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About hafong

Hello! My name is (Leung) Hafong alias Lily Leung. You always say the last name first….that is the Chinese way. That is my partner lurking behind me. Since this is my blog, I won’t mention his name. But this is a rather cool picture. You see me and yet you don’t…sort of the way I feel about myself most of my life. So this blog is a self-exploration, an archeology dig of some sort. My tools…..words of a thousand or so at a sitting. I will try for that.

LETTING GO, BE DARING, BE NEW

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December 25, Christmas Day. Sunlight streaming in. I’m cozy as can be – tap, tapping away on this cold day. It’s only -26 Celsius now, up 2 degrees since 7 am. I’m looking a little tired, bags underneath my eyes and my hair is not up to par. Well, it’s not quite combed. I’m out of practice doing selfies. It looks like the cyclamen is growing out of my ear. I’ve left things slide. My hair could use a cream rinse to put in some shine. I need lots more moisturizer to rid those bags. And you should see the diningroom table.

It goes to show some things never change. It can be a comforting or provocative thought. You can count on consistency or dependability. You are not surprised or blown away constantly. On another train of thought, I see that I am who I am.  If someone doesn’t like me, it doesn’t matter what I do, they will not like me. It’s really none of my business. I really love these witty truisms. It’s obviously true. It says nothing new or interesting. It’s time to walk away. I will save myself a whole lot of energy and time giving up trying to be someone else for someone else. It’s a lightbulb moment if I ever saw one.

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Now I’m at day’s end, just before bedtime. I’m taking a few moments to gather my thoughts on this holiday period. I’m secretly pleased. Now you know, too. I’ve had a very good Christmas. I’ve taken a step towards new rituals for the Season. I’m not saying it’s the correct and only way. It’s different for me. Mostly I just stopped doing the ‘usual’ – running around looking for the perfect gift, putting up a tree and decorations, baking, etc. It did make me feel uncomfortable at times. But isn’t that always with doing something new?

It’s not for everyone. Not everyone wants to simplify Christmas. Some people really enjoy all that goes with the season. I respect their chosen ways. And I am not saying that I will repeat the same action next year. Things are ever changing, me and my feelings included.  The old way of doing things don’t work for us any more. I have to be willing to let go of them and be open to try something new. Grow with the times, the bells chime.

O HOLY NIGHT

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I feel guilty sitting here, tap tap tapping on this 24th day of December – Christmas Eve. By all accounts aren’t I suppose to be busy cooking up a storm, celebrating and partying? At the same time, aren’t we supposed to observe the reverence of Jesus’ birth? To confuse the issue more for myself, I am Chinese. I was not born a Christian but to a culture of ancestor worship. Sometime and somewhere in my life, I saw Jesus on the cross. I followed that vision and was baptised in the Catholic Church. But I heard Buddha calling me also. I listened and liked what I heard.

I am confused but I don’t feel too bad about it. I’ve been listening to too many voices. I heard all their sayings and beliefs. Now, I know the best voice is my own. I’ve bathed in too many’s experiences and feelings. They are not my own. It’s time to shed them. Time to step into my own waters, my experiences and feelings. It is time to don my fineries and see how they fit. Will they wear well?

O Holy Night has been my favourite Christmas Carol since I was a little immigrant girl in Maidstone. It was before I was Catholic. I heard it sung by Susan, an older neighbour girl. She lived in the railroad station house across the highway from us. I thought her voice was heavenly. It was so pure and clear like that night. It is still my favourite. I love the beauty of the music and the lyrics. Whether or not I believe, it does not matter. How I celebrate or not does not matter as long as I am true to myself, as long as I am enjoying what I am doing and not hurting another.

 

EVEN THOUGH

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I’m sitting here, feeling blank, not knowing where to start. I wonder how I got here. Where do I begin? At the beginning, of course. But where is that? This morning I went to my exercise class even though I didn’t feel like it. There are so many things that I don’t feel like doing – like putting up a Christmas tree or any other ornaments. And I haven’t. The only thing I have is a poinsetta that was given to us. Oh yes, the cyclamen with its red blooms looks very festive, if I may say so. It was a fine model for a painting. It sat very still for me. Then there’s the neighbours across the street. Their picture window is strung with Christmas lights. I get to see and enjoy them. I am not lacking in Christmas cheer even though I’m a bit of a Mrs. Humbug.

Last night two images popped into my head as I laid in bed. It was the moments before sleep overtook me. The first image was when I was a child in China. It was New Year’s Eve. I was in bed. Downstairs my mother, grandmother and ‘aunties’ are making and cooking pastry. I could see them tending the fire, feeding in more straw and twigs. The second image was of when we were in Ghana. Again I was in bed in the loft of the lodge. The ocean waves are washing in and out. The lighthouse light flashing across the window opening. I am feeling safe, warm and content in all these places as I am drifting off to sleep.

Our present times are uncertain and difficult. So much confusion and violence. But when have they not been? It seem so much more now that we are in the energy age. Bad news travel at a blink of an eye and a snap of your fingers. I am easily influenced. I soak up the negative like a sponge. Even though sometimes I can’t help but feel hopeless and despondent, I still have a little spark in me. That little spark keeps me going like the Eveready battery. Despite myself and even though I’m a bit of a Scrooge, I’m like that Little Drummer Boy. I’ll keep playing my drum.

BECOMING MY MOTHER

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Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year. Daylight hours here in Saskatoon = 7 hours 43 minutes. In other years my mother would be making glutinous rice ball soup. She made two kinds – one with a sweet sauce and one with a savory soup of vegetables, meat and spices. I prefer the latter. It’s a process. It’s another thing she has given up with advancing age and declining health. I have made the effort once. It turned out not bad. I should make it every year as the Chinese do celebrate Winter Solstice. It would have been a comforting thing on a gloomy day. I would be carrying on my mother’s tradition. I can still do it on another day.

More and more, I find myself becoming my mother. I hear her voice and laugh in mine. Sometimes when I am moving, I feel as I am her. Maybe those traits were always in me but I’m just recognizing and acknowledging them now. I don’t know any young woman who would want to be their mother. I remember having many mother/daughter disagreements and fights. I was reading books like My Mother/Myself by Nancy Friday. I wish I still have that copy but I’ve tossed it thinking I’m done. I was wrong. A daughter is never done with mother/daughter relationships. Great that I found it in the library system and have requested it. It will be interesting reading from my now vantage point.

We have no more fiery encounters. We have both mellowed and respect each other’s abilities and individual rights. She can no more order me around than I could order her. Equals at last. She still like to tell me that I am sloppy and bad tempered like my father. Also that she can still clean better than me. That is true. But she’s also said that my sticky rice was pretty good and that I am making pretty good art.

It’s all good at this stage in our lives. Those difficult days of struggling to make a living are behind us. We have reached Gold Mountain at last. We have climbed its slippery slopes and reached the Promised Land. We are living our best parts. Happy Winter Solstice!

 

HAIR PULLING DAYS

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December days can be murderous on humour and well being, especially for one such as I. Add Sheba’s pesky afternoon shenanigans to the mix and I want to scream and pull my hair out. My hair is thinning so that stops me. What’s so bad about December days? Well, let me tell you.

In November, it snowed just about every other day. That was fine. The snow lit up the grey. It made everything look bright and clean. No dirt to track in. Come December a warm front came. The snow went but enough left to freeze over, making it treacherous and difficult for our walks. Ugh! Now the cold came back. No snow. We are still left with grey and ice to navigate on. Double UGH!

Egads! Days like today set me on edge. Everything is difficult. Everything gets on my nerve. Sheba on my heels continuously. Her hair everywhere it seems. Then there’s all my clutter. Everything seems to go wrong. Trying to work on a painting, I picked up my spray bottle to wet the paint. It comes apart. The bottom falls off. Water falls out. The bottom cracks. More water on the floor. Nothing to do but retrieve the bottle, mop up the floor and give a great big sigh. No LOL – laughing out loud.

What do you do when life hands you lemons? Make lemonade, of course. In this case, I’m not sure what to make. I am sure everything would turn into lemons. Best course of action is to lay low. The day is almost done. I can do like Scarlett. After all, tomorrow is another day.

 

THE LADY WITH THE TORCH

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I was never one of the nurses who counted down the years, months, weeks, days, hours, the minutes till retirement. I think I must have loved my job. If it was so intolerable that I have to do the counting, I am sure I would have quit and found another job. I hit such a critical point early in my career. After suffering enough doctor and head nurse abuse, I quit right then without another backup job. I was never afraid of not finding work.

Nursing must be was what I was supposed to do for I found myself back in it not long after. I was aghast. I thought it was not where I want to be again. I never thought of myself being the ministering angel. I was definitely not the lady with the lamp type. I entered the profession solely to help me develop confidence with people. I was a shy timid wallflower. What better job than being a nurse in a hospital?

I think I fulfilled my goal of gaining confidence. My second job in nursing was in a large university teaching hospital with many departments and people. I got some backbone and learned to deepen my voice. I tried to cut out my squeaky ‘excuse me(s) after being told by a kindly resident. “For heaven’s sake, Lily, speak up and don’t say excuse me,” he chided. “Be more assertive!” With time I became that. I was not quite as tough as nails but neither was I soft as marshmallows.

Over the years, I must have turned Florence like. Once upon a time, I had hoped to regale stories from my years upon retirement. But to my dismay when the time came, I held no memories nor the desire to recall them. They were all bad.I was in full anxiety. Now some time has passed and so too, my PTSD. Yup, it’s my own diagnosis of my post retirement predicament. Well, I am/was a nurse. I know or should know the symptons.

A few pleasant memories are seeping back. I don’t need to feel tough as nails anymore. I’m hoping to feel soft as a marshmallow. I remember some of the reasons why I stayed in the profession. It is the soft whispers of the patients in the night. “Thank you.” ” You have such a gentle touch.” I go from bed to bed and room to room with my torch. I bend over a bed. I straighten a blanket. I fluff a pillow. In the dark, a voice asked me, “Did your mother ever tell you how pretty you are?”

How could I not love that? I melt like a marshmallow.

 

 

 

THE STRANGER AT THE DOOR

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I love the poem Love After Love by Derek Walcott. I first heard it recited by Jon Kabat Zinn, the founder of MBSR  (mindfulness-based stress reduction). It is about learning to love ourselves, to be present and at home in our own lives. I’ve been on that quest for a long time now. Today, I feel that homecoming, that welcoming of myself at my own door. I feel it all as I worked on this painting.

All my life, I’ve been told that I was smart and talented. I must not have believed it. After high school, I was going to take a secretarial course. My public school principal was aghast at my decision and chided me. I have too much intelligence and talent. I should not waste it. Then I got an entrance scholarship to university. That decided it. I went for two years. I got wayward and lost. I did not fail but I did not shine either. I dropped out and became a steno despite my smarts and talent. Four years later, I became a nurse. I emptied bedpans and saved lives for over 30 years.

It was a year and a half ago that I decided to investigate my ‘talent’. I’ve been talking about it most of my life. My artistic training consisted of maybe 4 classes many decades ago. I grew tired and embarrassed listening to myself repeat the same story. I started to feel like someone who people try to avoid. Same old, same old story. It was time to tell a new one. Entered 100 Day Project on Instagram. I did a little art each day for 100 days. I’ve learned that talent is not enough. Practice does make for better.

 

So I’ve finally arrived after all these years. I feel the elation rising. The canvas is my mirror. I caress the face with my brush. We smile back at each other. Strange and strangers to each other till now. Where have you been? Where have I been? The questions echo silently in the air. So many years have passed. You have lain motionless and silent within this body. I did not know you were within though I’ve been lonely and longed for you. Now you have arrived. Welcome. Come in, sit here. Eat.

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LOVE AFTER LOVE

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

POTATO PANCAKES IN THE MAIDSTONE HOTEL

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It’s a cloudy December Sunday. I still got a wee bit of Saturday sunshine to carry me through. We all slept in till after 8 this morning, even Sheba. Wonder of wonders! But she barked shrilly for her breakfast. Wake up! Feed me! We stumbled out of bed. Well, we were up late last night. Till 11 pm watching a movie about James Brown.

This warm, melting December does not agree with me. I am sore and achy. It’s not the stabbing kind of pain but rather dull, wearing and constant. Sometimes I want to scream. It must also burns up calories because I’m hungry already. It’s only 3 pm, Sheba’s supper hour. I guess it’s my snacking time. One piece of flat bread tasted pretty good. It makes me want more. I’ll restrain myself. I’ll just keep on tapping here. Perhaps I could google recipes for potato pancakes. Someone had posted some pictures on FB yesterday. It reminded me of my childhood friend’s mother’s potato pancakes with icing sugar on top. They were so good!

Strange but I haven’t had potato pancakes since then. It has been many decades. I wonder why? The memory comes up once in awhile. My mouth would water. They even have it on the menu at Smithy’s Restaurant. I’ve never ordered it and I dine there more than a few times. Perhaps I don’t want to ruin that memory of Barbara’s mom’s pancakes. Barb’s parents owned the hotel in Maidstone, Saskatchewan. They lived in their apartment within the hotel. They were Polish and still had an accent. Her father’s name was Steve. He was a bit short and stout but not fat. I don’t recall what her mother’s name was. I don’t think I called her anything except maybe Mrs. B…. The last name is difficult to say and harder to spell.

I think Mrs. B liked me more for her daughter’s friend than Barb did. She would make those pancakes for us when I visit. One time I overheard Barb saying to her that she shouldn’t have to invite me to all her parties. I pretended not to hear but I felt crushed. Our friendship got cooler. I have pride and I am considerate. I wasn’t going to throw myself where I wasn’t wanted. I am still that way today. Proud! You know what they say about pride. It goes before a fall. But I am not that way. I am not conceited or have self importance. Rather, I am the opposite.

I did find a recipe for potato pancakes. Looks easy enough. Some Sunday soon, I will try it out. Maybe it will measure up to Mrs. B’s.

  1. Mix potato, onion, eggs, crackers, salt, and pepper together in a large bowl
  2. Pour enough vegetable oil into a sklet to fill about 1/2-inch deep; heat over medium-high heat.
  3. Drop spoonfuls of the potato mixture, first pressing potato mixture against the side of the bowl to remove excess liquid, into the hot oil; slightly flatten the latkes into the oil with the back of your spoon so they are evenly thick. 
  4. Cook in hot oil until browned and crisp, 3 to 5 minutes per side. Drain latkes on a plate lined with a paper towel.

 

 

COME SATURDAYS

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Saturdays have always been my favourite day of the week as far back as I can remember. One of my chores was to dust  on Saturday. The sun lit up the dust on top of the chest of drawers that my father somehow had made. I can’t remember what other chores I had to do that day. I remember helping with the dishes and bringing in coal for the pot belly stove. When my mother was in the hospital having my brother, my grandmother came for a few days. My mother gave me a list of chores which included doing the laundry. We didn’t have a machine so it was by hand.

I think I always associate Saturdays with that sunlit dust. I can still see that beam of sunshine coming through the bedroom window in that little house behind the cafe. Of course not all Saturdays are sunny but they are in my mind’s eye. That little house with the coal shed is also there. Funny how some images stay with you after so many years.

Today was not sunny either but my Saturday sunshine is in me. It’s been a mellow yellow day. So happy that I could get myself to the pool though it was dark as night at 8 am. The University Bridge was lit up in bright Christmas lights of green and red. I wished I could have taken a photo but I was in moving traffic. I was alone and driving. I had not only a lane but the whole pool to myself. Just me, a brand new life guard and no loud music. It was heavenly. I could relax and pretend I was a mermaid. No worry of sharks on my tail. I splashed at my own speed to my heart’s content. I had planned to do a short swim but given that much freedom, I stayed the whole hour. Wouldn’t you?

I stopped in and visited with my mother on my walk with Sheba in the afternoon. Sheba was content to be outside. She preferred the snow rather the blanket I brought for her. I let her be. Kids and dogs. They have minds of their own. My mother was not as chirper as could be. She had her heating pad draped across her shoulders for her aches and pain. Some days are like that. That’s how it is.

She’s excited all three of her orchids are going to bloom. She told me how she saved her goldfish. It was constipated and in distress. What could she do? What do we do for our constipation? Vegetables! Fish eat plants. She chopped up a bit of lettuce for it and cut back the pellet food. It made all the difference.  I showed her a picture of my new sewing machine. She was impressed by its size and that it’s computerized. I was surprised to learn that hers had embroidery and other accessories. It is older than my old Kenmore and it is OLD. So many memories when we visit. My mother is a very good conversationist and story teller.

The day has turned into evening. Supper and dishes are done. Saturdays have always been kind to me. Feeling mellow and content.

 

HOW TO TEACH AN OLD DOG NEW TRICKS

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Yesterday, I joked about writing a blog on how to do anything better. On second thought, I’ve decided that it’s not such a bad idea after all. How else can I improve anything if I don’t even try? Just because I have an unfocused mind doesn’t mean it has to stay that way. Already I’m working on my addiction to tea – Orange Pekoe, to be exact. There must be some secret ingredient that makes me crave it. Could it be just caffeine?

I’m sipping chamomile as I am tapping. I hope I can stay awake. Sheba is keeping me company. She is usually very rowdy and restless in the afternoons. It is that time between her supper and her walk. I’ve been working patiently with her for the last few weeks. When she barks up, I coax her in laying down, staying and then giving her lots of verbal praise. It took awhile but she’s finally getting it. Quiet = food and a walk. I could see the comprehension in her eyes and behavior. Really, a couple of weeks is not a long time. It is so pleasurable to see her ‘getting’ it.

The truth is I am the one finally ‘getting’ it. Raising Sheba has been strenuous, frustrating, fun, and satisfying all at the same time. It was very tumultous in the beginning. I was more a cat person, having had 3 cats previously. A dog was a new thing. What I knew about dogs was in movies and on television. It was myths and fairy tales, no true hard facts about raising a dog. The only preparation I made was to buy a very big crate and a book from the library.

The book was a very good resource at toilet training my new puppy. I followed the suggested schedule to a t. I can’t remember the number of times I took Sheba out to ‘potty’. It was enough times to wear me out but Sheba is perfectly toilet trained. One time she got into some ripe prunes and she had to go. She was in her crate in the garage when I was at work. She tried to poop out the crate door. She had some messy back end. When I let her out, she got away from me. Out the yard she ran. I had to chase her through the neighbourhood. Oh, what a time that was! Lucky for us, nobody saw us and the messy back end. A big sigh of relief when I finally caught her.

I listened and read too many accounts of how to raise a dog. I was terrified of doing the wrong things. Everyone and every source stated how difficult it is to correct a dog once it learned the wrong thing. I was a nervous wreck, feeling like a failed dog owner. Puppy classes were of no help. We weren’t keen on the trainer. She made both Sheba and I feel bad about ourselves. One time Sheba charged full throttle into Pet Smart (where we took the class), choked on her collar and pooped on the floor. On the way home after, she threw up in the car. What a mess! Ugh! We decided we did not need any more puppy classes. We’ve been limping along on our own ever since.

My advice on how to if you are a very first time dog owner, is to relax. Enjoy your dog. Get to know each other first. Go from there. The best thing is about consistency. But when you are a novice, you don’t even know what that means. The next best advice is don’t worry too much about making mistakes. Even old dogs can be corrected. They are just like us. They can change given the right motivations. It’s practice, practice and more practice – the same way each time – over and over = success. It only took us 11 years. But better late than never.