When colleagues leave for greener pastures

Recently, a whole bunch of old friends and office colleagues took up a company offer to opt for early retirement. The whole thing came as a result of a downsizing exercise by the organisation.
A number of them received some hefty payouts, much to the envy of those who thought they too could use that kind of money. Anyway, several of them have already been head-hunted and have begun work elsewhere. So that sudden windfall by our generous benefactors was most welcome.
A close colleague of about 30 years couldn't believe his luck. He's only 51 and had been praying for a grand "retirement gift" for years. Well, this time he struck gold. He was so beside himself with joy that he threw two parties for all of us. It was his way of saying, let's help celebrate my fantastic luck.
Life is such that most of us are accustomed to our old colleagues and after a while, we are like members of the same family. I know I am going to miss a large number of these people.
I have experienced this part of ways before. Decades later when I bumped into them again, I am surprised that physically some of them have changed so much. I always think that I am the one who hasn't changed, but we do change in more ways than one.
Discomfort descends like an unexpected downpour when I forget the names of some of these dear, old colleagues. It's a bit embarrassing that we were once good friends and somehow at that moment in time, his or her name escapes me. Oh my God, I am sorry, I say quietly to myself.
Once, I actually had the fit of forgetfulness, and it was a good friend. It just turned out that her appearance had altered a bit. In fact, she looked better than before. Woman's intuition is always stronger than man's. She sensed that I had forgotten her name and asked, "do you remember my name".
Without missing a beat, I replied "YES!" Her name was at the tip of my tongue but I was too cowardly to say it, lest it was the wrong name. So I took the safe route. I asked: "Give me your latest calling card." Yes, it was her all right. What a relief.
That's what separation of years can do to a person's memories. Now, there's a technique of remembering names, even decades later. My personal memory technique is to pray for all my good friends and name them every day in my prayers.
Decades later, when I encounter them, their names pop up like the rays of the beautiful sunrise in the morning. They will of course express great surprise at my uncanny memory retention but not me because I know better. Wink. Wink.
Sometimes, I think every life is like a book. When we make friends, it's just like reading a book. If we like that book, we keep it and reread the chapters but the book is always with us. Either we carry it with us most of the time, or we leave it in the book shelf but it's there when we want it.
Friendship is a little like that. When we lose that book, we may forget it but years later, when we come across a book with the same title, the memories come rushing back.
Some people are of the opinion that sentimentality is reserved for the soft and weeny. I don't know what they actually mean by that but I love being sentimental. It is a comforting reminder that I have not forgotten those friends who mean a lot to me. It means that our friendship or relationship has not been a journey devoid of meaning.
Every encounter is a lesson benefiting both parties. I always benefit from an encounter, be it a strong friendship or a fleeting acquaintance. Even now, when I think back of my childhood days, I wonder about those friends who came into my life, as I had entered theirs, decades ago.
I try to visualise what they look like now; what they are doing, how do they look now. I can only conclude I won't be able to recognise them even if I come face to face with them. But if fate so decreed that we should meet again, somehow we will meet and we will remember. Such is life.
These days, I cherish all the good times I can muster. Moments like this when I reminisce about the writings in my dad's journal. There was one that I like so much that I had it committed to memory.
Here it is, fresh as the day when it was written. It is an evergreen like the leaves of a tropical forest.

Friendship cheers the faint and weary
Makes the timid spirit brave
Warns the erring, lights the dreary
Smooths the passage to the grave.

Hobbling along awkwardly with a barking dog on your tail

SOME people swear by the vehicle they are driving. Usually it's either a MPV, SUV or EVO-8. Mine is just a plain, old 110CC Suzuki equipped with two wheels of suspect quality.
So one night, at about 2.30pm I was scootering home along some very dark and lonely roads, I suddenly experienced his sinking feeling. It was the air that escaped with a rush in my rear tyre.
"Great!" I told myself. "It's your lucky night!" I had actually meant that sarcastically as I entered the threshold of my neighbourhood. Near the guardhouse, there are usually five or six stray dogs parading in the vicinity. The animals normally couldn't give two barks about me but on that night, they were a little feisty.
Around the time when I discovered to my great horror that I was having a punctured tyre, the stray dogs decided to have some fun with me. They pranced out of the compound where they were prowling and headed towards me - post haste.
Being a man of limited courage, I stared Death in its face. Perhaps I exaggerate but at that moment in time, it seemed quite real. If you have not experienced or "enjoyed" the sight of about four or five dogs charging at you, you really don't know what you are missing.
There I was, gutless and riding on a crippled bike, thinking of my next life-altering decision. I gunned the throttle and prayed very hard. The punctured rear tyre is no fun to play with. It gained a little speed but it wasn't travelling at Formula One speed.
With seconds, the dogs with yelping at my legs. I kept on shoo-ing them. Not that it helped to any significant degree but it was a self-comforting act. My heart raced as fast as the dogs' legs. I prayed my bike wouldn't topple over all of a sudden. That would have been disastrous for me.
A fallen victim is supper for hungry dogs. Then by the grace of my guardian angel after about 25 yards, the dogs got tired of chasing me. My bike was bouncing up and down with great reluctance.
Have you ever tried to outrun dogs on a punctured tyre? Well, don't try. It's really not that exhilarating.
If I had any doubts about the divine protection and existence of guardian angels, they all vanished that night, very much like the mist in the morning. You just can't imagine how religious a person can get when the terrible twins, Death and Fear, jump on to your shoulders. Luckily for me, I am a praying man. There's no doubt about it after that night, I believe the Big Man Upstairs is looking out for me all the time.
I also learnt another very important lesson. Never neglect to service your mode of transportation, no matter how small it is. If the vehicle is in tip-top condition, it will have fewer chances of letting you down. Hallelujah!

My heroes in the Comics World

At the top of my head, I can think of a few notables. They are Robert E.Howard (Conan), Frank Miller (Daredevil, Elektra), Alan Moore (Swamp Thing, Watchmen, Vendetta), Stan Lee (Superman, Hulk, Spiderman) and Jack Kirby (Fantastic Four, etc).
When I was growing up, I had almost no spare change in both my pockets. The only entertainment that is free for me were comics. I had to swallow my pride and sneaked a long peek inside the covers of my favourite comic titles at the various newsstands.
So I had to learn to read fast and absorb visually as quickly as possible all the juiciest bits in between the covers. Yes, those were days. My imagination was my playground and admission was free. In fact, it is still free.
As I entered my teenage years, I modelled my life after characters like Conan, Daredevil, Spiderman, King Kull and to a lesser extent, Silver Surfer. Back in those days when Ernie Chan and Buscema ruled Aquilonia (the land over which Conan would govern one day), comic heroes don't indulge in the petty sins like smoking and drinking. Well, Conan was an exception. As a result, I also didn't drink or smoke in keeping with the credos of my comic heroes.
Coincidentally, today I still don't smoke or drink. I guess after a while, when I became an adult, I realised the folly of being on the wrong side of cigarettes and alcohol. And so it came to pass that I adopted some of the finer virtues as propagated by writers like Stan Lee, Jack Kirby and some of the older guys.
Compared with today's comic writers and artists, Stan Lee and Jack Kirby could be said to be a "bit unpolished". However, when you are young, a comic book is a passageway to the world of wonders. In those worlds, every child is a hero himself. His mind is his universe and he makes all the rules.
If not for those comics which arrived on a regular basis to the neighbourhood newsstand, I would be a much duller boy. I had posters of Conan or some other muscular superhero pasted on my walls as a reminder that the only right physique was their kind of physique.
So for a while, I threw myself into a strict regime of strenuous exercises, building stamina and developing muscles. Happily, till today, I am still at it. Exercising regularly has become a way of life for me.
Frank Miller added a touch of adulthood in my growing years. He took Daredevil and fleshed him out as a character who had his fair share of relationship problems and personal battles. Miller gave a majority of his readers hope and inspiration. He taught readers like me that life's challenges are constant and irregular in magnitude. Fortunately, he also light the torch of hope brightly, so as to tell us that for every problem that exists, there is always a solution somewhere if we look hard enough.
Facing up to our own challenges is a way of growing up and maturing. I suppose that in a way, I have internalised all the good principles of leading a courageous life.
I am pretty happy to note that in recent years, Hollywood has given comics some special attention in their releases. So far, we have Superman, Daredevil, Elektra, Fantastic Four, Batman, Spiderman, The Hulk, V for Vendetta and somewhere in the pipeline is Ghost Rider and Ironman.
Why it took Hollywood so long to make movies out of comic characters is one phenomenon which I have been unable to fathom. But I am glad it did when it did. Now I know for sure that I have been on the right track all along.
From Alan Moore, I learnt that there dwell galaxies in our imagination. That everything can be seen in its own microcasm of life. Take for example, the original series of the Swamp Thing where its entire body holds possibilities that boggle the human imagination.
From Dr Strange, I found out that the realm of magic has no borders. Dr Strange, the Master of Magic introduced me to the concepts of eternity, chaos and interdimensional planes of existence.
Of course, they are all workings of an overactive mind of the writer but then, when you think about it, what we imagine may yet exist. Or, what we can conjure in our minds can be created, as evident in the structures and inventions that proliferate the world over.
In a big way, I am thankful that comics entered my world when it did. It filled my lonely hours with many great moments of infinite pleasure. I made some of those philosophies practised by the superheroes my own. It showed me the way to fulfil my own destiny.
Comics should be a part of a youngster's life. If not for comics, I probably would not have found childhood such a wonderful time in my life. It has helped me walk the journey of life with some sudden bursts of enthusiasm and also helped me to show others that we are the captains of our own souls and masters of our own fates.
Children must be taught and reminded that in the world of make-believe, there can be found nuggets of wisdom that they can pick up and make their own lives interesting.

What goes on at Chinese Wedding Dinners

LAST night, I was sitting at one of the 32 tables at a neighbour's youngest daughter's wedding. Since I have known her since she was 18 (now 30), I felt it was almost obligatory to grace the occasion with my eminent presence.
As with all Chinese wedding dinners, on the invitation card, it says 7pm sharp. So I was there at that appointed time. Nothing happened for the next one and a half hours. I was just sitting there chatting with another neighbour who was actually quite relieved I had showed up because he doesn't know anybody there, including the bridegroom who earlier accosted him at the entrance because both did not know each other.
The matter was resolved when my friend said he's a friend of the bride's family. As with most modern Chinese wedding dinners, the normal run of things involves about eight to nine dishes. The last one is usually dessert.
The "four seasons" signaled the beginning of the wedding banquet, so to speak. It didn't stir anything in me. It was supposed to be a "cold dish" and it left my senses cold. Terribly unexciting, I thought.
Chinese folk are a demanding lot. When they show up for a wedding dinner, they have already harboured a preconceived notion of how the dishes would be like. So anything less than their expectations, the host and hostess will get a thumbs down verdict.
At this time immediately after the first course, our thumbs were pointing downwards. Apparently, the restaurant supervisor or captain did not synchronise the delivery of the dishes, thus the second dish almost didn't make it to our table.
I was thinking for a country golf club restaurant, the planning is pretty slipshod and the catering was substandard. Apparently, it didn't strike us that we were primarily there to celebrate the happy occasion with the newly-weds.
Most of us were there mainly for the food and if we can, have some fun with friend. That is if they are not sitting too far from our table.
Then, there is the mandatory "cheers" sessions. The wedded couple would go from table to table to greet the guests. Last night, in order to save everybody some trouble, the families, the newly-weds and their immediate relatives were on stage to bid everyone a big "yam seng". That's the Chinese style of saying "cheers", except that the Yam Seng toast involves a lot of loud shouting and prolonged train of voices from everybody until it ended in a gigantic climatic SENGGGGG!!!
One middle-aged guy at my table obviously had one too many and started to become quite boisterous. His sister came over to offer him some timely advice, in case he made a fool of himself. I know this chap. He's rather pleasant on most days when he's not drinking. In fact, he a quiet chap. Well, not last night. He started to lose his inhibitions after the three drink and began uncharacteristically friendly.
Most Chinese men can't hold their drink. Three glasses of liquor down the road, their faces looked as if they have been in the hot sun for about five hours. At Chinese wedding dinners, the prized drink is the brandy, of which the supply is plentiful - normally.
All of us know it's not good to consume too much of this potent drink on a single night but Chinese wedding guests are usually suicidal on grand occasions like last night. Their livers take a fantastic beating but they don't really care. What a strange community.
The music was a little too loud. My friend who was seated next to me, told the waiter to have the music toned down. He must have made his request at least three times to no avail. Later on, the choice of music slipped into the 80s tunes, much to our relief. We are no longer spring chickens anymore. Some of us can actually develop migraine in the face of relentlessly loud music.
As the night wore on, the dishes began to slip from table to our mouths. I found the dishes on a so-so level. Nothing much to write about to the folks back home and bragged about.
Women I know who normally don't wear dresses showed up in them. So I treated that phenomenon with great respect and delight. These days, working women like to wear their pants too much. Dresses are becoming passe.
The speeches by best friends from both parties, bride and groom, regaled the large crowd with unheard-of stories about their married colleagues in their younger days. It was nice to see these people were having the time of their lives.
However, the female MC was giggling endlessly like a little girl. I concluded after a while that she had one brandy too many because she was wandering all over the place verbally. Anyway, she was having a great time with the mike and her laughter was rather infectious. Most of us knew she was slightly tipsy.
I surprised the other guests at my table by confessing that I am a teetotaller. How strange, they thought. They had me figured out to be a world class boozer! And I was sipping Chinese tea the entire evening.
The dinner promptly came to an end around 11pm. Afterwards, the bridegroom promised everybody that the evening would proceed with a party, but we didn't want to proceed anymore. Our bellies were full, our ears were still ringing from the overly loud decibels from the mighty speakers and it was close to bedtime.
Thank God, my wedding is now just a distant memory and I don't remember creating half as much noise as the modern couple. As I walked out of the door to thank the hosts, I silently wish the newly-weds all the luck in the world. I recall about five years ago, I was at another wedding, enjoying the evening's programme.
That marriage didn't even last three years. Modern couples - they are good at organising interesting wedding dinners but some of them have apparently forgotten that they have to put in the same amount of effort, if not more, into their marriages to make them successful.

Listening to my father's songs

When I was growing up, one of our family's prized possessions was a huge gramophone which incorporated a turntable on one side and a radio on the other. In between, there are shelves to keep the LPs and EPs.
My dad kept all his collection of his favourites in the shelves. Every other night after work, after dinner and while he was having his usual evening cigarette and lazing on his easy chair, he would put on Nat King Cole's Golden Hits or Chet Atkins Guitar Specials.
As children, there were five of us, it was a steady diet of the old evergreens. While we were upstairs doing our homework or just sitting around twiddling our thumbs, the strains of the songs like Rambling Rose, Autumn Leaves or even Johnny Horton's North To Alaska would be filtering through the rooms of the house.
This would go on for years. My dad has got a ear for good music. He liked them slow at times and jitter-bugging when he's in a dancing mood. After he left school at the age of 17, he was bumming around cabarets and pool rooms. He found friends in these places. One of them taught him tango and other classy moves of those days.
If I remember correctly, my dad was one of those of his generation who was greatly influenced by Gene Kelly, Ginger Rogers, Fred Astaire, Cyd Charisse and other great dancers of Hollywood.
My dad loved the night life and his zest for life was reflected in his taste for music. My sisters, brother and I absorbed a lot of Jim Reeves, Peggy Lee, Doris Day, Slim Whitman, The Pretenders, The Four Tops, The Drifters and some others whom I have forgotten.
Decades later whenever songs of those days reached my ears, I suddenly found myself standing in the hallway of my old house. I was that little kid again, looking out of the window, watching the rain fall in the distance and wishing that I was all grown up and earning money so that I won't have to ask for some spare change to buy ice-cream.
These days I find myself rather surprised that sometimes some Hollywood movies used those old songs as theme music for their films. I guess my dad got it right. Those were the good songs that never die.
Even my sisters like those songs. We hear them all over again and somehow those old, forgotten, familiar feelings keeping seeping back into our lives. Evergreens, they call them. Now I understand the true meaning of that phrase.
My dad has gone to God's little acre years ago. So has my mum. But the memories of those songs linger on in my mind, and roam the prairie of my heart. And I am glad all over again.

The Underdog coming in from behind

I JUST read the results of an important school examination. Hundreds of students scored a lot of A's that would make their parents very proud. Asian parents, I believe, are like their counterparts in other parts of the world.
They are always worried about their children's scholastic achievements. So children are given every educational aid money can buy. Consequently, the number of top scorers is rising every year.
This year, the results look good. Of course, the newspapers published the pictures and the names of the superachievers. So far, there are only two known Top Guns. Both scored 15 A1s. That is the full and maximum score for all those have chosen 15 subjects for the exam.
During my time, my friends and I pondered deeply how many strong credits we will each have. That is, about a week before the results are released. These days, the emphasis is not passing but how many A1s, each student can score.
Looking and reading the remarkable results of my country's high school students, I feel as if my natural intelligence has suddenly been called into question. I told myself silently, "I must been a blinking idiot" compared to the present generation's super achievers.
Back in those days, we were aptly described as the "underdogs". We were the ones who usually have had a better time than all the others who achieved unnaturally superlative results. The Underdogs that we were gave us the freedom to make the world experience the unshackled joy in our hearts and limbs.
Often, after an important exam, we would organise parties or a trip to a resort beach or a holiday island. Life was for the taking for most of us. While the top scorers prepare for the next phase of their glittering academic life, the Underdogs (me included) just couldn't wait to take out our fishing rods and head for the nearest river.
Even if we catch no fish, we are not bothered. The point was to get out, get there and be there. Who cares what happens afterwards.
When I somehow made it to the university, I stayed with some science boys. The first thing I noticed about my overwhelmingly bespectacled colleagues was that they were almost never tired of studying. In fact, they studied more than they slept.
Morning, they squeezed in at least an hour and a half of book-learning. I had to fight my way out of my unmade bed and walked in half-daze to campus.
So it went on like that for several months until I got to know my science friends better. Eventually, I gathered enough courage to ask them: "How come you guys study so much?" They normally replied "casualty rate among science students is high".
Their remark is painfully true. Science is such an exact subject that if you can't get it right the first time, there's no second chance. Arts students keep writing and coming up with the most ridiculous arguments that sometimes the professors are confused and deliver a passing grade.
Once, I had the audacity to proclaim to my much aggrieved science friends that "arts graduates are generalists who end up becoming general managers who hire science graduates for their laboratories". How true. Of course, they are not amused by this revelation.
In the world of harsh realities, the Underdogs do get a break now and then. While it is not true that science graduates will end up working for arts grads all the time, the Underdogs tend to try harder and as a result score big when they hit the bull's eye.
The phrase that accompanies all Underdogs is "when you have nothing to lose, you tend to take bigger risks and consequently achieve bigger dreams than those who are secure in their own comfort zone of 15 A1s. Sounds like sour grapes? No, not really.
There's much to be said about being an Underdog and I have merely scratched the surface. If you read some of the biggest success stories ever told, you will discover that some of the greatest characters in human history are those who began life as an Underdog and then went on to conquer all their weaknesses.
Eventually, they mastered both the arts of Failure and Success, thus putting them on a level higher than those who are only familiar with either Success or just Failure.
So I say to you, fail if you must but learn from it. Success has its own reward but the lesson is incomplete.

The Joy of Collecting Postcards

This hobby began about 25 years ago. One fine day, I found myself in Europe. Since I was a virgin visitor there, everything looked beautiful to me. From buildings to little children, they all projected a sense of wonder.
I had my trusty camera with me and I took pictures. But back in those days when digital camera was not even a phrase yet, the ordinary point-and-shoot roll-of-film camera was THE thing.
Among our tour group was a couple who were always buying postcards. Once a while, I told myself why did this couple waste their money on postcards when they had a camera.
It was only when I returned home that I found out that there were a lot of places or objects of interest that I had either forgotten to photograph or I just ran out of film at that time, or worse, my camera exposures were very much less than desirable.
That was when it hit me - postcards! Yes, postcards was a quick remedy for an afterthought, or a post-bad picture situation. Then, I discovered the wisdom of buying and collecting postcards on holidays.
The next time I went on vacation overseas I did not make the same mistake again. That was then. Now two decades later, I have a very nice collection of postcards. Yes, I still lug my camera around but postcards cover another aspect of my vacation that could not be filled by my camera.
I have since acquired a postcard album which was bought at a post office in London. It seems my own country does not sell postcard albums. Anyway, I got mine at last, and it came in handy for all those nice postcards which I bought brand new or acquired from flea markets overseas.
Some of my best postcards are the old ones. Those that have been sent from my country Malaysia to good old England. Some of them are more than 100 years old. It was another era and the writing on the postcards stirred memories of a time long past but had a charm of its own.
I love postcards like that. They conjured images of people from the Victorian time when their forebears came to colonised countries like Malaya, now Malaysia, to earn a living. These Brits from the days of the Raj, so to speak, built mansions reminiscent of those found in those own country in different parts of Malaya.
In Penang, Malacca, Kuala Lumpur (cities in my country), there are still standing those old colonial buildings left behind by the English gentlemen who used to call Malaya their home back about 100 years ago.
This is one of the reasons why I love and collect postcards. Postcards are like history lessons. They contain images of charming incidents that only our grandparents knew about.
Sometimes, when I am bored or have nothing better to do, I will extract my postcard album and look at all the pictures that hold special memories for me. The exercise is like a slideshow to me. Every image will kickstart a certain block in my memory blank and produce a chain of visual imagery that delights me no end.
Postcards, I love them. Still do.

Goodness gracious, am I that old?

TIME seems to have a will of its own these days. I can almost swear I can hear the sound of laughter coming from my Fifth Form classroom where friends and colleagues were up to their latest antics.
I was studying in a La Salle Brothers school then. Now and then, the brother director would walk past and if we had been alerted about his arrival, there will be dead silence for about five minutes, then the ruckus began all over again.
Suddenly, I realise it has been 36 years ago. Some of my classmates must be grandfathers now. A number of us must be half-bald by now, and a lot of others are sporting grey hair.
Another indication that life has hopped on to the fasttrack is when we see school friends' children. The kids who used to be toddlers are adults now. Before you run to the nearest mirror to check out that familiar face, you indulge in some simple arithmetics and come to the quick conclusion that you are almost on the last leg of the retirement circuit.
Mentally, most of us are ageless. We never really grow old in our minds. We just become more experienced. Physically, our conditions depend on discipline and that zest of life. If you have been keeping fit, your body which is also your personal engine will be fine. It will have its occasional spurts and starts, otherwise, it still runs the course.
When you say someone is "old", what do you mean? Do you mean that person is now four score and something years, or do you mean he just looks haggard? Some people prefer to be called senior citizens. Others like be be described as being mature.
All that simply translates to you having spend more years on earth than a lot of other people who think they know more than you.
Personally, I like being where I am right now, and that is being on the half-century mark. I feel like I did 30 years ago. I have not lost that spark of life. I am keen on doing the unexpected and expecting the unanticipated. Life to me is like a long and winding road filled with little lessons and major experiences. All that take place so that my life will get better with time.
I think we should not be too concerned about being called "old." Being old is a great way of telling the world that you have been around and then some. But that does not mean that you are immune from being feeling pain, frustration, happiness and joy, just like that other six billion people on earth.
We are one big family and yet at the same time, different, unique individuals. As we advance in years, we tell ourselves we have had enough; that we are tired, we must now leave the "heavy" stuff to the younger chaps; that we can't do that anymore at our age; that we shouldn't enjoy life to the fullest because it may be bad for our hearts. To all that I say; HOGWASH!
Life is never meant to be slowed down. We just go on. Jumping, skipping, running, strolling, jogging, walking, resting, etc. It is a journey filled with different paces. So what if we stop for a while to look at the scenery. We need not convince ourselves that life is passing us by and we have to act our age.
Rubbish, I say again. I have friends who are in their 80s and they have so much vitality in their human forms that they put to shame three-quarters of those one-third their age.
You know you are old when you believe you should go slow and retire. Life belongs to those who want it, anyway they want it, how they want it and how much they demand of it.
As I add on the years, I get smarter, stronger, faster and tougher. Sounds like superman? Yes, in a way. I just couldn't resist yanking other people's chains whenever they come up to me with their long faces laden with forlorn hopes of something that they think is unattainable.
These are the people who have passed such heavy sentences on themselves. It is a living tragedy. What is the difference between those who have given up hope and those who are dead. Not much! Those who are dead can not do anything else anymore. Those who have given up hope, might as well be dead because there's not much hope for them anymore.
Next time, you feel the urge to be put to pasture, just tell yourself what you are going to do with the rest of the time, if you think you have 48 hours more to live. Of course, you would want to try anything, anywhere anytime because for you the last 48 hours are your last.
When you are in that state, you probably won't worry at all about cholesterol, being fat, being stingy with money (you won't be going anywhere with that extra cash), and worry about people who dislike you.
You will become slightly selfish because you won't want to such on the nectar of life. You want to soak in everything that brings a big smile to your face. YOu would want to tell everybody you love them because you don't relish the thought of anyone dancing on your coffin.
When you truly believe you are living out your last hours, everything that you thought were important suddenly become meaningless trivia.
Being so-called old gives you an added advantage. You realise that you don't need to prove anything anymore. You won't feel shy like before because it doesn't really matter anymore. You become more confident because a lot of people are now junior to you. You will feel as if you have a right to give them some advice. And also that the world sounds like it's ready to serve you.

Guardian Angels among Us

The first time I heard the words "guardian angels" was when I was little boy and was studying in a Catholic Brothers school. The La Salle Brothers have a way of introducing "angels" into our lives that somehow stuck in our minds until we reach "the other side".
As we grow older and seemingly wiser, we tend to lose touch with guardian angels and apt to call anyone who does us a favour as a "guardian angel." As you move towards middle age, you will try to believe that there are real guardian angels because your life is sometimes so uncertain that you wish that someone else will take over the job of looking after your future.
These days, I am inclined to believe that there are actually angels walking and working among us. I would like to say "I have it on good authority that real angels from heaven are walking us." Unfortunately, such an outburst will only lead to my confinement at the nearest rehabilitation centre.
Well I have good news for you Doubting Thomases. There are actually guardian angels walking and talking to us on earth. How I know? I just know. Do you need proof?
Remember those times when you are so desperate, you suddenly turn religious and start bargaining with God about how you will not be such a cad anymore to your wife and kids?
Then out of the blue, your problem is solved by an unexpected turn of events and it usually due to someone doing something that may or may not be intended for your advantage. Nevertheless, your woes ended and you began to nurture a new one.
Somewhere out there, without your knowledge, your prayers were answered. And you thought it was due to your own courage, fortitude and perseverance. You had forgotten about that urgent prayer you "sent upstairs". It was answered and you didn't realise it.
All prayers uttered in sincerity are answered. If need be, angels will be sent forth to come to your aid. Baloney! you say?! Look where you are today. You are not pushing daisies somewhere out in the open field, are you? The fact that you are reading this indicates that you are among the living.
Angels have been assigned to all of us so that we will always be reminded that we are spirits from on high. There are things not of this earth that do not require any explanation nor do they need the approval and investigation of our most accomplished citizens.
They are governed by laws not made for us. However, they are here because they are part of us and will help us if your life and mine will be for the better with some assistance from them.
Have you ever experienced making a supposedly a wrong turn on your way home and unexpected encountered someone and something that shifted your fortune or someone else's fortune?
Who do you think "inspired" you to take that detour or make that sudden turn?
Before you pronounce that the subject of guardian angels is a topic for the demented and the slightly deranged, keep in mind this suggestion. The next time, you are caught in a jam (not traffic) but something that is more serious or even life-threatening, say a prayer and ask sincerely for your guardian angel to extend a helping hand, and then wait and watch.