Toes in Our Lives

The sun glistens on my shoes.

Gee, it looks good with

the sun.

That is what I want, right?

And when I go

Home, where no sun glistens,

to uncover it,

relax it...

I hold it close

to my nose

even though it stinks

full of dead nails

dirty nails

and an extra toe

a very big extra toe.

jsg/11/03/1999

Who Am I?

I was born on the day the constitution was embraced in Sri Lanka, Christianity came trotting to the hills of Bhutan, and a nuclear test was launched in Nevada. At around 5 a.m. on August 31, 1978, my mother brought me into this world. I punched her ceiling lights out for a moment, for I was a whopping nine-pound breathing blubber.

"I was happy when you came into our lives," my father said, who was initiated into fatherhood in his late 20s. Thus, he named me Joy, and everything you need to know about me starts in that three-letter name.

I have made it my mission in life to bring joy to every person I meet. Doing so, need not be expensive. Compliments hand written on a 3M post-it, which comes in a plethora of colors and shapes too, sticking on a colleague's computer monitor does well all the time. Sending snail mails to a far flung friend during the dog days are likely to bring a more positive effect, rather than the quick, electronic ones. Once, I wrote a letter to a friend using a scented colored pen and a designer stationery pad. "How cheesy," its recipient said. The letter is still in her keeping today.

Of all means in carrying out my mission, I have found that writing brings the best results. Notwithstanding, it gives me joy—deep, deep, down in my heart. That counts a lot, especially nowadays, when the search for it is becoming more elusive than ever. I am nearest to heaven when I engage with words, putting them together in the most sensible way, and doing it again and again, until I see before me a complete message, a coherent idea, or an elegant story.

So I strive to be better at it everyday, if I were to be effective in my mission. I acquaint myself with many authors; I bury my head in their works; and I feast on various genres. Growing up, I was never seen without a book. A fourth grade bully described my entire academic life so aptly, "Here comes the bookworm!"

Ah, worms. With the exception of herpetologist Jeff Corwin, who doesn't hate them? My cousin, a bully closer to home, caught an earthworm one day and placed it on my seven-year-old nape, sealing forever my aversion of the creature. Now that I reflect on it, I realize that I am a worm. Even the ubiquitous Bible agrees (Job 25:5-6).

This can't be any truer than when I write. Many times, getting from the first draft to the final craft is as sluggish. Searching for the choicest words 'til my head hurts is like burrowing into an apple. My working space has to be as docile. Then, there are those times when nothing comes out of the paper, but mucous. On some days, I feel murky inside, especially after a heated exchange with the editor.

Masochistic as it may seem, it is one love affair that I cannot leave. I only hope that someday, my life will be reckoned, not by the list of published works in my name, but by the number of joys my words have spread. Although, I don't mind being published posthumously.