Ayah & Mak

 

Tak pernah bosan saya menceritakan dan menulis tentang Mak dan Ayah. Setiap kali memikirkan mereka, saya adalah Ainun yang sedang siap-siap berangkat sekolah, memasang tali sepatu dan melihat Ayah menghangatkan vespa tuanya. Asapnya memenuhi seluruh ruangan rumah kami yang mungil, membuat pedih mata. Lalu saya akan berdiri di depan, Ayah mengendarai vespa, adik saya Hafiz di tengah, dan Mak di belakang. Merasakan dinginnya pagi di pulau kecil yang panas di Kepulauan Riau. Memasuki kelas yang seringkali masih kosong, duduk di belakang, menunggu teman kelas satu per satu datang dengan rambut basah sehabis keramas dan bedak yang dipakai terburu-buru. 

Entah kenapa penggalan memori tersebut sangat jelas di kepala saya. Bukan hari istimewa. Pagi yang monoton, yang terjadi setiap Senin-Sabtu selama 3 tahun, dari saya kelas 3 hingga 6 SD. Selain itu, tak banyak yang saya ingat kecuali beberapa kejadian penting. Karena setelah lulus SD, saya merantau seorang diri hingga lulus kuliah. Ingatan saya tentang hidup bersama Mak dan Ayah hanya itu saja. Tiga tahun.

Turning 33

Last week, I turned thirty-three. I wish I could sing Taylor Swift's 22 at the top of my lungs and even though I could change the numbers and it would still rhyme (I'm kinda desperate, here), I have mixed feelings about my age. I will try to describe how it feels.

Thirty-three.

I want to say yes to everything that broadens my horizon. Most time, I feel like there's so much to see and do, with too little time left in the world. Yet sometimes, I’m left with too little options to choose. I feel I am at my bravest most days, but some days it feels like I'm getting closer to my expiration date.

Thirty-three.

I'm stepping into the unknown and it's up to my lame self-control to navigate my life. Sometimes I'm still questioning if I have made the best decisions and wondering if my actions and words come from good faith.

Thirty-three.

I gave up trying to be perfect. I now could look in the mirror and see I am so much beyond my skin freckles and wrinkles. I don't wanna miss the best parts of this life because I'm tied down by my own insecurities. I'm not forever. No one is. I'm not trying to reinvent myself. I want to trust my instincts and see what happens.

I'm ready and I'm not. 

I'm learning that I can be both.

2190 days

 

My daughter just turned 6 last week. 

Six years. 

That's 2190 days and 52.560 hours of witnessing her growing up. 

Six years.

Six suddenly sounds like a big number.

The Gift of Time

 For many of us, time is just... Well, time. That 24 hours everyone has to live. "Another day" . 

We have time clues within our reach, on our hands, wall, table, phone. We 'sense' time by looking at the sky, or how long we think we've been doing something. Time expands and shrinks based on what we do and feel. Time flies when we talk to the ones we love. Two hours went just like that. Time slows down when we're waiting. Five minutes feels like a lifetime.

But time, you see, is always there. It may be rushed, slow in motion, or slippery in our hand, but it is not impossible to hold on to. 

I want to hold on to time. 

By recognizing its movements and the passing seconds I could never get back. I hold on to it by being aware of the changes surrounding me. I look at my face in the mirror and see dark spots and soft wrinkles under my eyes. That's time. I touch my hand and remember that the surface used to be thinner and softer. That's time. I count my husband's grey hairs, and feel the thickening skin on his face. And don't even get me started on my daughter. That's time. Going away. Leaving traces.

Sometimes, time is rough, when I see the people I care about starting to lose hope after their years of struggle. I want to slow down the time for them, help them to take a breathe and maybe find a tiny hint of love in my presence. But more often than that, time is like a breeze. I lean in to it, and know when to just let go and ride its currents.

Time is our gift, but only if we are paying attention to it. Only if we learn how to tame it.

SKB and a Worrying Wave of Anxiety

 It was 16.09 as I checked my watch after my assessor wrapped up my interview. I remember being called into the room not even 30 minutes before. I remember standing up from my chair, walking like a zombie to gather my bags, processing all the questions in my head like an old Android phone. 

Already?

I still have a lot to tell.

I haven't told her about this and that, and a lot more.

Did I say something wrong? 

Or is it possible she already made an assumption about me? 

Trying to see a bigger picture of me as a person based on the very limited information I provided?

But she didn't ask me about this and that, and a lot of things.

But I have prepared myself for tens and tens of questions, but how I only got very few?

My head spun, wondering if it went wrong. Maybe I set my expectations too high, hoping she'd dig deeper because I was 100% ready to be brutally honest and open up about myself. I cried on my way home listening to Taylor Swift, feeling so heavy-hearted. I felt like I wasn't properly interviewed. Was I not interesting enough to be asked more? Seriously, my anxiety just shot through the roof the minute I walked out of the room.