much less two. In contrast, Australia gets Easter Sunday and make-up holiday Easter Monday. TWO DAYS of state-sanctioned religious chocolate binging that irrationally now involves the Bilby and typically starts a lot earlier than March/April. Supermarkets have now given up distinguishing the two Christian holidays and stuff their shelves with hot cross buns the second Christmas rolls over into Boxing Day. The second.

It’s a cynical grab for money and a bit of a worry, but then Australia makes excellent chocolate. Most of us Singaporeans didn’t grow up with backyards (you’d have to be a multimillionaire at minimum). Plus, Cadbury chocolate was especially pricey before our FTA with Australia and why would you fling perfectly good chocolate around in hot and humid Singapore and risk having them melt before you get to them? The crap chocolate coins we get from Chinatown are bad enough.

All this to say, I didn’t ever Easter and I didn’t do Easter Bunny. But now that I’ve made my peace with the faith of other traditions… now that I’m relearning what the weightier matters of the law might be — I’m slowly wading in. I’m learning about the hush of Ash Wednesday and the simple joys of Pancake Tuesday, about different religious calendars and the varying lengths of Lent. About how other traditions and Christian subcultures — and many of them are whole cultures of people — demonstrate love and devotion this season. Some through ritual, some through retreats, some by doing nothing at all.

Which brings me to Friday.

We didn’t do anything flash for Good Friday last year because of Covid, but traditionally these guys troop up to Mt Ainslie with real coffee making facilities and homemade hot cross buns and finish the afternoon with the Easter story for the kids.

This year, we opened our home. And we had such a fun time even though it turned into quite a hot day.

I’m not great with setting and keeping traditions. It’s a lot harder to make a fuss when you’re on your own and away from family; there’s just much less motivation and help. It’s also different in Australia; there’s a lot more long-distance travelling for everyone, which leaves little time or opportunity for others to party-hop between family and friends over the public holiday. There are years when Christmas deteriorates into a truly quiet, slightly depressing affair. Those are the times I have to work at not dwelling on what I left behind in Singapore.

But as Arddun and Atticus get older, as they start to remember these things and form attachments to traditions and what it means to be this hybrid of East and West, I sense my old entertaining mojo returning. At the very least, I hope they have memories of their home filled with people and food and laughter.

Just like I do.


About Easter and paganism…

Growing up, I was taught that Easter had its roots in the worship of Ishtar, the Assyrian and Babylonian goddess for fertility and sex (hence bunnies and eggs, because what could be more prolific or sexy?) The consolation that later Christians might have appropriated such a pagan festival and sanitised it for puritanical sensibilities did nothing to assuage the faith tradition of my youth: Easter is fundamentally pagan, goes the CofC reasoning, and unbiblical. And so we must abort.

Except…

Ishtar, as it turns out, is pagan (tick) and is the Mesopotamian goddess of love, war and sex (tick). But her symbols apparently aren’t bunnies and eggs, but the lion, the gate, and the rosette or eight-pointed star and if you’re seriously getting Game of Throne vibes here, I’m sure it’s because GRRM borrowed from everywhere.

More importantly, ‘Ishtar’ might sound an awful lot like ‘Easter’ but that’s where the coincidences end because Ishtar isn’t actually related to Easter. The Jewish Passover celebrating Jesus is.

Easter has never been a celebration of Ishtar. Our earliest evidence for the celebration of Easter as a holiday distinct from the Jewish holiday of Passover comes from Christian texts written in around the middle of the second century AD, which all refer to Easter as a Christian holiday celebrating the resurrection of Jesus.

Of course, these early Christian sources weren’t written in English, so they don’t call the holiday “Easter”; instead, the holiday was originally known in Greek as Πάσχα (Páscha) and in Latin as Pascha. The name Pascha is derived from the Aramaic word פַּסְחָא (Pasḥā), meaning “Passover.”

Spencer McDaniel, who goes full nerd on this subject and I love him for it

Since reading up on the subject (lightly — I haven’t gone down the rabbit hole of a theological library yet), I’ve encountered slightly differing accounts on how or when or whether the Anglo-Saxon spring festival (with the bunnies and the theme of rebirth and the eggs) got conflated with, or even supplanted by, this Jewish passover celebrating Christ’s resurrection. I’m now inclined to believe that both events were celebrated separately until a conscious decision was made by the Council of Nicea in 325CE to have the passover celebrated on the first full moon following the spring equinox.

But these are early days of my foray into the origins of Jesus and Easter Bunny, and I have more questions than answers still.

May be an image of text that says "T Karney @pecunium Girl rabbits don't lay eggs either. PETERRAB ER ITSA"
So many questions.


That aside, all semi-serious historical accounts I’ve read so far have been unanimous in debunking the Ishtar = Easter myth.

Anyway. It’s piqued my interest enough to want to learn more.

On Your 8th Anniversary

I don’t write about you much. I think about you every day. You’re never really far, anyway. You shadow every waking thought, lace every decision I make like a fragrance I’ll never want to forget, except I’ve already forgotten your smell.

They say it’s always the first thing that goes.

All I know is that you smelled like Comfort. And Home. And Unconditional Love. Big, fierce, protective, passionate, ain’t-nothing-that-can-tear-me-away-from-you-except-death love.

I don’t write about you because tears prickle the eyes easily. Still. It’s been 8 years. You’d think I’d be used to your long trip away from me by now.

(I’m not.)


Some of my earliest memories of you include walking into a crowded auditorium for a gospel rally. Of begging you to let me play with the white pet rabbit at the YMCA. Of running through tunnels there until you tell me it’s time to leave.

And then taking the bus home, walking up two long flights of stairs on short, spindly legs, ordering my favourite mee pok da (the one with the 炸云吞 you never let me get precisely because it’s deep-fried) and walking home together, hand in hand.

I remember bus rides to Orchard Road, falling asleep on your lap, your maroon patent leather handbag my hard and bumpy pillow. Sometimes, I’d actually fall asleep amidst the roar of the engine in the 64, the wind blowing overhead and teasing your hair, my legs already too long to tuck underneath my chin without jabbing across the narrow aisle.


I miss our talks long into the night, where I’d tell you almost everything about the boys I loved but knew I wouldn’t marry.

I miss, I miss, I miss sharing with you. Curled up on your narrow single bed in the dead of night.

To this day, it fills me with extraordinary pride that my friends liked you. Even loved you enough to happily lunch and dinner with you on their own. I never needed to play chaperone.

I loved that they saw you as a person and a friend, and not just as my mother. It’s totally #parentinggoalz to be that mother for my own children’s friends one day, but I suspect we are quite different people and you were way cooler.


The generosity of your spirit and your heart for others… They weren’t just turned towards the people you love like me and Shawn & Andrea and Ah-yee.

I wish I know for certain that you know how well things turned out for the many, many, many children you educated and helped and befriended. Who are now grown and married and seem well-adjusted enough. I bet you’d have known how they were doing. Your stash of greeting cards are still in my stationery sideboard.

I love that you kept a Filofax of greeting cards you’d bought a year in advance to send to people you liked and love. Like, carefully curated greeting cards filed by month for births and marriages and birthdays and anniversaries and I-love-you-just-because.

I love and ache over how people still remember you fondly and with deep sadness about your passing. How they would have liked to grow old with you.


I wear your clothes now. I’m now at the age you were when you wore what you still had hanging in your cupboard when you died. It doesn’t necessarily bring you closer to me when I wear your clothes because I look so different in them. It’s hardly like looking in the mirror and seeing you. But there are times when I realise that when you were my age and wearing what I’m wearing, I was already 20. I’d stare at myself in your clothes and the enormity of what you accomplished comes at me wave after shuddering wave.

You were a rockstar.

We had so little and yet we were pretty content, all things considered. I now live in an insanely large house compared to what we had. And just like back then, my life today is enough and also NOT enough.

I miss you like a tree without most of its roots. I’m still growing (sideways now.. fatter… you would have said something about that, I’m sure).

But boy, do I miss you.

Time to reconnect

It’s the first day of Winter and Reconciliation Day. Yesterday, the children had bible class online and talked about Sorry Day and what reconciliation means and looks like. Out of the mouth of one babe (not mine — a much better taught one), a little boy gave the perfect stock answer: it’s about making an effort to fix a broken relationship.

(Or something very close to that. I didn’t have pen and paper ready, but what he said was gold.)

Continue reading “Time to reconnect”

Happy Birthday to my Sister from Another Mother

One of the main things I am hugely thankful for in the midst of this pandemic is technology — specifically our ability to afford it, understand it, and be in community with others who enjoy such privilege and access.

This afternoon, I got to catch up with Audrey — one of my sisters from another mother. Audrey’s family and mine are linked in many ways — primarily through church but also through proximity in terms of distance, life stage, and opportunity. My mother had tutored all three kids in that family, and they, in turn, had been my babysitters twice or three times a week at one stage, when my mother had to work late evenings tutoring other kids. I’d eaten their dinners, learned all their hiding places, played in their playground, watched their TV, read their books, practised on their piano (badly), and loved each of them as I still do.

Audrey is the friend who is closer than a sister, and easily one of the kindest people I know. Her Christian faith is deep with far-reaching roots so I find comfort in knowing she’s still here — running the long race, face tilted towards the Son. Her faith is child-like but hardly naive — the best kind of child-like there is — while I find myself constantly questioning and doubting and uneasy. I really treasure this woman, even though we can hardly find the time to chat between the children, the time difference, and our jobs.

Until today. It’s her birthday, and thanks in part to this pandemic, we managed to have a long and luxurious chat — she in her kitchen, me amongst the books. She’s one of those lifelong friends with whom I can easily oscillate between the superficial and the sacred, the shallows and the deep. So much shared history that there’s such an easy shorthand. So much silliness that we can dissolve into the kind of laughter that hurts.

As for that kitchen she was sitting in, it’s where I experienced that crazy unconditional love — her stripping and cleaning my stroller when Arddun (still not quite 2 years old then) had taken suddenly and violently ill while out at the zoo. That was a seriously gross endeavour and Audrey had been amazing. Honestly, I wouldn’t have taken it well if someone else’s kid had made such a mess and I helped clean it up. I can barely stand my own kids’ mess, much less someone else’s.

Happy Birthday, sis. You know I love ya and miss ya. xx

Three jobs and a Lady

It has been a time of massive adjustment for our household. It’s time to take a breath. Let’s recap.

Thanks to the Sunday of Tumult (22 March) wherein the east coast of Australia speedily jumped within the day from “self-isolate as far as possible but SCHOOLS ARE DEFINITELY STAYING OPEN” to “Wait… we’re closing the schools! Except for those in ‘essential services’, whatever that means — sort yerselves out?” to the Federal government stepping in just hours later and yelling, “SCHOOLS ARE DEFINITELY STAYING OPEN! Take your kids out at your own discretion and peril!” I paraphrase. But it was an abysmal day for Not Confusing the Australian Public, with many of us in the communication field screaming silently.

Silent screeching from the peanut gallery

All this happened on that Sunday, with the PM’s press conference reverberating through social media well after 9:30pm AEST. Meanwhile, some peeps in Queensland still awake were going, “Wait… what? School? Huh?” and I’m trying to explain Australian politics to Singaporeans unused to State and Federal governments from different sides of politics seemingly running off in parallel to do their own thing for the good of the realm and then colliding into each other in stretches of dark tunnels. It’s a far, far cry from a benevolent totalitarian government steadily rolling out Year 55 of its 100-year plan and counting. It’s easier to be organised when you have a single head for a single body.

The announcement about schools came on Sunday. We had all of a single Monday to sort ourselves out and then that was it — Tuesday was Thundercats are Go. Whenever I encounter a post from Singaporeans wringing their hands about how crazy it was to co-educate their children on Wednesday past while still working from home, I think of all the lead time they have to transition to juggling work and teaching full-time, and laugh and laugh and laugh.

I hold two part-time jobs, with the second gig now in jeopardy as things change but then I have also blessedly picked up another client. It’s a much smaller gig but I’m hardly ungrateful. The nature of Tony’s job means he can’t work from home, which means I’m flying solo and suddenly keenly aware and appreciative of what my own mother had to put up with as a single working mother dragging me along home to home as she tutored other people’s kids.

It hasn’t been straightforward. Teachers themselves are on a steep learning curve, and the announcements, resources, assignments and advice fly in thick and fast from multiple directions. That Monday after the announcement, I spent a few hours that night trying to consolidate the sum total of the kids’ obligations to school before chunking it down into a reasonable work program for each of them that would fit around my priorities and vice versa. I ended up having to rework that schedule at least twice during that week before giving up altogether and teaching each kid separately. My weekend got burnt to a crisp trying to catch up with my day job.

In all that time, I was very painfully aware of how significantly my life just got upended (again) while my spouse’s remained relatively unscathed and unchanged. And in my chats with woman friends from all over, I find I am hardly alone in noticing this — the lion share of this upheaval is borne by women.

Even when men work from home, it’s the woman who the children run to and distract. It’s taken me two days to get this far on this blog post. Even in the last two paragraphs, I’d been interrupted every second-to-third sentence. They’re hardly bratty kids — they just generally crave companionship, have memories of goldfish, and live very much in the present. But do you know what it’s like to constantly break concentration, then try and find your focus again only to have it ruined not three minutes later? It’s fatiguing, frustrating, and bloody demoralising. It’s, frankly, torturous. Yesterday, it took me 3 hours to do what would normally take me 45 minutes, tops. It’s why I’m increasingly waiting for Tony to come home before I start on a piece of real work. But he doesn’t get back till 6:30pm on average and by then, I’m already mentally switching off.

Most unfairly of all, it’s the clutter and dirt blindness that frays our mental health — the house that needs to be ordered after a long day at home with children. The table that still needs to be wiped after dinner, the floor that needs to be swept, the kitchen linen that ought to be changed, the dishrack that needs to be washed and cleaned, the toys that haven’t been put away yet. The additional disinfecting that should happen each time our spouse returns home. The millions of things (mostly) women do as a by-the-way that everyone else doesn’t think to do themselves… all that still remains to be done. (Telling women to outline what they’d like to get done, by the way, is also adding to our workload. It takes energy to delegate. Please just make very accurate guesses and act on them.)

Our housework doesn’t get halved — not even close. Meanwhile, our time to do our day jobs just shrank by a factor of at least two. And the mental load and hassle of having to plan and retrofit a whole other job in amongst it all is the other untold burden that most women in my shoes end up shouldering. We’re also grieving, like everyone else is. The exhaustion that this pandemic induces is universal and we are hardly immune. If anything, we mourn more because our losses and changes are greater.

But what am I thankful for? An employer who understands and gives grace and space. We’ve touched base every Monday to Thursday for two weeks straight and it’s been a welcome part of my routine. The picture at the top of this post was a typical moment of me conferencing while the kids beavered away at their schoolwork. My children are my colleagues now, along with the ones I work with usually. And honestly, if I didn’t have such an understanding employer I’d be a lot worse off mentally and emotionally by now.

Most of all, I am very grateful to have a job at all. This tension between work and home life is only possible because I am still gainfully employed. I want to mention and honour this truth because while the going is tough at the moment, there is a lot to be deeply thankful for — including the husband who is taking a couple days’ leave next week.

Even in this madness, I am a lucky and blessed duck.

Love in the time of Coronavirus

I’m just closing in on Week 2 of our self-isolation. The children have been learning at home with me full-time for a week, and even though I’m still experimenting how to manage 2-3 part-time gigs alongside the usual housework and teaching Kindy and Year 3, I’m finally settling into some semblance of normalcy.

Continue reading “Love in the time of Coronavirus”

Our sky is orange, our sun is red

For those in my community who live and breathe outside of Australia, I thought I’d let you know how we’re holding up as news of our bushfires light up media outlets around the world.

We’re fine for now. My little fambam lives in Canberra and although the nearest out-of-control bushfire is 86km away from our house and presently 27% of Singapore in size, current modelling indicates we’re not in danger. We’re in a State of Alert, however. Canberra sits in a narrow corridor where our neighbours to the southeast and west of us have been told to evacuate, and many have naturally landed in Canberra. These evacuees — tens of thousands from rural and coastal regions so devastatingly driven off their own homes by catastrophic fires — are the ones the Canberra community try to feed, shelter, and comfort at present.

Canberra has held the dubious honour of the worst air quality among the world’s capital cities for a week now. We feel churlish to complain about the smoke here when our close neighbours have lost their homes, watched the beauty of their hometowns melt or explode before their eyes while they huddled on beaches, and faced utter blackness in what should have been broad daylight. But the fact is I woke up this morning to an orange sky. And for weeks now, we face an eerie red sun at dusk while smoke sneaks into our homes. That in itself is heartbreaking if you know how fresh and clean Canberra’s air usually is. We’re elevated 600m above sea level, and our air comes straight from the mountain ridges surrounding us. Our air is so pure, we get unbelievable sunsets I’ve long taken for granted after living here for over 16 years. The prettiest purples and pinks melting to amber and blue. Well, I don’t take them for granted anymore.

Some of you have already started posting news articles about these fires, which is honestly a relief. It’s comforting for many of us in Australia to know that the rest of the world is paying attention and dismayed, and that there is solidarity after all. There was, for a terrible moment there, a kind of bewilderment that these fires — so ferocious, so unprecedented in their magnitude and decimation — hardly seemed to rate much in international media. But then, many of us rather suspect that our politicians might have burnt bridges with their doubling down on their commitment to fossil fuel. I’ve already personally encountered comments on Kiwi news site asking their government to prioritise Australian climate refugees below pacific islanders. Because karma is a bitch, even for those of us who think differently about our economic, social and moral imperative to do better by the environment, plan ahead, and to curb our profligacy. The fact is, our conservative government remains defensive, reactive, and reactionary.

Still. It’s sobering to watch more than a billion getting pledged to the rebuilding of a beautiful but largely uninhabited building than to mitigate the loss of half a billion animals and 6 million hectares of bush, not to mention the myriad small towns and coastal communities who have lost their livelihoods and the homes they love. There’s pretty sobering accounts from survivors huddled on beaches in the hundreds and thousands, watching their town on fire and listening as gas bottles explode homes in the distance.

A State of Alert basically means we’re not in a state of emergency yet, but to gird our loins in case things turn bad. The fact remains that so many of these horrifying fires are maliciously started, and so we can model the heck out of wind direction and current bushfire trajectories, but there’s always the possibility that some cruel arsewipe out there will decide to be funny and start a fire to feel, perhaps, significant and consequential for once in their bored, selfish lives.

Press conference about the 53 suspects responsible for 69 bushfire-related incidents.

It’s quite confronting to start packing for a possible evacuation. There’s an infographic that takes you through it and it feels at once overwhelming and thin on detail. First, the choice of whether you stay to defend your property or flee with the clothes on your back is entirely yours. There’s already anecdotes about communities leaving their recycling bin out in the driveway so firefighters know to check into those properties to evacuate homeowners opting to protect their property, should it all go tits up. There’s advice about stuffing your socks with sand to clog your drainpipes so you can fill your roof gutters with water. (Thank goodness for Atticus’s sandpit!) There’s things about getting the flammables out of your home. But where do you put them otherwise? I have no idea.

Meanwhile, there’s a map to tell you if your home is bushfire prone. Our house technically isn’t… but every other street to the northeast of us is, so that’s cold comfort. I’m half planning for both an evacuation and the possibility of sitting tight in a home that’s still upright amidst a fire-affected city. I’m trying to figure out what to feed my family assuming that we lose power. (Tuna. And cold sandwiches. Two things my son loathes.) I’m trying to remember to withdraw enough cash because I heard about all the ATMs going down in one place and affected people, in a largely cashless society, basically stripping a supermarket bare out of desperation and running out because they can’t pay. I need to get a radio that runs on batteries, assuming we lose telecommunications and we need to know what the hell is going on. I’m stocking up on torches and batteries. I’m charging our power banks every night. I’m seriously thinking about buying a small power generator.

And if we were to evacuate, what do we leave behind? We don’t have a trailer, just a wagon. So it’s the important documents, and then jewellery and photos. The kids’ favourite toys. Clothes. Toiletries and feminine products. Dry shampoo in case you can’t drink or use the water. Food. Lots of water. Wool blankets because they’re fire retardant, unlike cotton. Sunscreen. Favourite pillows, if you can squeeze them in.

I keep wondering if I’m panicking, paranoid, or just preparing like a pragmatist.

I have been hoarding so many things of my cousin’s and mother’s since their deaths, but nothing quite distills what the truly sentimental things are when you’re faced with a wipe-out and a car boot that can only hold so much.

That’s pretty much us, at the moment. It’s hardly as nerve-wracking as my friend who runs a wildlife sanctuary in the path of looming infernos. It’s hardly as tricky as a young family in an evacuation centre with a newborn. It’s hardly as harrowing as watching your town flattened and the factory you work in or own, literally going up in smoke. To return and shoot the livestock you own and love that are half-burnt and in agony.

But it still preys on the mind. Even if we were to live in a bubble, there’s a myriad of pinpricks to remind us of this sword of Damocles. Two electrical substations went down in NSW, and now we’re being cautioned in Canberra to watch our energy use. We hit record-high temperatures yesterday in Sydney (48.9°C) and Canberra (44°C); Arddun and I, along with our friends, were in the mall yesterday to watch a movie and hide from the heat when all the screens went down at the same time from a suspected power outage or brown-out. Escalators in malls are turned off, many shops are closed. The postal service hasn’t been delivering mail for a few days now, so there goes everyone’s online order for face masks because the shops are continually out of stock from people panic-buying.

It’s the long school holidays in our territory, but our children’s vacation care provider just notified us today that they’re cancelling care all this week because of the smoke and the State of Alert. Two of the four universities here are closed for two weeks. They just cancelled flights to and from Canberra, because our bushfires are so insane, they’ve started creating their own weather. So now there’s pyrocumulus clouds, also known as “fire clouds”, which form fast and move quickly, creating gusty winds and thunderstorms. After a Qantas flight experienced poo-in-pants-inducing turbulence, they started cancelling flights today.

Meanwhile, we’re mostly staying indoors because face masks apparently aren’t recommended for children under 14. And the blame game has long started, so my social media is inundated with tales of heroism and blame-shifting in equal measure. There is solidarity, but there is also a lot of anger and defensiveness. I battle with frustration and a tinge of despair every day.

Pray, if you believe in it. Be specific and ask for rain, good bushfire quenching rain. We really, really need the rain. We’re in horrible drought, and certain places couldn’t even be saved because they ran out of water. As if that isn’t hard enough, the water reservoir burst in a town called Cooma yesterday and so their town got flooded. Cooma is right in the middle of that narrow corridor in the Leave zones. They needed that water in the event of a bushfire and now it’s gone. The heat is relentless, nothing like I’ve ever experienced in Singapore. Pray for rain.

And then donate. There’s so much to rebuild. I cannot imagine the havoc of rebuilding and insurance claims after this. I read on in disbelief when individuals on Twitter dismiss what’s going on in Australia, citing how huge our land is and how low the death count has been. The death count is low because we have processes in place to evacuate people. But then there was also a horrible period when the window of time to leave got abruptly cut short with changing weather and towns were stranded. I’ve read about people, unable to escape in their rural properties, who basically had to seek shelter and wait for the fires to pass over them. Imagine that kind of horror. I can’t.

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