Retro: Time, Space, and the Hum of Osamu Kitajima

 Time, Space, and the Hum of Osamu Kitajima

Osamu Kitajima’s Dragon King album plays softly in the background this afternoon—an atmospheric score to accompany my lunch of rice, vegetables, and a piece of liver I picked out by mistake. Outside, the heat is thick enough to cook a chicken without fire, and so I’ve given myself a bit of time before heading over to Ah Huat’s mechanic shop.

Earlier, the guys working for the WiFi installation came by—late as usual. When my daughter asked why, they told her one of their friends had just passed away from high blood pressure. The same man who installed our unit a month ago. He was only in his early 40s, with three children and a wife left behind. Such is…

And so I sit in the stillness of this moment, letting time pass without resistance. I work with time and space—not against them—and these little sanctuaries I find are often freely provided by a higher order in life. I don’t ask why or how. I just received.

Here at MGTF–USM, I get to observe my mind in motion, put it to work creatively, and share what comes through—without being coerced or expected to perform. I take my time. I do what I love, as best I can, within the limitations and opportunities of the moment.

“Work” is an ugly word to most, packed with obligations and deadlines. I’ve met them all in my time, delivered when it counted, yet I still shy away from the pressure of the clock. I prefer to create my own flow—on my terms. What matters to me is not speed but completion. Not obligation, but intention. To bring energy, creativity, and satisfaction to whatever task is at hand—that is enough.

For minds like mine, work is therapy. It keeps the restlessness in check, prevents the emotional false flags from taking over, and keeps chaos from seeping in. Physical work, especially the kind that makes you sweat, pulls the mind into the present more effectively than any mantra or lecture. It’s good to sweat, good to grind, good to move. And if you can make a living doing it—better yet. That’s why I think great athletes are some of the luckiest people on earth. They get paid to do what they love, to stay in motion. Then again, maybe they, too, wake up to their own shadows.

The longing to leave it all behind and drift into the countryside still simmers in the back of my mind. I haven’t made the trip back to the organic farm in Sik, Kedah, in quite some time. I can feel the city lifestyle pulling me in with its comforts, and for now, that’s not such a bad thing. Especially since my daughter is in a transitional phase herself. She’s 24 now. It’s important that I be here for her until she finds her footing and settles in more firmly.

And so, for now, this is my rhythm:
Doing what needs doing.
No pressure.
No external obligations unless I choose to take them on.
Work is play. Play is work. Either way, it helps fill the gaps of time and space. It keeps the mind anchored and the heart aligned with both what is within and what is without.

Life is unpredictable—like the man who passed this morning, leaving behind a storm of sorrow for his family. We never really know. But we can be present. We can show up with grace. We can live with awareness.

And if possible, we can do it all to the soundtrack of Osamu Kitajima.