Finding a few words...

...to write, that is. Actually, the piece I am posting below is several weeks old. Originally written for myself, then shared with a few close others; some of whom have responded, others who simply "didn't get it" and others yet who have promised to tell me what they think, but somehow their thoughts are still suspended somewhere and haven't quite made it into words. But hey, that's what happens to me all the time...I write something in my head (or heart) and somewhere between jumping out of my heart (or head) with every intention of making it onto paper (or my computer screen through my keyboard)...they hang around somewhere and never make it anywhere.

Soooo...I figured I should just share the below on my blog. Reflections written in the marginal space between a few hectic weeks of non-stop training and facilitating and on the verge of starting something new and exciting, yet daunting at the same time. Currently in "pause" mode in terms of the latter, in a way I am putting this here as a reminder of the passion behind what is currently being referred to as Sjahrir 101 (but more on that later).

Lest I forget, I am writing this down. While looking out at the afternoon sun hitting our garden at home today - the garden of Bapak's creation - Ibu said that it is afternoons like this that make her most grateful for Bapak's gifting her with our (her?) garden. It is, indeed, still stunning. Very much him, too. A reminder that he is always near.

One image that immediately came to my mind as I was looking out to the garden, was of him sitting in the garden on those afternoons when he actually made it home before the sun set. Contemplating, quiet, looking into the distance. The sky changing from blue to multi-shades of orange as the sun began its descent. He would spend many afternoons in the months after Oom Koko passed away, sitting on the white bench facing the setting sun, in quiet communion with whoever he happened to be thinking about.

Oom Koko's sudden passing hit him very hard. Bapak lost not only the one and only older brother he ever knew and loved. He had lost his best friend, the one he passionately shared his values and thoughts with, his worries and fears for this country and its people. The one he would challenge and be challenged by. The one who really understood the love he had for this nation and its people - or is it people before nation? who he had dedicated his life and lifework to.

I decided to take pictures of this beautiful garden of ours, and also to look again at the collection of Bapak's poems, writings, scribblings that Ibu and I put together in a little booklet to give away on the day we commemorated the 100th day since his passing. One thing that also came to mind was if he had ever written anything on his reflections of Sjahrir - as lately I have often wished he were still here so I could ask him what he thought of Sjahrir - the man, his thoughts, his actions, and his being part of our family. Questions that still hang in the air, falling silent and unanswered.

So I pulled out "Salmagundi" - the one and only copy we still have at home - and began reading through Bapak's writings. One poem stands out, and I am trying to remember if it was written before or after Oom Koko's death. What I do know is that it was written in reflection of one of the trips he and I took together to Kamakura when I was still living in Japan, a place that remains one of my favourite places. A place I would often go to when I simply needed to get away. A place that I still go to in my mind when I am in need of inner peace. I am quoting the poem in its entirety here, but it is particularly the last part of the poem that seems relevant to me at this moment. Perhaps, also, to the events taking place in commemoration of Sjahrir's 100th year.

Kamakura I

Chyrsanthemums and peaches will soon be in season
replacing persimmons and the morning glory.
Soon, mandarin oranges and the vines of the gourd
will signal the end of summer.

Seasonality is so obvious in a country such as this
where it is expressed in customs and traditions
in festivals, rituals and celebrations
in views and attitudes towards the passing of time
And - could it be - towards alloted life spans
And thus, towards death itself?

We say that life is but a stopover for a sip of water
on a never-ending journey.
Or we say that to die is to be born
into a new life
A return to a beginning.
We say many things to deny death's finality
And - could it be - that we thus deny death itself?

In celebrating seasonailty we see death
as the end of an existence, of an alloted term.
A span of time in which to express our humanity
by carrying out the self-defined assignments
that give meaning to our being human.
To do otherwise would be to accuse God of frivolity
and to deny that salvation is a possibility.

As we define our roles, we must be mindful of those
who share with us this human season.
We must also realize that those we revere and wish to emulate
but who die before we do
will leave to us their unfinished tasks
just like trees that have fallen down
leave those who go on living
unencumbered to the light of the sun,
and unsheltered from the full force of the wind.

(M.S. Kismadi)

I remember one of the first reactions that Bapak had when he heard of Oom Koko's sudden and unexpected death was, "But he still has so much to do!" And in the months leading up to Bapak's own passing on, years later, he would often say, "There is so much to do, but there is so little time (left)," as if he knew that the time was near for him to leave this world. Indeed, a few months before his death, he wrote a poem that expressed this sense of knowing his time in this 'human season' was coming to an end.

As I am trying to give meaning to why I am personally so passionate about doing something to commemorate Oom Sjahrir's 100th year, I find that perhaps what we are doing is part of carrying out the unfinished tasks of those who have left before us. And in the process of doing so, are defining new tasks that we will leave behind for others to carry forward in their own time. In other words, what we are doing is not so much in the spirit of "reverance", "emulation", or "adoration" ... (of Sjahrir or Soedjatmoko or Kismadi or others), but rather a conscious effort to take responsibility for playing a part in carrying out unfinished tasks - using our own interpretations, through our own means, taking into account what is relevant for today and the future.

At a time when there are constant cries and utterances of anger at the disaster of Situ Gintung, of frustration at the lack of leaders and leadership, of the upcoming elections that seem to be no more than a competition of unknown persons seeking power and wealth - I believe that what we are doing - in our own way - is reminding others (and ourselves) that it is time to be leaders of change in whatever we do; to take responsibility of the change we want to see by living our lives passionately, with a purpose that is beyond self-preservation and survival, but is - and has to be - bigger than us, and ultimately contributes to humanity.

I also believe that whatever we do has to also serve as a reminder to ourselves as much as it is to others, that the things we do becomes meaningless when we stop being able to see others with compassion, with a full realization that we are all human beings sharing a human season.

This sense of interconnectedness needs to be at the heart of whatever we do. Perhaps in realizing that this interconnectedness exists and is very real, the deep sense of longing and loss that at times seems overwhelming when I find myself thinking of loved ones who have lived in human seasons long past, will subside. And in its place, will come a sense of comfort that in fact we are still sharing the same journey, in our own, separate-yet-connected ways.

(29 March 2009)