Pausing In The World To Know How To Live.
"We hurry to work. We hurry through meals. We hurry our children."
We hurry our conversations, our quiet moments until we do not even remember what we were rushing for. I know this because I lived it. The day before my late father passed away, he wanted dim sum. Unusual for him. A small request, really—just a meal, a pause, a moment together.
But we were rushing. I do not remember for what.
We had noodles instead. Quicker. More efficient. I have carried that noodle meal with me ever since.
Not as guilt not anymore but as a reminder. A quiet bell that rings whenever I feel the pull to hurry past something that matters.
What I Iearned that: Time is not guaranteed. Small requests are often quiet invitations. Rushing is rarely worth what we sacrifice for it. And I learned that showing up—even for the most boring things, even for getting the home dresses for myself and mum that we both love and even for the errands we would rather skip—is a form of love that does not need to be loud to be real. My late dad did not ask for dim sum because he was hungry. He asked because he wanted to be with the family—slowly, joyfully, fully. And though that moment passed, I try to give him what he asked for: by living and making time now, with the people who are still here.