My husband always tells me that August is the most trying month of the year. A part of me is hyper aware of the cliché. When you keep saying it, it becomes self-fulfilling. The month has been full changes and transitions. Even as I started this post, there's been passing of loved ones, of friends and relatives. It's been pretty sobering.
August in Hong Kong feels like a slow burn. The view of the horizon, if you have one, is often shrouded in mist. The light is, ironically, perfect for outdoor photoshoots as the amber of the sun is diffused by the elements. Yet, the rain or pollution does not an outdoor endeavour make.
This time of year is peak typhoon season. Even if the winds don't make landfall, you can feel the effervescence of the long suffering storm out at sea. And somehow there is always the haze on days where the rain don't come. I guess the wind doesn't just bring one thing with it. I haven't left the house much in several weeks. It's a weird feeling of being stuck in a time capsule. Remnants of summer still felt in the ever present tiring heat, yet visually you could be tricked into thinking it's winter. Yet it's too soon for curry, mulled wine and pumpkin spice latte, but not enough warmth for a cold refreshing salad.
As uninspired as it gets, I've been making one pot bakes. Combining what I have in the fridge, mostly without a plan, making it up as I go. Compounded with frequent short travels, one tends refrain from the usual stock up. Compartmentalising and consolidation. Endings and beginnings blurred at the lines.
This month my uncle passed away from liver failure.
In that same week, a close friend's wife, barely 50, also passed on, battling cancer.
A week after, a dear friend in Miami disappeared, left an apparent suicide note, igniting a state wide search, eventually found 11 days later, now recovering in a hospital.
And there's that funeral that was last weekend.
Somehow, right after that funeral, life still has enough sass to throw in an epic flight delay that lasted 36 hours.
Life is full of curve balls, no matter how good we are at checks, balances and avoiding blindspots. It rocks us with enough tremors, shaking at the cage of our fragility.
Life is a series of seasons. Our convictions shift with each dawn and dusk. Sometimes they catching us in the form of a rude punctuations, pillaging away, no matter how we play it.
The older I get, I am starting to believe, I really don't know anything. All I know is, in the doubt of it all, don't make decisions. The story is not yet. We are still discovering. We are not these moments, seasons and seeming lessons. There is strength in vulnerability. There is always somebody you can talk to. We are never as alone as we think we are.