Michelle Kwan

Just a quick gushing session on how wonderfully exuberant Michelle Kwan is on the ice. I've never really seen videos of her performance before, all I know is "Oh yeah Michelle Kwan, she's a world-class figure skater".

But yesterday for some strange reason I decided to look up Yuna Kim on YouTube and that led me to old videos of Michelle's performance and may I say that it is the most powerful, joyful, beautiful performance that I've seen in figure skating. Granted, I haven't seen very many, but there is just such passion and joy radiating from her as she glides on the ice. See her leaps and bounds, look at her as she spins and floats away, witness how her very soul seems to transcend her physical body and swell up in a crescendo reaching beyond the confines of the skating rink.

It seems as though that there on the ice, she finds such happiness and release. It's breathtaking to watch.

Religion and How Christ has Shattered it

I am inclined to believe that religious dogma and rules are not designed to shrink men's brains and dampen their ability to think, rather it was designed exactly because men's brains are so limited and tiny that it cannot even comprehend the grandeur of God's own mind. Because we ourselves being mortal, cannot even fathom His work, we try to digest His greatness and His plans by simplifying it. We make lists of what we should or shouldn't do. And while it's important that we try to understand God through His spirit and His word, it's crazy to think that we have Him all figured out, that we comprehend fully His ways. We never should reduce God to something lesser than who He is.

In today's sermon at Christchurch Durham, Pastor Tony Jones' message really reminded me of Jesus' dynamic and radical teachings. The passage of Mark 2:21-22 has always been a challenge for me, but now it's been given fresh resonance and meaning. I'm reminded of how Jesus' new teachings and plans, how God's kingdom, authority, and power cannot be accommodated by the limited and constricted thing we call religion. Just like the old cloth and old wineskins, our "religious checklist" will explode and be completely shattered by the truth in Jesus, His infinite grace, His glorious sovereignty, His holy righteousness, His incomprehensible love.

When people ask me what religion do I believe in, I say Christianity, but in my heart I feel twinge of restlessness, wanting to tell others that Christianity is simply more than just a religion. How do you explain something that is fundamental to who you are? It's like trying to tell others your entire identity, your entire life, your entire reason to live, your hopes - all in one word. How can you even begin to conflate what Christianity means to me into one simplistic sentence?

What is Christianity then? It's about believing that by Christ's sacrifice on the cross, by His blood shed in our sake for our salvation. But we can't call ourselves Christians, or Christ-followers just by acknowledging that truth, but by entering into a personal, intimate relationship with Him. It's calling Him King, Father, Friend, Lover, Leader, Brother, Lord, Saviour. It's not compartmentalizing God to one aspect of our lives called "religion", but bringing Him in and letting Him reign over every part of our lives. Our work, our human relationships, our rest time, our church. We can never ever comprehend Him fully, but that's fine. Because what God wants is for us to want to learn, to seek Him, and have our love and knowledge of Him stretched and expanded.

What God wants is not a clever mind, but a teachable heart.

Without contraries is no progression

For there is no joy, no love, no hope, without pain.

"Without contraries is no progression." -William Blake.

Ironies of the Attitudes towards the Teaching Profession

I find it annoyingly ironic that the same people who complain about how lousy / uninspired / uncreative teachers are - are the same people who: -

1. dogmatically hold the "those who can't, teach" credo to heart;
2. view the teaching profession as an unexciting dead rut;
3. discourage their children from becoming teachers because it allegedly yield no ROI value;
4. daily badger and criticize teachers without offering help, assistance, advice, appreciation towards said teachers.
5. expect the teacher to take up all the slack in moulding young minds, without realizing that education isn't just confined to the classroom environment.


You want brilliant teachers for your children? Then stop this caveman-like mentality. Just stop it.

Olivier's Henry V and Branagh's Henry V - A Comparison

Disclaimer: This essay / commentary is bred from entirely my own thoughts, opinion, and interpretation. It is not to be regarded as authoritative.

     Laurence Olivier's Henry V  opens with a flyer advertising the play hovering around the skyline of 1590-1600s London. The movie's opening sequence shows wonderful shots of the Globe, of the boisterous groundlings, the aristocrats taking their places in a dignified manner, of fruit-sellers taking advantage of the hustle and bustle to sell their produce. What was really interesting was that, from the onset, it was already made clear that what the audience - the ones at the Globe and the ones watching their TV sets - is seeing is a staged play.

     Thus, modern audience would have an inkling of what a Shakespearean play would have look like back in the 17th century. A layer of richness is sewn into the film as the modern audience not only watched the play, but witnessed the whole process of its production - how the actors are dressing up and getting ready, what the actors would've done when rain starts to fall on the open air Globe Theatre. There is also a comical and lighthearted tone injected into the film as well, with the Archbishop of Canterbury botching up his lines, and the Bishop of Ely leaving his hat offstage.

     In stark contrast, Kenneth Branagh's Henry V is treated almost like a gritty, realistic historical drama. This King, compared to Olivier's Henry, is less sure of himself, is more intense and brooding of his responsibility as King. The king is all fury and righteous anger in one moment, and in the next he is racked with guilt, broodingly carrying the burden of the throne on his shoulder. He speaks softly and dangerously at some points, and the next he is mad with rage, knocking his bedfellow Lord Scroop down onto the table, anguished with the latter's betrayal.

     Branagh deliberately takes pains to dial up the emotions, feelings, fears, insecurities of the characters. Even to the point, admittedly, of being a little melodramatic and hammy. Each character is lovingly given a backstory, with flashbacks in order for the audience to truly empathise and connect with them. Henry, though obviously the protagonist in the play, is portrayed in an ambivalent light. He is tortured by his two selves - Harry whose roots he has not forgotten, and the King of England, who needs to be the model and example of the army and indeed, of the nation.

     The agony of being king, whilst present also in Olivier's Henry during his soliloquy and prayer, is rather fleeting as opposed to Branagh's Henry. Perhaps part of the reason why it was harder for the audience to establish a deeper emotional connection to Olivier's Henry is because we know that it is a theatrical play. Hence it put forward an additional layer which creates an emotional distance between the audience and the characters (whom we know are play-actors).

     Olivier's version, produced in 1944, has a political factor influencing its treatment. Produced just after the Second World War, it is a movie that sought to boost patriotism and national morale. (Davies, The Shakespeare films of Laurence Olivier)  Hence, we could see that the movie was leaning more towards the potential and possibilities of a new start. When the Duke of Burgundy gives his speech about the cost of war, we see the desolation of the French lands, but it soon pans up to a regal, beautiful castle. The possibilities and prosperity the marriage of the two kingdoms yielded are emphasised. On the other hand, Branagh's Henry focused on the consequences and heartache of war that are borne by both parties. The audience is stirred up as they see the bodies of young boys laying strewn across the muddy plain. But there is also the feeling of empathy for the enemy, as the French also gathers up their dead, and as the Frenchwoman attempts to assault King Henry for the loss of her loved one.

     All in all, a very interesting contrast seen between the two films. Olivier's Henry is self-assured and more kinglike in his mien, and we gain a certain insight to the historical context of staging a Shakespearean play. While on the other hand, Branagh seeks to be authentic in that he wishes to unveil the complexities, tragedy of war, and of being King.

     

      

Disclaimer: This essay / commentary is bred from entirely my own thoughts, opinion, and interpretation. It is not to be regarded as authoritative.

     

A Complaint - William Wordsworth 

There is a change—and I am poor;

Your love hath been, nor long ago,

A fountain at my fond heart's door,

Whose only business was to flow;

And flow it did; not taking heed

Of its own bounty, or my need.

What happy moments did I count!

Blest was I then all bliss above!

Now, for that consecrated fount

Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,

What have I? shall I dare to tell?

A comfortless and hidden well.

A well of love—it may be deep—

I trust it is,—and never dry:

What matter? if the waters sleep

In silence and obscurity.

—Such change, and at the very door

Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.

(source: www.poetryfoundation.org)

        In this poem, there is a general sense that the persona is feeling unhappy and discontent with his relationship with his beloved. It could be read that he is lamenting his beloved's lack of interest, concern, and affection for him.

      But I find it goes deeper than that. As I was reading it, I find that it is also lamenting the transmogrification that a romantic relationship inevitably undergoes. I use the word 'transmogrification' because I believe that was what the persona would have seen the process as - a radiant, glowing, sparkling feeling that has since died down and dulled into something plain and mundane. Note the first noun that appears in the poem - it is the word "change". And change is rightfully used to signify not so much the loss of love, but rather the change in its form and  appearance.

        The persona brings up two rather different - yet paradoxically similar - images to describe love. In the first half of the poem, he nostalgically remembers the beauty of a new relationship, the excitement, the thrill, the soaring heights towards which it lifts people up. The image of a fountain is used, one that spurts out a "murmuring, sparkling, living love". The alliterative words sprinkled in the first stanza - "fountain", "fond", "flow" - with its soft "f" sounds reinforces the sensation of flight and elation.

        But there is soon a change in tone in the second stanza, as the ecstasy of new love ebbs away and transmutes into something more inconspicuous and reticent. The first two statements show the rapture of the persona as he exultantly exclaims the happy moments he and his beloved shared. Then, with a voltaic "Now", the persona makes it known that there is a slow but sure shift in their love. He begins to have doubts, insecurities, fears, as he puts forward questions to which he realises that their love has simmered into something quite unremarkable and unextraordinary.

        That is when the second image of love is brought forth. The persona is despaired at the thought that he is left with only a "comfortless and hidden well". He reluctantly admits in a dash-laden third stanza that it is no doubt a "well of love", functional, useful, necessary to sustain life. It never is "dry", and it runs "deep". But it is less glamorous than the previous form of love.

        The persona seems to debate with himself for a while which of the two types of love he would rather have. But alas, he prefers the aesthetically beautiful but impractical fountain as opposed to the beneficial but uninteresting well. The heavy "d" words lend a rather sober, dampened sense, as opposed to the previous use of the "f" sounds, which gives the sense that the persona would rather revert back to the soaring, high-flying feelings of love rather than the deep-rooted, quiet love that he has now. Almost nonchalantly, he dismisses the well's steadfastness and loyalty, opining that deep, hidden love that sleeps in "silence and obscurity" is no love at all, putting all further indecisiveness to rest with a strong full stop at the end of line 16.

        The persona brings us back full circle, as he again bewails the change in love, and how this has cost him dearly and left him poor.

    

The Paradox of being Grounded and wanting to Fly

I can't quite put these thoughts and feelings into proper words yet, but I'll try. This story reads more like a prosaic poem rather than a narrative, and I think it works better for me. Rough around the edges, but it really does illuminate the thoughts around my head somewhat.

     I remember these roots of mine, planting me firmly on the ground. They nurture me, they grow me, they are my support. They make me who I am, inject life into me, they are what make life beautiful and radiant - almost heart-wrenchingly so. They are a multiplicity of faces, a diverse mesh of characters, idiosyncrasies, fears, insecurities, souls. Just as no two roots are identical, they come in different shapes and sizes. The way the individual roots love me, perceive me, are different, and the way I love each of them are different. But they are all similar in that they keep me standing tall, proud, strong; they keep me sturdy and steadfast, loving me enough to take hold of the dirt and mud to provide me with a strong support.

      And I grow with their love, nourished with these drops of refreshing water they feed me. A little smile, a kind word, a hug, affection underlying a gruff exterior. And soon I grow tall enough to see the sky.

     How glorious the sky is! How majestic in the infinite possibilities that it offers. Fresh possibilities come surging in as soft billowy clouds roll on. I sense the refreshing water contained there, the drops of would-be rain that smelt of liberty, freedom, and whole vistas of potential.

     And I reached for them. Reached for the clouds that are above me, striving to be the tallest tree there is, taking joy not in my height but in my journey of trying. There is a world beyond this patch of land of mine, a world beyond the canopy of leaves that I see overhead. O I try to reach skywards, to attain all this, to drink in the beauty of this world, to fly.

     But these roots. They intend not to hold me back but to hold me down. Keeping me firmly in place, just as they have faithfully and loyally done all this while. And I cannot uproot myself, I cannot fly away, I cannot abandon these ones who have loved me and whom I love so fiercely. But my eyes turn up to the sky, and my heart, my spirit yearns to be among the sky, to soar up and fly.

      I feel my roots work hard to gather water to quench my thirst as the wind dance around my leaves, teasing for me to grow.

     I want to grow. I want to grow deeper... But I want to grow higher. Is it possible to want to grow in opposite directions?

     How now? How shall I reconcile ... myself? These two complete selves of mine?