Spring is here. You won't believe how attractively blue and clear the skies have been all day. The sun glittered on the frames of my glasses today, and put a skip into my step. I have been tired, resulting in carelessness. Like today, I left my hazard lights on for a good 3 hours while having Chinese New Year's Eve brunch with Ashlyn and Ching. It might have severely depleted my new car battery - problems with my car always indicate a growing distractedness within me. But I think I will find my way. Last night, I was angry and lonely. I saw myself become a dissatisfied individual, mistreated by luck, rude and ugly. Driving home at dusk, which usually settles my heart into the land, sky, trees and buildings, did nothing to change that. I sped past a low building with stained glass on my right, and swerved right at the next turn, so that I might go into it and find the greatest silence I've ever known. It was the stained glass of the chapel of the church where I used to go to kindergarten. I am one of those people who know their childhood intimately. It didn't even occur to me that I hadn't been here in 17 years, I expected to see exactly the same things. The church was fully renovated, it had 3 floors instead of the cute 1 with a slanted roof I sang songs and practised penmanship in, and a huge clean carpark. I parked my car, then tapped my heels against the asphalt towards the entrance of the chapel. I approached a small statue of Mother Mary - I think it was the one we used to cross in front of whenever we went on walks around the church grounds. I hadn't expected to see her, I'd already forgotten all about her. I stood astonished in front of the statue surrounded by low potted plants and I think a simple fountain, and let my eyes slip across her porcelain curves - probably the only statue I've ever had reverence for. I knew I wasn't there to find solace in God, I'll never believe it, but I was just there to find identity. I was looking for a place that belonged surely and clearly to the 3-5 year old Christine, so that my brain could rest in it, and be pleased in completeness. Even so, as I manouevred my way around the dark scary corridors lit only be garish green exit lights, the kind where I would usually expect to see white faces jump out at me from the shadows, I smiled to myself that a place like the church has no ghosts. And I was not afraid. (The funny thing though, is after I left the chapel and walked through those same corridors, I started feeling frightened of ghosts again). I went into the huge white newly renovated chapel, and found nothing, nothing of the silence I was looking for. It was Friday night mass. The priest was blaring in Singlish over the new speakers, and annoying sounds echoed back. I laughed to myself, but sat down. I listened to him yell about Jesus' unfair, illegal trials (very apt for my recent study in Evidence Law), then after one hour went home. I didn't find the great silence that will now only exist in my memories of that little run-down dark chapel with the stained glass that filled the whole room with light, but I did feel re-energised by the energy of the room of crouching, bending, clean-faced Catholics. Nothing spiritually changed in me of course, this is not that kind of story. I went out to bachormee supper that night, wondering my usual wonders about atheist Marxism, the balance of power between the economic classes, listening to sexdrugsrock&roll music, and delighted in the materialism of my new Baby-G watch.