The Olive Bird

Slowly, grief dissolved in my body. I could taste the salt on my tongue, my lips, my skin. Everyday experiences carried the smell of the sea. Like waves, voices, faces, and stories ebbed and flowed. One day, I would too, become the salt in the air and in the water.

News of Mr Ilango's passing came early this morning in a carefully crafted email by the vice principal. The email conveyed condolences and care for those affected, and assurances that the classes will be informed in due course. The measured tone set our collective experience of this news, so it was business-as-usual in staffroom 1. We hurried along the aisles, speeding from table to printer to pantry to class. We moved like clockwork despite the quiet ache of missing a member of our fraternity. He was only 63.

At various points in our trip, we found ourselves holding onto trash, some hideous with melted ice cream or unfinished food. We would scramble together some wet tissues to cope with the growing mess, now heavy with the weight of passing eyes. Anxious, we scanned each corner and wall for bins but there were none to be found; the ones next to the vending machines were for empty bottles and cans only. With each passing minute, desperation grew. Finally, we would find a convenience store and sneak into it. Like a rat, we would dispose of our foreign trash despite the no liquid warning sign. Then, we exit quickly with our tail between our legs.

My heart cries often, but not my eyes.

Gingerly, I carried the box of exquisite cookies from Osaka to Kyoto to Osaka, and back to Singapore. The amount of care given has imbued it with value beyond the initial capital of twenty-four dollars. Thus, when I tasted the cookies, they felt more precious and special. I savoured them as I would with food at a Michelin restaurant. The experience was beautiful despite the clutter on my desk and the lukewarm tea that accompanied the cookies. Perhaps care is all we need to lead a more beautiful life.

I love that you're doing what you love.

When someone says his heart is hurting, we don't shy away, or question, or doubt, or label him as "attention seeking". Instead, we attend to the wound that feels as real as a physical wound. We attend. We sit with him. We become the anchor when the waves threaten to sweep him away. We lend him our strength. We stay, and stay, and stay, until he finds it easy to breathe again.

The school climate is rather bleak. The senior teacher explained that teachers are over-worked on initiatives that do not fully resonate with them. Last year, 17 teachers left. This year, almost every department has an unhealthy number of relief staff (trained and untrained). The full-time teachers are exhausted from spending most of their time on work that is unrelated to their subject of expertise. What happens is misalignment that creates deep dissatisfaction. To make things worse, some students bring a whole slew of issues unheard of in previous batches. The talent drain is damaging and perhaps irreversible in the short run. There is no easy solution for there is a shortage of teachers nationwide. This problem must be addressed at the policy level. We must ask ourselves: What are we asking too much of? What can be done to better support teachers? What burns the candle faster and for naught?

I love how my children make sense of what they've watched. After watching Swapped last night, Oli (now 7) revisits key moments and verbalises the plot twist, details, and her opinions. She even explains the plot twist to her sister (now 4+) as her sister doesn't quite get it. Then, they go on YouTube and search for videos on Swapped to further their understanding of the movie. I love how self-directed and self-motivated they are in meaning making.