"After all, it is written in the stars."

3rd November 2010


Maybe just one more piece now before I really go on hiatus. And do put on John Lennon's "Imagine" or "Woman" to create the mood (if you'd like) before reading this ;-)

I was singing to John Lennon’s “Woman” when I felt this overwhelming desire from the sentimental hormonal side of me wanting to make an appearance.

There is something about songs by The Beatles or any of its members that would naturally, everytime, evoke these melancholic feelings in me. None of which I could ever explain or understand why.

“Is it Lennon’s words or McCartney’s voice?” I would wonder. Or is it the picture of Yoko I had at the back of my head as I breathed into each of Lennon’s words?

Not until the sounds of piano from “Imagine” were played next that I realized how similar the sounds were to that of my father’s music. When I was growing up, my father would grace the hallway with his Lennon-like voice and his magic on the piano while I doodled hearts and stickmen on the walls. I was pretty much born into a home of music and the arts. So much that I wished the crayons I wasted on the white walls would transform the cozy home into a mushroom house similar to that of the Smurfs. My parents, not exactly pleased with the doodles, would make certain that the home was built with love.

And a tuneful lot of music.

I sang to “Martha, My Dear” at the age of four not knowing who Martha was, and with the only word I understood and thought existed in the song; “Mother (Martha)”. I hopped on the piano seat next to my father as he played “Imagine”, only to fall fast asleep on his arms and into a dream of fairies and ponies, and of course, a couple of the Smurfs. Perhaps I did all that he sang then; “Imagine”. My father would play the guitar to “Across The Universe” while my mother decorated the home with her magic touch, and together, they would sing. They would play videotapes of live concerts by The Beatles, and again, they would sing. The gentle strums of my father’s guitar were what soothed my ears as I grew up, that I, not knowing the meaning of rock and roll, began wanting to sing.

But above all, it was beautiful. It was a beautiful time growing up into who I am now, finally realizing that it’s “Martha” and not “Mother”. It has been beautiful singing my way into what looks like adulthood now. It has been beautiful having my little sister joining me sing later and tuning our ways of growing up. It has been beautiful that at any time a chord resembling a number by The Beatles gets played now, I get somewhat sappy. Did I sing too fast? How is it possible that I am typing and seeing my words on a glassy monitor now when it seems like only yesterday that I doodled and saw my jagged, doodled hearts on the walls?

I am currently two months away from my wedding at this very moment. And while I’ve been caught smiling from ear to ear every now and then, in between I can’t help but ponder upon the idea that I’ll be the one building a home now with the love of my life. I am no longer the little girl who hops on the piano seat next to her father before snoring into a deep slumber. I am no longer that girl with a high ponytail who runs to her mother exclaiming the best news she’s ever known; that she could draw a perfect, symmetrical heart in her Art class.

And I reckon perhaps that is the beauty of life. For all the beautiful things we have been given, we are able to give back. For all the amazing love my parents have taught and given me, that is the same love I am giving back. The same love; for the parents, for the sister, for the cozy home that once had doodles on the walls, and now, being the grown-up that I am, for the home that my fiancée and I will build. The most incredible part that has left me baffled ever since adulthood came into the picture though was the way my fiancée and I began falling in love. He sang and played to “Across The Universe” on his guitar before he even knew the story of my musical childhood. To which of course, I sang along.

I first believed in magic when my mother held me into such warmth. My belief was made stronger when my father played the piano. I tried to convince the world into the existence of magic when I had my beautiful sister in my arms. But the world stopped into a constellation of all things magical when my fiancée and I first sang to The Beatles.

Not quite on the magical side though, my ponytail now isn’t tied as high as when I was six. But still, nothing quite changed now everytime I am at home; the house I once tried to transform into a mushroom, somehow.

My mother and sister are creating heart-shaped crafty magic for my wedding reception. My father is playing John Lennon’s “Imagine” on the piano.

I am, but of course, doodling some hearts. Not on the walls now, but on envelopes and pieces from a stack that strongly believes in magic; my wedding invitation cards.