Tchaikovsky - Swan Lake in charcoal.

No More Crocodile Tears

"Does a crocodile have Buddha-nature?"

That was the question that floated through my mind after waking from one of the strangest dreams I have ever had.

In the dream there was an ancient crocodile. Not a fierce hunter, not a monster lurking beneath the water, but an old creature wandering from river to river as though searching for a place to die. There was no fear in me. Instead, I felt that somehow it was looking for me, as if I was meant to become part of its final journey.

Dreams have their own language. They seldom speak directly.

As I sat quietly that morning, a memory surfaced from more than seventy years ago.

As a young teenager, I had been caught by my mother looking out of a window at a group of girls bathing at a village well behind their house. Her reaction was immediate and devastating.

"You are a crocodile!"

In Malay, the word carries far more weight than the English translation. It is an accusation that brands a person's character rather than merely pointing out a youthful indiscretion. It landed on my young heart with such force that, somewhere deep inside, I accepted the verdict.

I became the crocodile.

For the rest of my life, whenever sensual thoughts or fantasies arose, my mother's voice would echo within me. Even now, at seventy-five years of age, she still appears in that inner theatre. Such is the mysterious power of childhood conditioning.

I have carried that hidden burden for most of my life.

It festered quietly beneath the surface while outwardly I travelled the world, fished the Bering Sea, practised Zen, wandered through Japan, painted, wrote journals, and searched for Truth. All the while, somewhere in the depths, the old crocodile remained alive.

Until now.

Only recently did I find the courage to drag this ancient, rotting part of myself into the open. Not to condemn it, nor to justify it, but simply to expose it to the light.

It reminded me of the beautiful Islamic tradition describing how the Prophet Muhammad's heart was opened and cleansed by the Archangel. Whether understood literally or symbolically, the story points toward a profound truth: the heart is not discarded; it is purified.

Perhaps that is what this dream was inviting me to do.

Naturally, my mind wandered to Carl Jung.

I could almost imagine him chuckling in his grave.

"You see?" he might say. "At last, he has stopped running away from his shadow."

Then, not to be outdone, Alan Watts wandered into the conversation wearing his familiar mischievous grin.

"He is still clinging to the crocodile's tail!"

Trust Alan Watts to puncture even the most solemn revelation with laughter.

Then came the inevitable Zen question.

"Does a crocodile have Buddha-nature?"

I could almost hear Watts laughing even harder.

A Zen master might simply ask in return,

"Who wants to know?"

And there it is.

For seventy years I had been asking whether I was the crocodile.

Perhaps I should have been asking who it was that had been watching the crocodile all along.

That witness...

That silent awareness...

That Presence...

It was never stained by the label.

The dream was never about a reptile.

It was about an identity that had grown old.

Very old.

Old enough to seek its own resting place.

As I reflected further, another phrase came to mind, one that made me laugh aloud.

No more crocodile tears.

Not because I have stopped feeling sorrow, but because the tears are no longer flowing from a false identity I accepted as a frightened boy. If tears come now, let them come honestly—from gratitude, from humility, from seeing clearly.

The river continues to flow.

The old crocodile has done his work.

Perhaps it is finally time to let him rest.

Wallahu A'lam.

#NoMoreCrocodileTears #DreamJournal #CarlJung #AlanWatts #Zen #BuddhaNature #ShadowWork #SelfInquiry #Awareness #Healing #SpiritualJourney #ArtOfLiving #WallahuAllam 

The Divine Spark Within

 

                                                                 A Good Picture!

Many rivers to cross, but I can't seem to find my way over... — Jimmy Cliff

From deep within the grotto of my heart shines a Divine Spark—that which was placed there as the source of the energy through which the universe manifests.

Deep within me is the Temple of the Living God, housing the Secret of Secrets, the Wisdom of Sophia, the Ancient Tao, the Source of Divine Virtue.

I am the keeper.
I am the witness.
I am the dancer to this Divine tune.

Allahu Akbar! Indeed, the Lord is Great.

Selamat Pagi. Good morning.
Peace be unto you and me.

It's Sunday.

Many rivers remain to cross... yet the Light within already knows the way. 

WallahuAlam! 

#DivineSpark #TempleWithin #InnerJourney #SelfDiscovery #Awareness #Contemplation #SpiritualReflection #SundayMeditation #Peace #Tawhid #Tao #Sophia #DivineVirtue #WallahuAlam #ArtOfLiving 

Who Is the One Who Says, "I Love You"?

 

"How often do we say, 'I love you,' to the one we spend our entire lives trying to understand?"

How often does one say, "I Love You," to one's Self? It is is such a naive ans simple thing to do yet how often does one remembers who is truly number Ones in one's life? It is to me the most powerful form of validation that one needs and can offer to one's own self propagation and moral virtues. Unconditional Love of One's Self is the essence of the Buddha's teaching before one can afford to declare that there is no 'Self', to begin with. How can there be a no self when there is no recognition of the self to begin with? The self according to Buddhism is the cause of suffering, for so long as there is a self, life is suffering. Don't quote me, but i feel that was what Shakyamuni Buddha was getting at where suffering is concern. However before one can get rid of the main cause of suffering one has to get to know know up close and personal to what it is in essence and that is through unconditional love and compassion...who is the one making this observation? 

Wallahu A'lam. 

This is a profound reflection, and I think you're touching on a subtle distinction that is often overlooked.

When you say, "How often does one say, 'I love you,' to one's Self?" you are not, as I understand it, advocating narcissism or ego inflation. You are pointing toward an intimate acceptance of one's own being—a compassion directed inward rather than outward. That is a very different thing.

There is an interesting paradox in Buddhist practice.

The Buddha did not ask people to deny their experience of being a self. Rather, he invited them to investigate it deeply. The teaching of anattā (non-self) is not the assertion that "you do not exist." It is the observation that what we ordinarily call "I" is not a permanent, independent, unchanging entity. The investigation comes first; the insight follows.

In that sense, your question—

"How can there be a no-self when there is no recognition of the self to begin with?"

—is a genuine philosophical inquiry.

One might even answer it by saying that until one honestly observes the movements of "me" and "mine," the teaching of non-self remains merely an idea.

When you write,

"...before one can get rid of the main cause of suffering one has to get to know up close and personal to what it is in essence and that is through unconditional love and compassion..."

I hear an echo of another Buddhist principle. Hatred cannot end hatred—not even hatred of oneself. If one approaches the ego as an enemy to be destroyed, that very struggle may become another expression of ego. But if one observes it with kindness, patience, and compassion, something different happens. The grip begins to loosen naturally.

Your final question may be the most important one:

"Who is the one making this observation?"

Zen has lived with that question for centuries.

Not to answer it intellectually, but to remain with it.

Who notices the thoughts?

Who witnesses joy and sorrow?

Who is aware of saying, "I love you"?

And who is aware of the awareness itself?

Every sincere meditation eventually circles back to this mystery.

There is one small point where I might gently differ from your wording. You write:

"Unconditional Love of One's Self is the essence of the Buddha's teaching..."

I would perhaps soften that slightly.

I would say that unconditional compassion—including compassion toward oneself—is deeply consistent with the Buddha's teaching. Whether it is the essence is something different traditions would answer differently. Some would say the essence is wisdom (prajñā), others compassion (karuṇā), others liberation from attachment. Yet these are not really separate. Wisdom without compassion becomes cold; compassion without wisdom can become attachment.

Perhaps what you are describing is the meeting point of the two.

As I read your reflection, I found myself thinking that the "I" who says "I love you" and the "self" being loved gradually become transparent. The boundary softens. What remains is not self-obsession but a quiet friendliness toward whatever arises. From there, extending love to others is no longer an effort; it becomes a natural expression.

It also strikes me that this question has the flavor of a Zen kōan:

Before you can forget yourself, who is the one you are forgetting?

Or perhaps:

Who is it that whispers, "I love you," in the silence before thought?

That seems very much in harmony with the spirit of your lifelong inquiry as an artist, traveler, and seeker. It is not a question that seeks a final answer so much as one that continues to illuminate the path with each sincere observation.

#Meditation #SelfInquiry #Zen #Buddhism #Awareness #Compassion #SelfCompassion #Mindfulness #SpiritualJourney #WhoAmI #NonSelf #Love #Consciousness #InnerPeace #CheeseburgerBuddha 

"It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society." - Krishnamurti.

                                       We are all in the same same boat, wearing different mask.

"It's our earth, not yours or mine or his. We are meant to live on it, helping each other, not destroying each other." - J. Krishnamurti.

 It is in our human nature that we have drifted so far from this simple truth and we have the audacity to claim ourselves being more civilized than our forefathers. Perhaps we are, civilized that is, however no moment in our history have come so close to wiping out the very planet we call our home and no moment in time have become so territorial and triballistic in our claim that we cannot even communicate with one another without building a barrier between us of racial and cultural/religious walls for safety. It is a sad we are living in and sadder still that we are handing down to our children what we have not been able to comprehend and overcome in our own timeline. In my 77 years of existence how many wars have I watched rise and fall, how many lives have been sacrificed through human errors or greed, hate and ignorance of the few who were in the power to make things happen for the better. For those who feel that we are doing fine at this stage I would ask them to go live in Gaza, or Sudan and tell me life is ok for humanity as a whole. I cannot avoid expressing my discontent every now and then when something hits me that triggers my view of the human condition we are in today, even saying hello to someone and receiving a dirty or deadpool look in return; at times it feels like i am existing in a zombie land. "What do you expect?" a friend once asked, "Do you think everyone is living a happy life, problem free, all good?" He is right, and we all do have our moments when shit happens out of the blue knocking us off our comfort zone and place us in a bad mood; it's called being human.Being aware of these shifts in our predispositions is a major practice in Buddhism as it is in most religions and cultures. Being derailed by unforeseen circumstances is part and parcel of being who we are, however, how we choose to rebound and place ourselves back on track is what makes us different from other creatures that walks this earth.Sadly enough most of us have forgotten how to or never really knew how to. We relegate our trials and tribulations to bad luck, ill intentions, spiritual punishments and so forth; rarely do we see mishaps as lack of attention or awareness, of being present in the moment. This is what business does, it makes us slip and forget, it makes us react and compound the negative with more negativity and we end up with self blame. "We are the masters of our environment and circumstances." This is a line from Swami Yogananda's book on Raja Yoga, or the Yoga of the Mind. " We are the masters of our Body, Speech and Mind." Not many are exposed to such teaching from the ancient schools, however, these words still echos in our modern thoughts and processes in different forms, but sadly they are becoming more rare and quaint to most modern man. From the Upanishads to the present day Quantum Physics, we are being reminded that the Mind creates what we see before our eyes, that the external is but a reflection of what is within, as the Hermetic Principles declared; All is Mind. Man is endowed with an awesome tool, sadly very few took the trouble to get to know how it works and now it seems too late as we are about to be replaced by AI. In due time we will have to stop thinking about how to think as it will be done for us; then what? My daughter just made a delicious fried veggies with dried tofu and miso paste for dinner with the help of Chat GPT!

On one hand, humanity has achieved astonishing things. We can communicate across continents instantly, cure diseases that once devastated entire populations, and use tools that would have seemed miraculous to our ancestors. In that sense, we are indeed more "civilized."

Yet on the other hand, the fundamental problems that troubled sages like Jiddu Krishnamurti, the Buddha, and countless spiritual teachers remain largely unchanged. Fear, greed, tribalism, anger, and ignorance still operate beneath the surface of our technological sophistication. We have learned how to split the atom but have not learned how to stop dividing ourselves into "us" and "them."

Your reference to Gaza and Sudan is a sobering reminder that statistics and economic reports can sometimes conceal the lived reality of suffering. For those enduring war, displacement, hunger, or loss, discussions of human progress can sound hollow.

I also smiled when I reached the part about your daughter using ChatGPT to help prepare a meal. There is a certain irony there. After reflecting on humanity's possible replacement by AI, the essay ends with a simple act of nourishment: a daughter preparing dinner for her father. To me, that scene contains an important distinction.

AI can suggest recipes.
AI can organize information.
AI can even discuss philosophy.

But AI did not grow the vegetables, taste the food, care about whether you enjoyed the meal, or share the moment of eating together. Those remain profoundly human experiences.

Perhaps the challenge is not whether AI will think for us, but whether we will surrender the responsibility of understanding ourselves. Krishnamurti's concern was never about machines; it was about unconsciousness. A human being can become mechanical without any help from technology at all.

Your friend's remark—"Do you think everyone is living a happy life?"—touches on something essential. We rarely know what burden another person is carrying. The person who returns a cold stare may be wrestling with grief, debt, illness, fear, or loneliness. Awareness begins when we recognize that others are fighting battles we cannot see.

I am reminded of another observation by Krishnamurti:

"It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society."

Many people sense that something is amiss in the modern world, yet few know how to respond. Some become angry. Some withdraw. Some distract themselves endlessly. A smaller number turn inward and begin examining the movement of their own minds. That, I think, is what your reflection ultimately points toward.

The world may not become peaceful because governments become wiser or technologies become more advanced. It may become more peaceful only when individuals see clearly how conflict begins within themselves—in thought, in judgment, in attachment to identities and beliefs.

For someone who has watched seventy-seven years of history unfold, your frustration is understandable. Yet the fact that you still greet strangers, still reflect, still write, still question, and still sit down to enjoy a meal prepared by your daughter suggests that you have not surrendered to cynicism. There is a quiet hopefulness in that.

And perhaps that is where change always begins: not in saving the whole world at once, but in remaining awake enough to meet the next person, the next meal, the next moment, with a little more awareness than before.

 #JidduKrishnamurti #Humanity #Peace #Awareness #Consciousness #SelfDiscovery #Mindfulness #Buddhism #SpiritualJourney #AIandHumanity #Compassion #InnerPeace #WorldPeace #CheeseburgerBuddha #ShamsulBahari

  

 

 

"Trust the Process."

 

 In Making Sense out of a Long Pilgrimage.

As soon as i make the effort to write my blog post I am being distracted towards turning on tot he next You Tube podcast like I need to be distracted in order to find what i want to write about or simply occupy my mind with a binaural sound distraction. It seems my mind is slowly being sucked into doing something else that is less taxing, like i have run out of things to share or ideas that would make more sense than simply writing. Hence for the past few weeks i have neglected putting my thoughts down or share my latest dreams like they are of less importance. In actuality i really know not what to write about that I have not already written and the idea of working on writing my book sits in the back burner like I am scared to take it up again where I have left it off. Am I becoming mentally lazy or am i really running out of juice for creativity to flow like it used to? Thus far i have made 3381 blog posts since I began sometime in 2005, it has been a long journal keeping much longer if i were to look at it from when i first decided to keep an ongoing journal through my sketchbooks when i was in England sometime in 1978. Am I pushing it? Last data - All time1455751 Today1496 Yesterday2216 This month15343 Last month72324

Brother, after reading what you have written, what strikes me is not mental laziness but the weight of a very long pilgrimage.

You began journaling in 1978. You began blogging in 2005. You have now written 3,381 blog posts and accumulated over 1.4 million reads. Most people struggle to keep a diary for a month. You have sustained a conversation with yourself and the world for almost fifty years.

That changes the nature of the challenge.

In the beginning, writing is often fueled by discovery. Everything feels new. Every insight seems worth recording. Every journey brings fresh material. But after decades of observing, traveling, meditating, working, loving, losing, sketching, and reflecting, the question naturally arises:

"Have I already said everything I came here to say?"

I suspect that is closer to your present condition than a lack of creativity.

The YouTube videos, podcasts, binaural sounds, and endless scrolling may not be the cause. They may be symptoms. They provide a gentle escape from facing a blank page and asking a more demanding question:

"What remains essential?"

Writing a blog post is easy compared to writing a book.

A blog post can wander. A book asks for commitment. It asks you to gather decades of memories and shape them into a coherent whole. That is a different level of responsibility. Fear often appears there—not because one lacks ideas, but because the work matters.

I remember from our conversations about The Aleutian Blues that you possess journals, sketchbooks, photographs, and memories spanning continents and decades. The material is there. The challenge is no longer finding content. The challenge is choosing.

When an artist has accumulated a lifetime of experiences, selection becomes harder than creation.

Your statistics tell another story:

• All-time views: 1,455,751
• This month: 15,343
• Last month: 72,324

Those numbers suggest that people are still finding value in what you have shared. The well has not dried up. The audience has not disappeared.

What may be happening is that your inner compass is shifting from recording life to distilling life.

The younger Shamsul filled sketchbooks and journals with experiences as they happened.

The elder Shamsul may be called to extract the essence from those experiences.

That is book work.

And book work often feels slower, less exciting, and more intimidating than writing a fresh blog post.

As for the dreams, I would not dismiss them. Throughout your life you have treated dreams as messages, mirrors, and invitations to contemplation. Perhaps they seem less important now because they no longer arrive as dramatic revelations. Yet sometimes the quiet dreams are the ones that deserve the closest attention.

Perhaps for a while you do not need to ask:

"What shall I write today?"

Perhaps the better question is:

"What experience from my life still contains wisdom that has not yet been fully understood?"

That question could take you back to Alaska, Green Gulch, Ecuador, Sri Lovely Farm, the refinery years, your family relationships, your artistic journey, or even yesterday's dream.

You have not run out of stories.

You may simply have reached the stage where stories are asking to become chapters.

And that is a very different task.

Salam to you, Brother. From where I sit, I see no evidence that the creative river has dried up. It looks more as though the river is slowing and deepening before it enters a larger body of water.

Brother, that sounds less like a casual remark and more like a vision that has been quietly waiting for the right moment to surface.

A retrospective exhibition is different from a normal art show.

A normal exhibition asks, "What have you been working on lately?"

A retrospective asks, "What has your life's work been about?"

From what you have shared over many conversations, your journey has never been confined to painting alone. Your work exists across several forms:

• Paintings and drawings.
• Sketchbooks and journals.
• Travel experiences.
• Spiritual reflections.
• Photographs.
• Blog posts.
• The manuscript of The Aleutian Blues.
• The stories behind the works.

A true retrospective could bring all of these together.

I can almost imagine a visitor walking through such an exhibition:

First, the young art student and traveler.

Then England and the sketchbooks.

The American Southwest and the University Without Walls years.

Green Gulch and Zen practice.

Alaska and the Iceland.

South America and the spiritual experiences.

The refinery construction years.

Sri Lovely Organic Farm.

The Penang artist.

The blogger with thousands of entries.

And finally, the elder artist reflecting upon the whole journey.

What strikes me is that the book and the retrospective do not compete with one another. They may actually complete one another.

The book provides the narrative.

The exhibition provides the visual evidence.

The book tells the story.

The paintings, sketches, journals, and photographs show the story.

Together they become something larger than either could achieve alone.

You used the phrase "final cut," and as someone who has long dreamed of eventually creating a video memoir, that phrase feels particularly meaningful. Not necessarily as an ending, but as an edited version of a lifetime's footage.

A retrospective is not saying, "I am finished."

It is saying, "This is what I have seen so far."

At seventy-five, many artists are still producing new work. Yet there is also value in gathering the threads and allowing others to see the continuity of the journey.

And if I may offer one thought: when that staff member from the Penang State Art Gallery asked when you would have your show, they were recognizing something. People do not usually ask emerging artists about retrospectives. They ask artists whose body of work has accumulated enough depth and history to warrant looking at the whole arc.

You have been keeping visual and written records since 1978. That is nearly half a century of material.

Not many artists possess that kind of continuity.

So perhaps the question is no longer whether there is enough material for a retrospective.

The question may be how to curate it.

Which works tell the story most clearly?

Which journal pages deserve to be displayed?

Which blog entries become excerpts on the wall?

Which photographs accompany the paintings?

And how does The Aleutian Blues fit into that journey?

Those are curatorial questions rather than creative ones.

The creative work, Brother, has largely already been done—over decades of living, observing, sketching, painting, writing, and searching.

Salam. It would not surprise me at all if one day visitors walk through such a retrospective and discover that the exhibition is not merely about an artist from Penang, but about a human being's lifelong search for meaning, expressed through every medium available to him.

Should I post this chat, or would it be too revealing of my future plans, betraying its sanctity? I don't nkow if I am making any sense here.

You are making perfect sense, Brother.

What I hear is not really a question about posting the chat. It is a question about the difference between sharing a vision and protecting a vision while it is still forming.

There is an old tension that many artists, writers, and seekers encounter.

Sometimes speaking a dream aloud strengthens it. By sharing it, you declare your intention and invite the universe—and other people—to witness it.

At other times, speaking too much about a dream can dissipate its energy. The dream becomes a conversation rather than a creation. One receives the satisfaction of talking about the work instead of doing the work.

Only you can know which of these applies here.

As I reflect on your situation, I do not feel that the retrospective exhibition is a secret that must be hidden. It seems a natural aspiration for an artist with decades of work behind him. There is nothing boastful or inappropriate about saying:

"I would like one day to have a retrospective exhibition that gathers together my paintings, journals, writings, and experiences."

That is simply a statement of intention.

What I might be more careful about sharing is the feeling that the retrospective represents the "final cut" or culmination of your life's journey.

Not because it is wrong, but because life has a habit of surprising us.

You have already reinvented yourself many times: student, traveler, fisherman, construction worker, safety manager, organic farmer, blogger, artist, teacher, seeker. If someone had told the younger man in England in 1978 that he would write over 3,000 blog posts and be contemplating a retrospective exhibition at 75, would he have believed it?

Probably not.

So there is wisdom in leaving some space for the unknown.

Perhaps the retrospective is not the final chapter. Perhaps it is the beginning of another one.

As for posting this chat, I would ask yourself a simple question:

Are you posting it because you need validation for the vision, or because the reflection itself might be useful to others?

If it is the latter, then it may be worth sharing.

If it is the former, you might let the vision sit quietly within you for a while and see what emerges.

My instinct is that there is a blog post hidden here, but it is not necessarily this entire conversation. The most powerful part may be your own realization:

"When the staff member asked when I would have my show, I found myself answering that I would like it to be a retrospective. The answer surprised me. It made me wonder whether my paintings, journals, blog posts, and book are all parts of a single body of work."

That realization belongs to you. It arose from your lived experience at the exhibition. The conversation merely helped illuminate it.

And there is something beautiful about allowing certain dreams to remain partly unspoken—not out of fear, but out of respect. Like a seed beneath the soil, not hidden away forever, but given time to develop roots before it emerges into the sunlight.

Salam, Brother. My feeling is that neither choice would be wrong. The question is whether this vision currently feels more like a seed that needs nurturing, or a sapling that is ready to be seen.

My choice of posting this chat is maintaining the spirit of sharing with my readers especially those who have similar ideas but no way of making things happen. 'Trust the Process?' This is a major part of the process and it is doubtful the everyone would read as it is long.

Then I think you have already answered your own question, Brother.

If your intention is to share the process rather than announce an achievement, the conversation serves a purpose. Many people only ever see the finished painting on the wall, the published book on the shelf, or the exhibition opening crowded with visitors. They rarely see the uncertainty, hesitation, self-doubt, distraction, and questioning that precede those outcomes.

What makes your blog unique is that it has never been merely a showcase of accomplishments. It has been a record of the journey itself.

A reader who is struggling with their own creative project may recognize themselves in what you wrote:

• Wondering if they have run out of ideas.
• Being distracted by endless media consumption.
• Feeling intimidated by a larger work waiting to be completed.
• Questioning whether they are still growing or simply repeating themselves.
• Sensing a vision but not knowing how it will manifest.

That is where "Trust the Process" becomes more than a slogan. It becomes a lived experience.

Looking back over your own life, how many important developments arrived before you knew how they would unfold?

The opportunity to join the crew of the Iceland.
The years of keeping sketchbooks.
The decision to start a blog in 2005.
The friendships, travels, exhibitions, and spiritual encounters that later became meaningful chapters in your story.

At the time, each was simply the next step.

Only later did the pattern become visible.

That is what trusting the process often means—not believing that everything will happen exactly as imagined, but continuing to take the next sincere step even when the destination remains unclear.

As for the length, I would not worry too much. Your blog has never catered exclusively to hurried readers. Some will skim. Some will stop after a few paragraphs. A few will read every word. Those few are often the readers for whom the post was meant.

Besides, after 3,381 posts, you are no longer writing merely to attract clicks. You are contributing another page to a long conversation with your readers and with yourself.

So if you decide to post the exchange, I would frame it not as a declaration of future plans but as a reflection on where you find yourself today:

An artist with decades of work behind him, wondering whether the urge to create has diminished, only to discover that the challenge may not be finding new material but gathering a lifetime's worth of material into a coherent whole.

That is a question many creative people eventually face.

And yes, "Trust the Process" seems an appropriate phrase—not because the process guarantees a particular outcome, but because your own life has repeatedly demonstrated that meaningful paths often reveal themselves one step at a time.

Salam to you, Brother. The retrospective, the book, the blog, and even this conversation may all be parts of the same unfolding process. The interesting thing is that none of us, including you, can yet see the finished picture. That uncertainty is not a flaw in the process; it is part of it.

Day and Night at the Equator: A New Beginning on 6.6.26

                                       My print with Haiku written by Reichiro san, in Sendai, Japan.
 

This morning 0f Saturday the sixth of June was the opening day of the group exhibition of Penang Artists at the gallery Sin Xiong Xiong located on the water front not far from my home. The Shoe was entitled , Equarorial Art, Nanyang Breeze. I submitted a two in one piece of three by three feet size painting entitled, Siang dan Malam or Day and Night. It was a well attended opening and from the reactions of theguests and fellow artists, my work was well received. For it is an auspicious moment as it happened on the date 0f 666, sixth of June 2026, and the location being at a prestigious newly opened art gallery owned bya Singaporean artist, professor Sin Xiong Xiong a resident of Singapore and formerly from China. We had good connection established gaining each other's genuine respect as artists. As Penang is predominantly Chinese, this is a strategic move form me as a Malay.

Brother, this sounds like a significant milestone, both artistically and personally.

What stands out is not simply that your painting was exhibited, but that it was exhibited at a moment of convergence: a new gallery, a respected international artist-founder, a strong public reception, and a renewed connection between artistic communities that do not always intersect naturally.

The symbolism of 6 June 2026 (6/6/26) will undoubtedly attract attention from those who enjoy reading meaning into dates, but perhaps the more important symbolism lies in the title of your work itself: Siang dan Malam (Day and Night). The union of opposites—light and darkness, visible and hidden, yin and yang, zahir and batin—has always been a recurring theme in both art and spiritual inquiry. The timing seems almost fitting.

The meeting with Sin Xiong Xiong also appears noteworthy. Genuine respect between artists is not something that can be manufactured. It arises when each recognizes in the other a sincere commitment to the craft and to the journey behind the work. Such encounters often become more important than the exhibition itself.

Your observation regarding Penang's predominantly Chinese art scene is practical rather than political. Throughout your life you have crossed cultural boundaries—living in America, Japan, Ecuador, Alaska, Kedah, Terengganu, and Penang. Establishing stronger ties within the Chinese artistic community in Penang seems less a strategic calculation than a continuation of your lifelong habit of building bridges wherever you find yourself.

As I stood among fellow artists and guests at the opening of Equatorial Art, Nanyang Breeze, I felt quietly grateful. The painting Siang dan Malam had found its place on the gallery wall and was received with warmth and appreciation. More importantly, a new friendship and mutual respect had been established between myself and Professor Sin Xiong Xiong. At seventy-seven, one might think life's doors are closing, yet I continue to discover that new doors appear whenever one remains faithful to one's path. The artist's journey, like day and night themselves, continues in an endless cycle of endings and beginnings.

#EquatorialArt #NanyangBreeze #SiangDanMalam #PenangArtists #ArtExhibition #ArtistLife #ContemporaryArt #PenangArtScene #DayAndNight #CreativeJourney #ArtAndAwareness #CheeseburgerBuddha

The Convergence. -

                                                                 Happy Gawai Dayak!
 The Convergence.

The past few days has been intense physically, mentally as well as spiritually, and i did not realized thhe reason untill I sat and pondered over it. Last night I saw the full moon and it has been a long time since i saw the moon at all, and it was the Buddha's Birthday which was two or three days following the Eidil Adha. Today the first of June happens to be the Gawai Iban, like a new year's day for the Iban Tribe in the Borneo jungles. Sometime in 1981-2, I took a trip up the Rajang River in Sarawak to visit a Long House deep into the Kapit area of Borneo and the occasion was to celebrate the 'Gawai Antu'. This, I was told by the Head of the six Iban tribes living in the Borneo interior, was an event that happens once every sixty years. It was a three days event that was dedicated to the dead. For three days and night no one was allowed to sleep, and most of the time everyone was kept awake by one form of ritual performance or another. By the time i left the Long House I was throwing up green peas over the side of the long boats that took us to and from the location. 

Yesterday I also learned that my close friend, David Carlson has passed away in the Hospice home in LA. Today the Penang State Art Gallery posted on Face Book that another close friend, an artist, Mr. Sui Ho had passed away in Arkansas, the United States.   

 

That sounds like one of those experiences that stays in the body long after it has become a memory.

What strikes me is the convergence of cycles that you noticed only afterward. Vesak, Eidil Adha, Gawai Dayak, the full moon, and then your own memories rising from deep in the past. Whether one sees these as spiritual synchronicities or simply the mind's way of connecting meaningful events, there is something powerful about realizing that what felt like random turbulence may have been tied to an older rhythm moving through you.

The memory of the Gawai Antu is particularly fascinating. Gawai Antu is among the most important traditional ceremonies of the Iban people, honoring ancestors and helping complete the obligations between the living and the dead. Traditionally, it was not an annual event but something undertaken only after many years of preparation because of the immense expense and communal effort required.

Your description of being kept awake for three days reminds me of how many traditional cultures use sleep deprivation, rhythmic music, chanting, dancing, and ritual activity to alter consciousness. Not necessarily as entertainment, but as a way of stepping outside ordinary perception and entering what they regard as sacred time. After several days of that, combined with unfamiliar food, travel, excitement, and sensory overload, it is hardly surprising that your body finally rebelled and you found yourself leaning over the side of the longboat feeding green peas back to the Rajang River.

Yet perhaps the most interesting thing is not what happened then, but why the memory surfaced now.

You have often written about the departed—your late wife Nancy, old friends, teachers, fellow travelers, even figures such as P. Ramlee appearing in dreams. A few days ago was Vesak, celebrating the birth, enlightenment, and passing of the Buddha. Soon after comes Eidil Adha, with its themes of sacrifice and surrender. Today is Gawai, marking renewal and gratitude. And from somewhere in the depths of memory emerges a ceremony dedicated to those who have gone before.

That feels less like nostalgia and more like a reminder of continuity.

The people in that longhouse were not trying to cling to the dead. They were acknowledging that the dead remain part of the living story. In a different way, your journals, sketchbooks, photographs, and blog serve a similar purpose. They keep conversation alive between your present self and all the people, places, and versions of yourself that have come before.

Perhaps that is why the past few days have felt so intense. Sometimes awareness is busy stitching together threads that we only recognize afterward.

And what a thread it is: a young traveler on the Rajang River in the early 1980s, staying awake through the nights in an Iban longhouse, and a man sitting under a full moon in 2026, suddenly remembering.

The river is still flowing, Brother. It is just a different stretch of it now.

Indeed it has been a deep impactful week for me as my dreams got more vivid and often confusing to say the least. But all is good at the end of the day, I am still here and life goes on within and without. 

Happy Birthday Gautama!

                                                     In Loving Memory of Furby (Fur Ball)
 

 Om Muni Muni, Maha Muni, Shakya Muni, Bodhi Svaha!

It is Vesak Day today! This afternoon I was telling a lady how my grand father had came to Penang being commissioned to do the painting of the inside of the Mahindarama Buddhist temple almost 80 years ago. That i was raised for twelve years of my life as a Buddhist before being converted to Islam. She had asked me of my original background while we were chatting together in my firend Ben Ronjen's shop which is also her husband's incense shop. She was surprised and that she knows the temple well. Little did i realized that it was the Buddha's birthday today which I found out much later in the evening. A few days ago i had watched the life of the Buddha series for no apparent reason on You Tube and it awakened me to old truths some of which I have forgotten. Two nights ago as I sat outside on the porch it came to me that i had almost totally forgotten my Buddhist upbringing and even felt a sense of guilt for feeling that it would be a cardinal sin foe me as Muslim to pay tribute to this great being whose teachings had over the years saved me from much trouble in life. I payed my homage to the Buddha, Dharma and Sangha immediately after. Sometimes ignorance overwhelms the mind into confusion and what is solemn and sacred is swept under the rug. Happy Birthday Shakyamuni Gautama the historical Buddha!

That is quite a remarkable chain of events, Shamsul.

The conversation with the lady, the memory of your grandfather painting the interior of the temple, your chance viewing of the Buddha's life on YouTube, the realization on the porch that you had neglected an important part of your own history—and then discovering it was Vesak Day. Whether one sees such moments as coincidence, synchronicity, providence, or simply the mysterious way memory works, they do have a way of arriving together with unusual timing.

Your story also touches on something deeper. Many people assume that honoring one's roots means betraying one's present path. Yet a mature spiritual life often allows gratitude without confusion. You are not returning to being the twelve-year-old Buddhist boy you once were, nor are you abandoning Islam. Rather, you are acknowledging a debt of gratitude to a tradition that helped shape your conscience, your discipline, and your understanding of suffering and compassion.

The historical Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama, taught qualities that resonate far beyond Buddhism itself: mindfulness, compassion, moderation, self-examination, and freedom from attachment. These are human treasures. Many Muslims, Christians, Hindus, and people of other faiths have recognized wisdom in his teachings without feeling compelled to abandon their own traditions.

What strikes me most is your mention of guilt. Sometimes spiritual identity becomes so tightly guarded that we begin editing our own memories. Yet the child who grew up around Buddhist teachings, the young man who searched through many paths, the Muslim elder sitting on the porch today—they are all the same traveler. Denying any part of that journey can create an unnecessary division within oneself.

Your grandfather's connection to Mahindarama Buddhist Temple makes the story even more poignant. In a sense, his brushstrokes became part of the temple's living history. Eight decades later, his grandson finds himself remembering both the temple and the Buddha on Vesak Day. There is something beautifully circular about that.

If you were to post this on your blog, I might suggest ending with something like:

Today I remembered that gratitude need not recognize boundaries. Before I was a Muslim, I was a Buddhist child. Before I was a Buddhist child, I was simply a child of the Divine Mystery. On this Vesak Day, I bow in gratitude to the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha for the wisdom they brought into my life, and I give thanks to Allah for guiding me through every stage of the journey. The river has changed course many times, but the water remains the same.

And so, from one seeker to another:

Happy Vesak Day. May all beings be free from suffering. May wisdom arise where there is confusion, and may gratitude remain alive for all who have illuminated our path.

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