How do you counsel a person who has suicide on their mind? Many of us tell them to think twice about their actions, to think about all the hurt they would cause those they leave behind. Sometimes, that may be the worst thing to do. Those who take their life prematurely often want to teach the rest of us a lesson, to make us regret not giving them the attention, and love, and respect they deserved.

We all like to be missed. We like to know that a void is left in our absence. This urge to deprive the world of what we are worth… I believe it is in all of us. It is a method we sometimes employ to make known to others our value, in a “you don’t know what you have until you lose it” sort of way. In the case of this boy who died… he was worth a lot to many people, but he could have been worth more.

This question entered my mind the other day. What would I have told him were he to have shared his plans for suicide with me? I think I would have told him to think of his siblings, of his friends, of his family, and I would have reminded him that that are people who count on him and look up to him. And that by taking his own life he would let a lot of people down. And I would say to him that there is nothing heroic in suicide, unless he were taking his life to save that of another. And had he shared with me that he had not a friend in the world who cared for him, I would have told him that he did now, in the person talking to him.

I’ve learned never to pass judgment on others from where you are standing. Stand in their shoes. If you can do that, albeit for a passing moment, I believe you will find that not much separates us from those whose deeds we do not condone. People are sometimes robbed of their immediate reason for living, and find themselves in a place so dark and deep that it appears Godless. Sometimes the wall of pain that has formed around them makes it impossible for the words of others to get through, to bring healing. We save the ones we can. For the rest, we can only pray that God shows mercy on them, that he weighs their situation and takes their frame of mind into consideration. I don’t condone suicide. But I can see how some may get lost on this path. Each day, we should pray that God does not bring us to the test, that He delivers us from evil, and that should we one day be tested, that we have on us the full armour of God.

I’ve often told people this, that the volume on my iPod is the most accurate measurement of my mood. The darker my mood, the higher her volume tends to be, her voice swallowing the screams within.

All of yesterday, she was silent. I tried to breathe life into her, followed all the steps that in the past used to work. Nothing. A deafening silence. Time has taken her.

The last 6 years, she’s been with me on almost every major adventure I’ve set off on; to the base of the Grand Canyon, across Europe, through the desert sands of Africa, atop mountains, above the clouds, below sea level, into tombs and catacombs, through sweltering heat, into sub-zero temperatures, past machine guns aimed at us. She’s been there at my happiest, and in many instances, been the tinder for those moments. Bravely, she’s taken the most treacherous journeys with me, into the eye of the tempest, through each storm life has sent my way.

A giving friend, an ungiving pillar. But even the best, have to one day relinquish their position.

Rest my friend. You have died.

But please know this. You are not dead to me. So deep and long you have sung to me, that your voice still lives within… the way a seashell traps the song of the ocean.

For one, my joints have started to creak. If I were to gracefully sway my body from one side to the other, the way a ballerina goes through her warm ups, you’d be treated to a symphony of cricks and cracks, almost as if a car were slowly rolling over a flat sheet of bubble wrap. It really is worth a listen. Really.

To add to my woes, my knees have lost strength, and I’m a lot less sure about doing the things I once knew I could do. So pirouettes are out of the question (they used to be out of question before, now they are even more out of the question).

~.~.~.~.~.~

I attended a funeral the day before Chinese New Year. He was of friend of mine since childhood—same Sunday school, same Church, same Secondary School. For a year, I sat beside him in class, when we were sixteen. So I’m sure, a big piece of him had been imbibed in me.

Paul left in his wake, and at his wake, a wife and two kids–one was 4-years old, the other 2, the same age as my Oliver.

Sometimes, when I’m gone for a few hours, Oliver asks, “Where’s Daddy? Daddy come back. Now!!”

How do you tell a kid that age, that Daddy’s not coming back? Ever.

It really gets you thinking, when someone your age gets a heart attack and drops dead. You stop taking things for granted. For awhile anyway, when the memory is still fresh.

The death of a friend also sends you a message that you’d better start smelling the roses before they make them into wreaths for you. And it reminds you that you should say your I love Yous frequently; if not in words, through your actions. It also tells you not to squander a good thing, and that life is short, so eat your vegetables, and wear your sunscreen. There is no need to make your existence here shorter than it already is.

I read The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari about a month back. It was probably the most cheesy book I’ve ever picked up, but I must say, I gleaned a lot of useful things from it. As the book had suggested that we all do, I’ve incorporated meditation into part of my daily. It’s amazing how the simple act of focusing your mind someplace else triggers physical change through your body. Meditation makes you aware of many things. Often, I don’t realise that I’m walking with my shoulders scrunched up and tense; my neck, stiff like an aroused penis.

I’m sure there are different ways to meditate. I do mine in a quiet room with the lights turned off, Lisa Gerrard’s Sanvean playing in the background. Eyes closed, I breathe deeply once the music starts, and my body magically relaxes. Suddenly, you feel alive once more, as if your blood, which without your permission stopped flowing some time during the day, started to flow again. Often, my mind wanders, just like in church. But I let it. Fighting it, I feel, is unnatural, and strenuous, and would defeat the purpose of the whole exercise. As you can probably tell, I make a lot of this stuff up as I go.

The monk manual also suggested that I engage in rigorous exercise, daily. But to go in head first was ill advised, not in my fragile state. Anything more rigorous than climbing a single flight of stairs would probably cause my limbs to dislodge from my body and crumble into pieces, the way wooden blocks tumble following a wrong Jenga move.

So, to jumpstart my exercise regimen… Correction. So, to slowly move my exercise regimen into gear, I chose to do strengthening exercises first—stretches, lunges, some yoga and the like. It really has helped, and I’m a lot less wobbly these days.

~.~.~.~.~.~

After two weeks of mild conditioning, I felt my body was ready to take on something bigger. No, not Roseanne Barr.

I went for a jog this morning. The route took me from the house to the park, a lap around the park, a walking lap to catch my breath, another running lap, and after that, I dragged my feet to the roadside stall for breakfast, across the street from my house.

Again, as almost every time in the past, I was the only Chinese fella there. I ordered an ice tea and unfolded myself a Nasi Lemak. Their version here is unique; they have a small square of salt fish embedded into the rice, and it is sublime. There was a dead ant in my rice. I ate it without a second thought. I think that only happens on Tuesday mornings (Man Vs Wild is on at 8 every Monday night).

The stall filled up quickly after I took my seat, to the point where a Malay guy had no choice but to share my table with me. He ordered a Roti Tampal. I had never heard of it before and was curious. Translated, it meant ‘patched bread’. I waited in anticipation for his Unidentified Food Object to arrive. When it finally did, I couldn’t quite make it out. It looked like there was some kind of coconut layer married to a piece of Roti Canai. The guy didn’t look like he welcomed any questions, so I paid for my meal and left.

~.~.~.~.~.~

My writing has taken up a very prominent center in my life. On my jog, I was thinking of my book. Well, of that and of my burning thighs. Quite often, when I meditate, my mind wanders to the book as well. The same thing happens when I’m going through my stretches, or taking a dump, lathering my body, lathering my teeth, trying to sleep, while driving, while gardening, while watching TV.

This morning, while walking back to the house after breakfast, I realised I did not once think of my book over breakfast. And it was nice. Like a burden had been lifted off my shoulders. I asked myself how it happened and came to this conclusion: I was too busy thinking about what the other people thought of me, sitting there, almost alone, a thorn among the Kembojas. In that moment, it occurred to me, that in this country, more important things than the bread needed to be patched.