Diana Kurniawan

Fear comes to me as I write my work that percolates from daily thoughts. The fears of being persecuted for the words on my blog and the words of my novel of what I experienced from traumas. I push through the barriers with knowledge that although I am weak, the Lord's purpose shall prevail. 

 

It can come through the struggles, but the fears are gone once I can see small moments of suprising joy. Joy reminds, as it is from a source of unrelenting wisdom and strength. I am once again moving forward through the fear and doubts, of never amounting to anything, writing in the dark with tears in my eyes from broken dreams.

 

It might be that I am writing out of loneliness, and the fear is a subplot to the story of my life. But, what is to come is not loneliness in my life nor the fear as they are just another thought that can be gone with a modicum of spiritual nourishment. A verse, a small sentence, a film, a radio station, a conversation and a hug from a friend. Fears be gone and fears no more. Joy conquers the debilitating fears.

 

The sentence of my life doesn't depend on my fears, or the sentiments of others who disliked me from the past of where the fears once comes from. It has to come from the soul, the will to fight another day and the willingness to be open to new adventures with an unflinching faith as the skies above. That's what can conquer my fears, the powerful possibilities.

 

What is to come shall not be writings of fears, or discouragement, or doubts and deaths. That's all the enemy's language and we don't speak the same. I speak reality, truth, love, hope, faith, joy, discernment, camaraderie and courage. Those are my love languages, and my expression of writing. Fear and writing don't exist in the same matrix, as it is writing towards death. Writing is alive and well, and it is a process of life. Not hopelessness, never.

 

Just write. No Fear.

What does the world expect in 15 minutes? It's 15 minutes of unexpected suprise to me, of dancing words choreographed into story. It's not a moment of boredom, instead for 15 minutes, I shine in my own light and in the eyes of God. Fifteen minutes of bliss from the working day and stresses that proves to create a sadness often times taking too much of my own time. Fifteen minutes of love, of self-care, and of solace that I can spend to forgive the unforgiving.

 

What 15 minutes for them is not my business, but what's mine is mine. I claim it and 15 minutes of stage in the world of playwrights, geniuses and random people. Fifteen minutes of fame on the pages of my own life, not the world, but my world. Fifteen minutes of song from the spirit that is lifted up with each typed letters turned into kindness to my being. 

 

Fifteen should spend time on thirty, but if 15 is all I get, then 15 of pleasure I shall have. I don't doubt others can do better, but I know others can do none in 15 minutes that they should perhaps do some 15 minutes of love for themselves. Fifteen is plenty for a busy mind if things to say even with nothing to prove. Fifteen minutes of mess and incoherence turns into brilliance if 15 minutes is well spent each day and with nothing to gain but discipline. Fifteen minutes is so much worth it, because if half an hour turns from 15 minutes, then BAM, it was fifteen more of bliss I gain.

 

Fifteen more I want every night, but my tired eyes and body from labor causes sleep that I desperately need. Fifteen more each day and I can make it last a lifetime, as some 15 minutes of life can create joy never ending. Fifteen minutes on a page for me means 15 minutes of thought that I put down to please myself and no one else so my story lives with 15 minutes of glory. Fifteen minutes seems so short because I need time to revise and edit, but I am only given 15 minutes to free write non-stop with no pause. Timing is everything, and fifteen minutes of life to produce a mind that works within seconds means the synapses are working.

 

Fifteen minutes is the time for renewal each night, where my thoughts jots down through my fingers without prejudices for my own sins. I dwell sometimes that I tire easily and I wound my mind non-stop that it overwhelms me, but for 15 minutes I can stop and tell myself it is okay to just write nothing yet everything for 15 minutes. I am timing myself but 15 minutes feels like pressure with time so I stop looking at the watch, and it is now, three minutes over.

 

Fifteen minutes was up!

Half the day was gone, an hour past noon, and I was about to dive into the dirt. With a garden fork and a hand shovel, I slipped on my sandals and squated down to soil level. Cratering the root of a weed, forking around it, then shoveling through the dirt. I grabbed the lowest stalk of the thorned weed, and twisted it around, pulling it from the ground. 

 

A voice came to me, "With every drop of sweat, is a drop of rain for your future garden."

 

Every one of them was grounded into the soil, root so deep, that it felt as if it was planted through the Earth's core. I pulled a weed with all of my might, and yanked it from the dirt. My balance shot, almost falling on my back but the ground caught me. The fear of falling felt as if a cliff was behind, but I felt stable on the ground. The dirt was not my enemy.

 

"Weed assassin," I thought to myself. What poor lives lies in front of me, deemed as unnecessary, yet it taught me more than just gardening. The work was nothing to be afraid of as with every drop of sweat, an elixir of youth concocted itself inside my body. Decreasing in age, yet becoming a sage as the weeds told me to root myself deep, unabashed of shame with my writing. To not care if the weed bloomed with flowers but to cast out for all its worth, to prepare for a new beginning, a process of growth as revisions and writing shall be in the future.

 

What would become if nothing was done to the field of weeds? A forest of flowers with petals as bright as the sun, with dead stalks in the winter. What would become of my backyard if there was no weed assassin? An overgrown sloth of insect haven. I needed to kill them. Today was their funeral.

 

Just kill some weeds. Just write.  

There is a being, outside of me and inside of me. Their constant battles colludes my day and thoughts, and often angers me.

 

The being outside of me is a slim blonde of pixie haircut. Her blue eyes and sharp features has a beak nose and fierce stare. She judges and pokes at the sorrows I feel, mind you, I am not always sorrowful. She is voiceless because I refuse to listen. She tauts a rubber band on her wrist and snaps it to scare me while her budding jealousies of me keeps watch of my relationships and friendships. She loves anger and confusion and seldom does she comment but often would she mock.

 

Her contests of life and successes judges me and compares me to those who are above the standard of normal. The millionaires, the priviledged, the born rich, the models, the happily married, and the happy mothers. She contorts the normalcy of my day and skews the present into a place of morose opportunities. Her appetite for anguish is a glutton, and I am sick of her.

 

The being inside of me is losing his hair, and has dark freckles on his face. An endearing smile, often with a nod to me, to show gratitude and comprehension. His golden voice slurs now, but he loves me and repeats what I say. "I love you," he says, and inside my being is a flying dove, over the skies, over the clouds, and up towards heaven. This being knows me, since the day I was born, and will love me till the day I die. He thwarts the outside forces into a presence of peace and calm, as a still river in mid-summer with trout swimming over rocks. 

 

I spend time with the being inside me. Singing to him, with my own golden voice, Amazing Grace how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. The being inside me loves to hear my voice, and knows that through music, we are saved in mercy.

 

If only the blonde pixie never existed, and memories of her gone as her criticism disappears. 

 

I love the being inside me more than anything, and spending time with my soul is healing.

 

Just write.

A morning crisp of gentle breeze over me, as I tread on a dirt path.

"44! Callin'on 144!" I hear the mountain call.

 
"I holler!" I look above, out of hope.

 
"Holler?" It asks me, with its peak melting off snow, now blazing sunshine reflecting off.

 
"Yeah! I gotta keep going! I can't NOT live," I answer out of desperation.

It sighs, breathing wind, pushing clouds, over rainbows. "You not afraid of La Corona?"

 
"I'm not alone," I cry with tears spewing out of eye sockets, snot out of nostrils, and exasperated from overwhelming fears.

 
The mountain closes its eyes, the creases off of its jags. Edges sharp yet trim from trillions of volumes of rainfall. "I thought you gave up. Plenty died."

 
"What about me, I'm 54," I ask.

 

"When the dust over your eyes reds your vision, keep the path. Let the sweat of your shoulders drip to your chest as it settles over your brassiere. The wetness turns into comfort in the heat. Let the air cool it down," the mountain tells me.

 
It heaves and calls on me with a grounded bellow, "Callin' on 144."

"I'm game. You stay!" I say, because I know the mountain will stay strong.

 
I see it empathizes a cry from La Corona. It's not to blame, because no one knows how it came about. The mountain endearingly kisses the sky as it clears with the sun scorching the ground.

 
"What about me? I'm 24," says a voice from over the leeway, high-pitch and nasally. 

 
"Calling on 144, for you, too," the mountain whispers. It smiles as the trees sways from joy. "You are welcome, here. So is 14, and 4."

 

"Thank you," I tell the mountain.

 
A tiny bud of bluebell reaches my toe, and caresses my right foot. I kneel to crouch to it and kiss it softly. The mountain leans as it creates a shadow on the dirt path I am treading on. "Misery loves company," the mountain warns.

"I will answer back even after 144," I say to the mountain.

 
The mountain tilts its peak to one side and nods, "You make sure you do."

 
The clouds never said their goodbyes, but the rainbow ? makes a grand entrance curving the atmosphere. "He's always here when there is joy," the mountain says.

 
"I never felt a drop of rain. Is this the afterlife?"  I ask the mountain.

 
"Don't matter, you're here with me, before, after, during 144!" The mountain pushes its gust from underneath me, forcing me uphill.

"I holler!" I scream and fly over the peak, landing perch on the other side of mountain.

 
Just write.

The George Floyd incident made a mark in my life. As I watched the video of his suffocations, I recalled my own. The time when people oppressed me without education of my hard work and struggles in life, and no compassion for my boundaries.

 

George Floyd and so many others lost their boundaries under the oppression of the knee of the racist officer. George Floyd didn't have time or opportunity to dialogue or argue his point of view. This made me thought of the people who were also racists to me, of all colors and backgrounds and socio-economic status. They used the "model minority" excuse to oppress me. "You're Asian, you must be rich. So you don't need this job and you don't need the support and you don't deserve our services, and you don't deserve love," said a lot of racist female enemies, male enemies, a social worker, two supervisors, Medical representatives, and four politician. Somehow, this became a common story, to a lot of women who experienced violence.

 

The same thing happened to people like George Floyd and this time, the skin color created an enemy based on his darkness, as mine based on my Asian features. It was the same racism, yet I had time and no one pushed against the back of my neck, but I was almost homeless. The George Floyd physical abuse was enough violence and that caused so much outrage stemming from centuries of slavery and racism. It was the extra heat to the anger and the oppression couldn't be held anymore thus the looting and the protests. I understood, but with my family emergency, I couldn't be there to participate with the protests. My family needed me, and so it was.

 

Watching the protests and violence over the internet and on the television was difficult. Truthfully, my opinions and experiences wouldn't have compared. But, I thought of the times when those who were racist to me told me that they deserved "opportunities" and "benefits" or "connections," and I wanted to beat the @*&^  out of them.

 

I thought of the all of the friends I knew now, who worked hard for a living, and were good friends of mine, and were made of diverse backgrounds of high income and low incomes. They didn't oppress others no matter what culture or color of skin, because they acted upon the knowledge and belief that everyone has the right to an opportunity, the right to defend ourselves, and the right to the pursuit of happiness. 

 

No matter what George Floyd did with his situation, he should have been given his physical boundaries, his right to an attorney (opportunity), or at least, be read his Miranda Rights. His incident was so blatant and violent, that it was disturbing. Personally, I grew up not liking the police, because in Southern California, there were plenty of gang violence and the police were involved all the time, that I associated police not with protection, but with violence.

 

I realized since I was young that the law was often done to defend the rich, and oppress the poor. That was so difficult to have to watch again this time in the United States, not in my mother country, Indonesia. The George Floyd incident made me cry because it was evidence blatant as an eye-sore, that a lot of white people and now police officers, grew up with certain prejudices that caused murders in the year 2020. George Floyd was just one out of many, and the abuses and racism I felt in 2001 were systematic, and caused me mental anguish. Both were caused by centuries of racism. 

 

I won't be able to solve racism but I do believe in the power of one.

 

Not a lot of people would know, but I subscribed to Entertainment Weekly, and I loved television. I also love Princess Diana and her children. When Prince Harry struggled to find love, I would send him pictures of Meghan Markle, and now, Duchess of Sussex, because I saw her picture on EW, and I wrote letters to Prince Harry, that I think he should give it a try. It might not be important to other people, but I cared for Prince Harry and his family, and I did it. It was a loving gesture from me, to Princess Diana's son. Prince Harry, turns out, had a friend who knew Meghan Markle, and I believed my letters helped at some capacity, although one wouldn't know for sure. I was probably amongst many who sent him letters. But, I was enchanted when I saw them at the tennis court at Wimbledon (or was it the U.S. Open), and she wore his shirt. I actually remembered the day when I wrote to the Prince, that he should pull this move with her. "Ask her to wear your shirt in public, and it will be blessing," I wrote to him. It worked! I HAD NO IDEA! But, I DID IT!

 

I'm not claiming victory over their marriage, but I wrote letters of support to the Duke and Duchess of Sussex during the scrutiny from the world. I was probably some of the daring crazies who wrote letters to Clarence House telling them to tell the public to go to hell. 

 

Now, what does George Floyd and the marriage of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle have in common? One was a sign of old belief, and the latter, beautiful future. We should always look toward a future of love, no matter what race we are. One day, George Floyd will be a signature of how destructive racism have come and how Black Lives Matter should be a mantra for equality. But, one thing was for sure, the Duke and Duchess of Sussex now has a son, and perhaps more, and just maybe, love like theirs will be more prominent than police brutality.

The Coronavirus pandemic has been raging and now still raging. There were protests from the George Floyd and Black Lives Matter incident and it became a movement across the world. I tried to write but with my family emergency, things went hectic rapidly. Had to live, and so I have things to write. Didn't divulge into my thoughts, because I saved them for now.

 

Sometimes as I wrote my thoughts down on paper or on screen, I often became oblivious to reality because my writing was and always will be an escape and entertainment. However, I realized that living has writing all over it. Might not be on paper, but on our memories and our minds, and I had to stop writing for a smidge to live to continue to write.

 

It will continue to be a cycle and it will produce fruitful labors.

 

I LOVE LIVING. I LOVE WRITING.

 

Just Write.

The past four weeks has been a hectic spot in my life, and now it is plateauing to a steady uphill to an improvement. Several family emergencies ensued and I couldn't help but to be fearful of what tomorrow will bring. All I could do was breathe at the time and cried. It was so devastating that I couldn't put things into words. But, I held on to the emotion and expressed it on paper.

 

As I finished one of my dear friend's book, Kidnapped by the Taliban, by Dr. Dilip Joseph, and also Kullervo by J.R.R. Tolkien this past week, I became inspired to blog. I may not be able to flesh out the details and indulge on my emotions on this blog, but now that things have settled, I have nothing but words to write and to express in my reality.

 

The emotions were held under the table at the time and I held it as if I was holding something in secret. I wrote things down slowly and the expression of writing things down now, during, and after the emergencies helped me cope. I calmed down with writing and I found this was as common as breathing... for a lot of people. 

 

I have been grateful for my ability to express emotions into words as a writer, and now as a human being. Writing was my coping and it has been and will always be. There was nothing in the past that could destroy it and nothing in the future will ever deter me.

 

Just write. 

It has been a long week, aside from my family's own bouts of influenza, but also from being inside too much that makes my own conscience tired. The news has been full of tragedies, but being in a community of writers heals me as I keep in touch with other writers. 

 

A friend, Julie Rowan-Zoch, is our local delegate for the Society for Childrens Books Writers and Illustrators, and she sends me lovely messages to encourage our local groups to stay inspired during this self-quarantine times. 

 

"An object in motion, tends to stay in motion," is the saying goes by Newton, the Mathematician, and this stays true to writers as well. Being in seclusion for self-quarantine doesn't mean complete isolation. I plan to immerse myself in inspiration by reading and continuing to write with my fellow writers and listening to their stories on Instagrams or Twitter or if you have a Facebook account as well. 

 

Writing doesn't have to be a lonely sport, because there are communities around the world and in your local groups who loves to connect and communicate about writing. This helps tremendously. But never forget that even during self-quarantine, writing is as easy as picking up a pencil or a pen and just writing on your own. Then sharing it through the world online to create connection.

 

Just write.

We often cannot find the good in some of the things we have in life, such as living in times of the Coronavirus. There have been so many deaths and so many families shattered from the infectious disease. I for one, cannot seem to find anything good about this time. Yet, I am continuing to grow.

 

I am writing down some of the things that I can do once the self-quarantine lockdown is over. I am growing wiser and more grateful of the things I often don't appreciate. While writing, I can feel my heart becoming larger and having more capacity to live. Sometimes I don't know what to say to those who experienced first hand of the virus and its atrocities, but I know I can empathize simply by remembering the times when I lost someone dear or recalling the time when I was so sick that all I can do was cry.

 

I know the suffering is grave, and it is evidentially so. I wish I can change things, but this self-quarantine makes me realize that somethings can't be changed and I have to live with it. It is just the way it is. I have to keep living, because it is the only way justice will uphold from the viral infections. The world has to take its precaution and appreciate life more and more after this global pandemic is over. We as a society have to learn to appreciate each other, even when things are tough.

 

I wonder if the children of tomorrow who are born during this time will have to live through another global pandemic. All I want to do is write about it to tell them what blossoms from my thoughts and heart as a dedication to the children of the future, so they will live through life beautifully and appreciate their lives thoroughly. I can't seem to put too much into words right now, but this blog is one way of reflecting and I am not ashamed of my own thoughts. It is freedom of expression and the freedom to write, even in the times of the coronavirus.

 

Just write.