I just came back from camp; and after having quite a fantastic time with the campus students I noticed that index finger didn’t quite recover properly from the tiny injuries due to excessive force in yanking out the wooden chopsticks from the ground.

I kinda concluded that there are wooden splinter bits stuck in between my dermis.

With mental images of my festering wounds and pus that overruled the thought of pains experienced through pricking my skin with a sewing needle, I’ve decided to do something about it. I grabbed one medium sized one and decided to excavate the remains embedded deep within my skin. and to no avail because those micro wooden bits are soooooooooo fine its like trying to dislodge a nerve off the tip of your hair follicle. Just when I was pricking away my mom walked past me, and after explaining to her she offered to hold on to a torch while I continue jabbing myself. After a while she offered to have a go pricking them away. we (I mean, I) end up with a crater on the tip of my index finger, but it was a bittersweet moment of finally just sweeping off bits of wood stuck under my skin.

It hurt no doubt, and in retrospect while I felt that I could also appropriately clear the splinters off myself; there was also another thought that came in- whether I’m being over-spoilt, or its just every single child’s inevitable mommy’s boy fate that comes when you decide to stay with your parents (until you decide to start a family of your own, or insist to take on the world yourself without parental intervention).

I still struggle somedays. At this point of my life while I’m still at the glorious age close to the pinnacle of youth; I’m constantly bombarded with old-men “Listen now, understand later in life” advice of making choices that will not cause any regrets when you advance closer to your demise. And part of it is learning how to love your parents as an adult. Its a weird relationship because you’re constantly trying to work things in a co-habitual partnership that is functionally- somewhat equal, yet hierarchically still under submission, and perceptually just a kid no matter how old you get. Learning to love them is never easy.

I think part of loving, is the acceptance of being loved. Just drawing from my own experience, its great to know that acts of kindness are being appreciated, and also being able to see those contribution bear fruit encourages myself.  I believe the chance of servitude brings the best in one another; and I don’t think accepting help always means we’re yielding to someone else that’s trying to disprove our independence. There always is some kind of balance between the release and the drawing, the giving and receiving.

Maybe sometimes the giving comes-also through the receiving.