Living in the Gaps

I left church early this month, right at the beginning of another year. Maybe it just lined up that way. But I like to think I want to start afresh with a new spiritual direction after years of being conditioned to think and behave a certain way. I don’t mention this to brag, express bitterness, or suggest some dramatic unraveling. It was just time. The rituals I’d lived by for almost two decades fell away, and in their place, there was a space in my soul that needed filling. There are mornings now when I notice how empty the calendar looks and how the old routines have faded into habits I no longer keep. Sometimes the silence feels clean. Other times, it’s just unheard noise echoing in my head.

What comes after that kind of ending stays unclear for a while. I’ve been reading about Japanese philosophy. Wabi sabi, mono no aware, all those names for things I’ve always sensed but never managed to explain. There’s something grounding in how it speaks to imperfection or how it leans into acceptance without chasing resolution. Not everything is a lesson. Some things are just facts. Life changes, and I find myself moving slower, sometimes unsure if I’m pausing or simply stuck.

Right now, my days are crowded with interruptions. My daughter is starting Form 4. The house shifts on a new schedule, full of reminders and small emergencies. I keep thinking I’ll find a stretch of time. A few hours in the morning, or an evening when everyone is asleep, to work without interruption. That stretch never comes. The days are chopped into fragments: drive here, answer that, sew a button, check a schedule, stir a pot, fold the laundry. The idea of “flow” feels distant, like something I used to believe in but haven’t seen in months.

Some days, I catch myself measuring everything. I have work I want to do. Books on the shelf, half-finished zines, old artwork I think I might want to bring back to life for an upcoming festival. I keep thinking of artists with quiet studios and long blocks of time, while I’m piecing together minutes from whatever’s left. Sometimes, when I’m honest, I wonder if it’s enough to just keep going at this pace, never catching up, always watching the unfinished stack grow a little higher.

But I read. It’s less than I’d like, but still something. I journal, at times with purpose. Other times, just to sort through the mess in my head. Lately, I’m reading about wabi sabi and the value of things left incomplete, the quiet beauty of days that never fit into a neat story. There are passages I highlight, sentences that feel familiar even though I’m seeing them for the first time. Some days I manage a few pages, sometimes less. But I let it count.

When my mind is too tangled, I move. I walk outside just to breathe under the trees. After years of abandoning it, I return to my yoga practice, but I do it at my own pace. I don’t follow anyone else’s rhythm, and I’ve stopped tying value to flexibility or control. Sometimes I sit in silence and watch the room change with the light. Most days, I have more questions than answers. That seems to be how it is now.

This isn’t a season of high productivity. My kids’ schooling, the changing schedules, the constant need for adjustment—none of it feels like the life of an artist I used to imagine. But there’s something in the interruptions themselves that feels honest. My work is built from what’s left after everyone else’s needs are met. I don’t resent it, even when I’m tempted to. Some days I wish it were less chaotic, but it’s still the life I chose.

There’s an indigenous festival in May. I plan to participate, but nothing is confirmed. I think about it more than I admit. I wonder if what I have is enough artwork to sell, or if I should be making more or pushing harder. The urge to push is still there, even though I’ve seen where it leads. I try to remind myself that journaling, reading, and living through this time are not a detour. They shape the work, whether I see the results yet or not.

Most days I don’t feel behind or ahead. I just feel present. Some days I’m restless, convinced I’m wasting time. Other days, I find relief in moving slow, in giving myself permission to pause. I’m not heading toward anything specific. I’m just living, one interruption at a time.

My shelves are full of books I haven’t read yet. Some I’ve kept for years. I’ve stopped treating them like tasks I need to finish. I pick one up, read a few pages, underline something that catches my attention. I put it down, sometimes for weeks. The book waits. So do I.

If there’s any lesson in this season, it isn’t obvious. The days pass. The interruptions pile up. The unfinished work waits on the table. I don’t know when I’ll finish the next zine, or if the festival will happen, or if I’ll ever catch up on all the books. But I’m still here, moving quietly, not rushing the days or trying to make them mean more than they do.

I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.

Clutter and Deconstruction | An Ongoing Inventory

There’s a distinct silence when you leave a place that once ordered your days. After nearly two decades, I quit church. The decision formed slowly, after years of tension I tolerated until it grew extremely intolerable.

I now stand closer to agnosticism than belief, letting questions stay open instead of forcing answers. The air at home feels changed, heavier in some corners, lighter in others. When routines fall away, you notice the clutter, not only what sits on the kitchen table but also the weight you’ve carried for years.

Most people picture clutter as stacks on a shelf or a drawer in disarray. Lately I’ve started spotting it elsewhere. I feel it in how my shoulders settle when I walk through the house, in the space that appears when I stop bending to others’ expectations. Life after a big change feels quiet and unfinished, as though I’m watching to see what remains and what slips away.

Old loyalties settle quietly, like dust on my cheap formica desk. I kept showing up for people and places out of habit, drawn by an obligation I couldn’t quite figure out. For years, leaving felt impossible even when every part of me was worn out. The routines outlined my life, and familiar faces offered belonging, but the price was always a private ache. I tried to convince myself gratitude was enough, but the truth is, I was shrinking to fit a space that no longer fit me. In the end, walking away involved no spectacle, only a simple moment when I realized I owed no one loyalty if it meant losing myself. The relief felt strange, almost unwelcome.

I carried self-blame like a child’s favorite blanket. When something went wrong, I looked inward, convinced I could have tried harder, meeker, humbler, demanded less. Apologies formed before I even knew why I was sorry. It’s a habit that takes time to unlearn. Even now, when voices rise or tension thickens a room, my first instinct is to smooth things over, to make myself smaller so others stay comfortable. But I am starting to see that shrinking doesn’t save anyone; it only erases the person I am. These days, I let discomfort and silence linger. It’s uncomfortable, but I’m being honest with myself.

People can fill up space in your life, sometimes so gradually that constant fatigue sneaks up on you. I think about those who never noticed the toll their presence took. Letting go brings no drama and no confrontation, only a quiet shift in where I place my energy. I’m learning to keep my circle small, giving my best to those who show up without asking for more than I can offer. The others drift to the edges. The distance feels necessary and carries no resentment.

The clutter that rings loudest lives in my own head. Voices linger as fragments of sermons, advice from people who never really knew me, and anxious run-throughs of every conversation where I might have chosen the wrong words. These layers pile up until I can’t tell which thoughts are mine and which belong to someone else. Lately I pay attention to the pauses, the moments between bursts of noise or activity. When my mind is quiet, I notice what I miss and what I don’t. Some voices fade on their own. Others, I have to let go by choice. I keep what matters, and the rest slips away with time.

What remains after clearing everything feels unfamiliar. The house still clatters each morning, the calendar still crowds the wall with reminders, but something has shifted. There is more space, more air. I linger at the window a little longer, breathe more slowly, refuse to pack every minute with motion or explanation. The openness feels odd, as though I am learning to live without the old weight. There is no hurry to fill the silence.

Fragments of Obsession VI: The Art of Lingering

This is one of the things I did for fun and did it with only my memory and imagination as company. It’s an old habit: writing fragments of obsession that I started years ago and keep coming back to when I’m feeling heavy or restless. When I finished Fragments of Obsession V: What Remains of Him, I knew there was still more to figure out—more shadows, more tenderness, and more moments haunted by tragedy. So I let myself return to his rooms, his silences, and his gaze, and I wrote a few more. This is what play looks like for me now. This is not an escape but a way for me to process past experiences and to turn them into gentle longing, finally tame and set free.

Riverside

I fall behind pretending I care about the river, when all I really want to do is watch him move ahead. He never misses anything. His hands in his pockets and his shoulders tight. But then he slows down, turns around, and gives me that look, like he’s been waiting for me all his life. I see that half-smile he only gives me. It almost feels private, something he keeps to himself and lets slip just for me.

I could live in that space between us just for the thrill of him staying still and making me want to get closer. He doesn’t say my name. He never does. He stands there with his boots on, the city and river catching in the leather of his jacket, making him look both real and unattainable.

He watches every step I take. He doesn’t fill the gap. He makes me feel the anguish of wanting to be closer. He let me reach him and let me be the one to move first. He tilts his head, keeps his eyes focused and drawls softly, “Took you long enough.”

I can’t help it. I smile. Because I know I’ll always keep chasing him, and he’ll always let me find him.

His Apartment

His apartment is nothing like I imagined, though in some ways it’s exactly what I expected. There are books all over the place. Some were stacked, some were abandoned in the middle of a thought, and some had bent pages where he stopped reading. When he isn’t looking, I run my fingers along the spines and read the titles like clues. I wonder about the books he returns to, those he doesn’t finish, and the ones he holds close. I try to picture which lines he remembered and which sentences he underlined in his mind.

His boots are next to the door, with the laces loose and the toes pointing out like he kicked them off without thinking. There’s a mug on the table with a faint coffee ring drying at the bottom. I pick it up, turn it slowly, and picture his mouth there. I always do that—touch the things he touched, like maybe I can learn something from him that he doesn’t say.

A jacket hangs off the chair, slumped over and heavy in the shoulders. It looks worn out. I wonder how long it’s been carrying him like that. A scarf draped carelessly over the back, still holding the shape of his neck. I don’t touch it. I don’t want to change how he left it.

There are pictures by the window. I look at them when he’s in the other room. Family. People I don’t know. I study them for too long, trying to remember their faces and figure out where he came from and what made him who he is now. He doesn’t explain them. I don’t ask. But my mind keeps going around and around them, restless and unfulfilled. I want to know who he was before he learned how to hold back.

In the morning, sunlight spills over the rug, revealing dust, creases, and the signs of the days he’s lived without me. I see everything. The fact that he always puts his keys in the same place. The small pile of my belongings that have started to gather—a pen, a hair tie, and a notebook that I left on purpose and pretended was an accident. He never moves them.

When I sit on his couch, I pull the blanket over my legs and breathe in his scent. His smell is faint but stubbornly sticking to the fabric. There are dents in the pillows. I press my hand into the hollow and imagine how he fell asleep there on the nights he was too exhausted to care.

In his bedroom, the bed is never made. The sheets were twisted, and the blankets were half fallen to the floor. A shirt is hanging over the chair, and the sleeves are knotted like it was taken off in a hurry. I lie there and stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks and listening to the city breathe outside. Here, my body relaxes in a way it doesn’t anywhere else. Here, his hands don’t have to hold evidence, or grief, or anything but me.

At night, I watch him sleep. I memorize how he breathes, the slight pause before it settles. I tell myself that I will remember it later. That’s what I always think. Like memory is something I can stockpile.

In the morning, the light climbs the wall slowly, indifferent. I know I’ll be leaving again. I do it all the time. But I also know that I leave parts of myself behind that are too small to see but impossible to take back. A strand of hair in his bed. A warmth that stays even after my body is gone. A familiarity he’ll feel later and not know why.

His apartment is not mine. But my desire is everywhere in it. And every time I leave, I can’t help but think that I know him better through his absence than his words.

Haunted

He comes in late, and the door closes quietly behind him. He doesn’t turn on the main lights; instead, he lets the dusk hang softly between us. His shoulders are hunched under the old leather jacket, and I know right away that something heavy followed him home. I can tell by the way he takes off his boots and the silence he carries with him.

He sits on the couch, elbows on his knees, head bowed, and hands dangling. There is blood on the edge of his shirt cuff, but it might not be his. I see how his fingers flex and how he runs a hand through his hair. He’s not with me yet. Still stuck in whatever he saw and can’t say out loud.

This is how I remember him: the hollows under his eyes, the day-old stubble on his jaw, the cut on his knuckle from a door he probably shouldn’t have punched. I look at him and see the small tremor in his hands and the shallow breaths he inhaled. He stares at the wall instead of me.

He doesn’t talk about work, at least not the real stuff. But the story always creeps into the room, clinging to his skin, hair, and the distance between us. I want to reach out to him, pull the darkness off his back, and hold all the sorrow he tries to hide. But I don’t. I just watch and let myself memorize him when he’s like this: unreachable, falling apart, but still here.

He finally looks up, and there’s something wild in his eyes. A flash of pain that isn’t meant for me but finds me anyway. I take it all at once. I tell myself that if I can remember him like this, haunted and broken, then nothing the world throws at us will ever make me forget him.

So I keep watching. I let my eyes linger, wanting to see every scar and every unnamed pain. I keep watching until he starts to come back, when his breathing slows and his hands stop shaking. And when he finally looks me in the eye, it feels like apologies and resignation to survive.

Noticing What Has Changed

I feel like the question “What have you learned recently?” is simple, but when I try to answer it, I have to pause. I don’t notice most changes in my life until I look back. I go about my day, dealing with whatever comes up, without really thinking about whether I’m getting better or not. But sometimes it’s clear that something has changed. That’s what this is, an attempt to notice what’s changed or improved.

Lately, I’ve been more aware of how much space I let myself take up. I made myself small for most of my life. I only spoke up when I was sure I wouldn’t hurt anyone’s feelings. I tried to guess what people wanted, what they would put up with, and what would make me look out of place. Staying hidden can make you feel safe, but it wears you down over time. I didn’t realize that waiting for permission to share an idea, make something, or want something for myself was a choice because it had become such a habit. I don’t remember when it changed, but I do know that I don’t ask for so much approval anymore. I write or draw what I want, when I want. I publish things with my name on them sometimes, and other times I use a different name. Other times, I just leave the words on my hard drive. I don’t have to do anything for anyone. I quietly came to this realization, and it has remained with me.

I have also slowed down, both by necessity and by choice. It’s difficult to put into words how heavy this year has been. There were times when my body just gave up on me, like when I was always tired and had migraines that came out of nowhere and persisted. I quit working out. I stopped pretending that pushing myself harder would help. I waited for a while, trying to deal with the pain and uncertainty by not moving much. I did figure out the cause of my fatigue and migraines, and since then, they have improved a lot. That experience taught me to slow down and listen to my body and get the help it needed.

The worst of the symptoms have disappeared, allowing me to move again. I don’t mean that in a figurative way; I really do walk and jog more. Three kilometers, three or four times a week, and there’s no need to hurry. There isn’t any more pressure to “get fit.” I just walk. I see the trees, hear the birds, and feel my legs moving again after months of inertia. It’s normal, but it means a lot to me. It feels like returning to my skin after months of being wrecked by fatigue and pain.

Setting boundaries is still new. For years, I thought it was my job to be there for others, take on their moods, and ensure things went well. Now, I say no more often. I let people deal with their problems. I don’t explain myself as much. It doesn’t feel empowering or freeing; it’s awkward and tense at times, but it’s real. Guilt comes and goes but I let it go. I’m starting to realize that saying yes won’t fix everything.

Another lesson learned and change made: I don’t doubt my right to want things as much as I used to. For a long time, I told myself that I was easy to please and that wanting too much would only make me disappointed. It was better to keep my needs vague and not say them out loud. However, I want more lately—more peace, more meaning, a stronger connection, and more room for my writing and art. I’m not sorry for it, even though I know I won’t get everything I want. I write and create because I need to, not to please anyone or gain more followers and likes. Those things are undoubtedly flattering, but they are just a bonus.

Trust is also a big deal, especially knowing that my voice matters. I still doubt myself, especially when I write in English. The urge to hold back is still there, but I keep going. I write what I think is honest, even if it’s not perfect. I establish boundaries when necessary. I don’t pretend like I know more than I do. Sharing is a form of practice in and of itself. I don’t know if anyone is interested in what I have to say. It doesn’t matter as much now; I just write and create.

Routine is what keeps me grounded. My days are typically plain. I get up, do what needs to be done, take a morning walk or jog, cook, read, draw, and write. Repetition is comforting. Things that used to be trivial are now important, like how the light changes during the day, the sound of rain in the morning, or a quick note from a friend. I don’t ignore these things anymore. I remember days by their texture and temperature and not by what I accomplished.

There’s nothing dramatic about the last few months. The most significant changes are internal, and I can’t see them unless I write them down. I’m not as interested in what looks appealing as I am in what feels right and true. I still mess up and sometimes I fall back into old habits. I’m not sure if there’s a lesson here at all. It’s just a slow process of living and noticing what’s different.

If you asked me a year ago what I’d learn, I wouldn’t have guessed any of this. Most things happen without a plan. They reveal themselves in silence after the fact, when I look up and realize I’m not in the same place anymore.

What Sparks My Admiration in Others

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There are many qualities people celebrate in this world: confidence, achievement, ambition, and charm. I understand why those traits draw attention, but the things that spark my admiration are usually less noticeable, simpler, and harder to measure. I’m drawn to people who move through life in a steady, consistent way that is easy to miss. Their strength is not loud or dramatic. It does not demand attention. You feel it more than you see it, and it appears in small, everyday moments.

One quality I admire deeply is quiet strength. Some people carry difficult histories, but they never turn their pain into a performance. They don’t talk about what they have survived or how exhausting their days can be. They wake up and continue living with purpose. They make thoughtful choices. They speak gently even when life has not been kind to them. This kind of strength does not need recognition to exist. It reminds me that courage isn’t always fierce or loud. Sometimes it sits in the background, unnoticed but ever present.

I also admire consistency. There are people who show up the same way regardless of what season they are in. They do not disappear when things become complicated, and they do not change their personality based on convenience. Their presence feels reliable, like a rhythm you can return to when everything else feels uncertain. Consistency requires emotional maturity and the willingness to take responsibility for your actions, which is why it is uncommon. When someone carries the same sincerity on ordinary days as they do on meaningful ones, it leaves an impression on me. It feels like witnessing integrity as a lived practice rather than an idea.

Another quality I value is the ability to handle emotional weight with grace. These are people who can sit through difficult conversations without becoming defensive or dismissive. They try to be honest with themselves and acknowledge their shortcomings instead of hiding behind excuses. They grow without needing applause. They apologize when they hurt anyone. They listen carefully and speak clearly. Seeing someone go through life with this level of emotional awareness feels like observing wisdom in action. It encourages me to reflect on my habits and to grow at a pace that feels true to me.

Another thing that draws me in is depth. I admire people who see the world in layers rather than quick snapshots. They pay attention to little things, like how the light moves through a window at a certain time of day, how someone’s tone changes when they’re trying to hide their sadness, or the meaning behind a seemingly ordinary gesture. They remember things that other people forget. They ask sincere questions because they want to understand, not because they want to impress. You can tell that they are really paying attention. Being around them feels like exploring something together rather than exchanging information. I appreciate how they make room for complexity without turning it into confusion.

Authenticity is another trait I hold in high regard. I respect people who remain true to themselves even when the world pressures them to fit into narrow definitions of success, beauty, or worth. They do not pretend or shrink themselves to gain approval. They do not hide the parts of themselves that feel different. Living this way honestly takes courage, especially in environments that reward conformity. When I meet someone who seems comfortable in their skin, it reminds me to honor my path. Their presence gives others permission to be real as well.

These traits all share one thing: they don’t relate to performance. They show who they are slowly, through small actions instead of big ones. They come from character rather than image. They are lived, not displayed. I admire them because they feel human in a world that moves too rapidly for humanity. These qualities remind me of the kind of person I want to be: steady, focused, brave enough to change, and honest enough to stay true to myself.

Admiration is a gentle emotion. It comes softly, and I don’t always notice it right away. It happens when I see how someone deals with the stress of everyday life and how they cope with uncertainty. It also happens when I see how someone treats people who can’t provide them anything in return. It grows when kindness doesn’t seek attention and when strength doesn’t seek reward. It deepens whenever someone chooses integrity even when no one is watching.

When I contemplate what makes me admire something, I always come back to how simple it is. I like how people carry themselves. I admire the choices they make when it would be easier to pick something else. I notice moments where truth matters more than convenience. These are the qualities that remain with me. They might seem small at first glance, but they become meaningful when you truly see them.

Antu Ngarung | The Guardian Spirit That Shapes My Iban Identity

In Iban belief, the souls of those who die go to Sebayan, the afterworld. Some remain there permanently, but certain individuals are believed to return. These are people who lived with exceptional courage or accomplishment during their lifetime. When these ancestors come back, they do not appear as humans. They come ngarung, meaning concealed, taking the form of animals. These returning spirits are called tua, or guardian spirits.

In the Saribas region, guardian spirits are often seen as snakes such as cobras or pythons. They move quietly, stay in the shadows, and leave without drawing attention. When I picture antu ngarung, I always imagine a cobra coiled in the dark corner of a house or at the edge of the forest. It stays still for a long time and slips away the moment it decides to leave. To many people, it would be just an ordinary animal. To us, it can be an ancestor paying a visit.

A guardian spirit usually belongs to an entire lineage. Because of that connection, the family must never harm or eat the animal that represents their guardian. This is a form of respect. The belief is straightforward: the guardian protects the family, and the family must protect the guardian’s form on earth.

In my family, our guardian is the kijang, the Bornean yellow muntjac. When I was four or five, my late grandparents reminded us repeatedly never to harm, kill, or eat kijang. They did not offer long explanations, but the message was clear. Someone in our line was once a brave person, and that ancestor is believed to return as the kijang to watch over us.

That instruction frightened me growing up. I was afraid I might break the rule by accident. I used to remind myself to always ask what kind of meat was being served when we visited people. At that age, it felt like a tremendous responsibility. Over time, the fear changed. I started to feel that my life was connected to something older and larger than myself. I also realised that this experience was not common among many non-Iban communities, which made me value my heritage even more.

The belief in the kijang has shaped the way I understand myself. It gives me a sense of courage. I am still afraid of many things, but this belief keeps me steady. It reminds me that my ancestors lived through hardship, violence, and uncertainty. My problems today are nothing like what they endured. I often tell myself to live in a way that does not dishonor the people who came before me. I exist today because they survived so much. That thought helps me face difficult moments.

When I imagine the kijang watching me now, I think it sees a woman who lives differently from the Iban women of earlier generations. My lifestyle and interests are not the same. Yet I believe it recognises my effort to understand my roots. It may also encourage me to continue forging my own path even when no one else in my family is doing this kind of work. Many women in my family excel in traditional crafts like beadwork and weaving, but none of them are writers. I have to accept that I may be the first woman in my family to preserve our heritage through writing. Someone younger in the future may look at my work the way I once looked at my namesake, the master weaver. Remembering this keeps me going, even when the work feels lonely.

This leads to something important.

We risk losing our identity when we do not learn about our heritage. The loss does not happen suddenly. It happens slowly. We begin identifying more with other cultures. We forget the meaning behind our names, our customs, and our stories. When we fail to protect what we inherit, we leave an empty space that can be filled by influences that do not reflect who we are. This is happening in many communities around the world, and the Iban are no exception.

Iban identity will not endure by chance. It survives because someone chooses to learn, write, document, and share it. It stays alive when people believe their heritage is worth protecting. It continues when people care enough to ask questions and remember the stories their elders passed down.

Our ancestors returned as antu ngarung for a reason. We owe it to them to honor the heritage they entrusted to us.

What Beserara’ Bungai Taught Me About Letting Go

I used to think that rituals like beserara’ bungai were just old traditions that had no place in today’s world. Growing up, I believed they belonged to the past. I thought the Iban needed to leave them behind to move forward. Whenever elders talked about these beliefs, I felt restless. My world revolved around progress, education, and the principles of organized religion. I didn’t see the value of rituals, and I never took the time to understand what they really meant.

That mindset began to shift—slowly at first, then more clearly—as I read more about the Iban worldview. It wasn’t emotion or nostalgia that changed me, but understanding. I began to see that the Iban learned about life by watching the natural world. They noticed patterns in nature and connected them to how we live. For example, they saw how bamboo and banana plants grow in clusters. Each shoot is part of a single root system underground. If one shoot is unhealthy, it affects the others. When one dies, the root still supports new life. Death was not an ending but part of the cycle. This wasn’t superstition, but wisdom based on careful observation.

The bungai, the “plant-image” that represents each Iban person in the cosmic realm of Menjaya (the god of healing), began to make sense to me. I understood how it symbolized family and community. Each person is like a shoot, but we all come from the same root. When someone passes, the rest carry on, still connected. New life can grow from the same source. It’s a way of seeing life that is deeply connected and respectful of nature. The ancestors weren’t imagining things—they were describing the interconnected world they knew.

As I learned more, I started to feel a quiet pride in where I come from. I discovered that my ancestors included warriors and raja berani, people whose stories are still told in my family. I began to understand that even though I live far from my homeland, I am still part of that root system. This connection also extends to my children. They may not know all the customs or speak the language well, but the roots are still there. They are part of something that has been passed down through generations.

When I learned about beserara’ bungai, the ritual that separates the living from the dead, I felt something shift in me. This ritual is about care—not forgetting what we have lost. It helps both the living and the dead let go so they don’t hold each other back. The living need to keep moving forward, and the dead need peace on their journey to Sebayan. It’s a ritual of compassion that affirms the connection with the dead even as they journey on to the otherworld.

This understanding arrived at a time when I was wrestling with my own spiritual ties. I had been part of the same church community for many years. It shaped how I saw God, faith, and morality. But as I grew older, those teachings started to feel burdensome. I found myself questioning doctrines that encouraged separation from people who did not meet certain standards of spirituality. I began noticing the tension between fear-based expectations and the compassion-centered teachings of Jesus in the Gospels. As I continued to question, the burden of belonging to a system that no longer aligned with my conscience intensified.

Learning about beserara’ bungai gave me words for what I was feeling. I realized I was trying to protect my spirit. I wasn’t leaving faith behind—I was returning to what felt true. Jesus became the real rootstock. I wanted a faith grounded in his teachings: kindness, justice, presence, love, and compassion—not fear or guilt. I needed space to grow without feeling judged by a community that often equated questions with spiritual instability.

In a way, I’m experiencing my own kind of separation from the church rootstock. It is not a rejection of my past or of the people who have been a huge part of my life for the past two decades. It is a necessary separation so I can continue growing without feeling suffocated by expectations that no longer fit the life I am trying to build. I’m holding onto what still nourishes me and letting go of what drains me. The Iban worldview helped me understand that letting go can be a way of protecting both myself and the things I want to keep alive.

The more I reflect on it, the more I hope my children learn something different from what I learned in my early years of faith. I hope they are not afraid to ask questions. I hope they do not feel inferior in front of people who sound knowledgeable but speak without warmth. I want them to grow into a faith that welcomes curiosity, thoughtfulness, and conscience. I want them to recognize that their connection to God is direct, personal, and rooted in compassion—not fear. I want them to inherit a sense of strength that comes from understanding where they come from, both culturally and spiritually.

As I learn more about rituals like beserara’ bungai, I’ve come to understand that my ancestors didn’t divide life into “spiritual” and “ordinary.” Everything was connected. Life, death, nature, community, and spirit were all part of one whole. That way of seeing the world teaches me to live with care and humility. It shows me that letting go can be a loving act, and returning to our roots can take courage.

The Bungai: Ancestry, Identity, and the Iban Connection to Nature

The Iban believe that the self is not limited to the body or the soul that wanders in dreams. Our ancestors believed that each person has a bungai, which is a plant-image that lives in the invisible world of Manang Menjaya, the god of healing. This plant-image takes the form of bamboo or banana and grows in clumps from a single rootstock. It is a powerful way of understanding human life. The bungai grows, strengthens, weakens, dies, and falls to the ground, just as a person does.

When I first heard about this idea, it stuck with me for days. It helped me see the forest differently and understand why the Iban imagine the community the way they do. In this worldview, no one grows alone. We rise from the same source. Relationships, ancestry, and connections we can’t see hold us together in ways that go far beyond our personal stories. This belief feels very grounding at a time when many of us feel adrift or disconnected.

The choice of bamboo and banana is meaningful. These plants do not grow by themselves. They grow in clumps, called bepumpun. A single shoot is part of a larger body that gets its nutrients from the same soil and root. Every shoot has its own height, shape, and direction, but they all come from the same source. This is how the Iban once understood family. A family is one clump. A longhouse community is made up of many clumps. The forest itself becomes a reflection of the social world.

This is not a metaphor for the sake of beauty. People who live close to the land learn its pattern by observing it daily. The Iban watched how plants behave, how they survive storms, and how they keep growing new shoots even after the old ones fall off. The Iban were shaped by the rainforest, and it was a teacher, a mirror, and a guide.

The bungai makes this idea clearer. It shows us that each person is both unique and part of a lineage. A child is a new shoot from an old rootstock. The state of one shoot affects the whole clump. The well-being of the entire garden reflects the condition of the longhouse. No one exists apart from the others who stand beside them. Even in the unseen world, the Iban imagined people living bepumpun, connected through generations, place, memory, and spiritual obligations.

I find this comforting. There were times in my life when I felt distant from my roots. Leaving home for school, work and marriage created gaps I did not understand at the time. I lived away from Sarawak for many years. I felt as though I was a shoot attempting to thrive in soil that was not my own. Learning about the bungai made me see that the rootstock never disappears. The connection stays even after we leave. We are still held by the unseen garden. It doesn’t matter how far someone travels; the lineage remains.

Another thing I appreciate about the bungai is how it reflects emotional and spiritual states. The bungai becomes weaker when a person is sick. It withers when the soul wanders. This worldview recognizes how closely the body, mind, and emotions are connected. It respects how complicated it is to be human. A withered feeling is not seen as weakness but as a sign that the self needs care, grounding, or healing. Manang Menjaya is responsible for this realm, taking care of the gardens of human life like a healer tends to the sick. It is a gentle belief shaped by compassion.

The idea that the bungai falls when someone dies is also meaningful. The clump remains alive and ready to push a new shoot upward for the next generation. The rootstock stays strong. The lineage continues. There is sorrow, but there is also continuity. The living remain connected to those who came before them.

When I reflect on this, I see how the bungai offers us a way to think about community in today’s world. Many of us live far from home. Some grow up with mixed heritage, navigating several identities at once. Some people don’t feel connected to their language, their land, or their family’s history. The bungai concept reminds us that belonging isn’t just about being close to someone physically. It also has to do with our shared ancestry, memories, and the unseen ties that still hold us together.

The forest shows us that we can’t survive alone. Bamboo stands because the clump stands. A community stays together because its roots are strong. Long before the words “ecology” or “sustainability” were even used, our ancestors knew this. They practiced it when they built longhouses, shared food, and worked the land. They lived in a world where the rhythms of nature and community supported each other.

Writing about the bungai feels like returning to a memory I never knew I had. It combines culture, spirituality, and nature in a way that feels very Iban. It makes me think of how our people used to observe the forest, learn its patterns, and keep it in balance. The bungai is more than just a spiritual idea. It is a way of looking at life that sees it as connected, continuous, and held by something greater than the self.

I want to honor this understanding as I continue working on my cultural projects. I want the Iban in the diaspora, those growing up with mixed heritage, and those rediscovering their language again to know that our roots are still alive, even when we feel far from them. The bungai reminds us that we come from the same source, and the clump endures.

One Clump
If we were bamboo,
we would be one rootstock.
Two shoots from the same source
fed by the same unseen tenderness
running under everything.

You would lean into me
when the wind turns,
and I would hold fast
with a strength drawn
from the ground we share.

A clump is a world.
A home where no stalk stands alone.
Each one rises
because the others do.
The root simply refuses
to forget a single one.

I want that with you—
a belonging without effort.
Our lives rising
from the same dark earth,
so that even Menjaya
counting lives in his garden,
would find us together.

If you falter, I stand closer.
If you bend, I become your spine.
We are two lives
shaped by each other’s nearness.

If we are a clump, love,
then we are one living thing—
one root,
one anchor,
one quiet refusal
to ever rise alone.

Aji Apai Limpa: The Ancestor I Wish I Could Meet

Image source

Some mornings begin with a calm sense of familiarity. The air is still cool from the night when I step outside. Dew gathers on the grass, clinging to each blade as if it has been waiting there. In Iban, we call it ambun, and I grew up believing that it is more than moisture. We believe that ambun holds memories and also the substance of our ancestors that find their way back into the living world. The elders in my family often spoke about the cycle of the soul. This belief is deeply held among the Saribas Iban, where my ancestors lived. When someone dies, their soul travels to Sebayan, the land of the dead, traditionally believed to be located at Batang Mandai in Kapuas, West Kalimantan, Borneo. Life in Sebayan mirrors life here. Souls continue living in longhouses, planting rice, raising families, and keeping the same rhythms they once had on earth.

This cycle is not eternal. The soul is believed to live and die seven times. After the seventh death, whatever remains dissolves into a fine mist that falls back to earth as ambun. The dew is especially meaningful at the end of the dry season, when families complete their planting and the land waits for water. The ambun nourishes the young paddy shoots, feeding the next generation. It is a beautiful belief, one I never questioned when I was young. I simply accepted that those who had gone before us returned quietly each morning. When I saw thick dew on the grass, I thought of people I loved who were no longer here, finding their way back to us through the rice we depended on.

I have been thinking about this belief again today because of a simple question from a blog prompt: If you could meet a historical figure, who would it be, and why? It is a straightforward question for most people, but for me, it brings up a feeling I can only describe as longing. In the history of the Iban, the figure I would choose is not distant. He is not a king, a philosopher, or someone from a faraway land. He is my ancestor. My great-great-great-grandfather, Aji Apai Limpa.

Aji was a well-known war leader of the Saribas Iban in the mid-nineteenth century. Between 1854 and 1858, he led his warriors against the advancing rule of the second White Rajah, Charles Brooke. His resistance was fierce and relentless. He died in 1858 in a battle at Sg. Langit. His bravery was not only remembered; it was immortalized in the oral traditions of the Iban. The lemambang (bards) recited his name in their ritual poetry. His courage became part of the narrative of our people, carried through chants and invocations, passed from one generation to the next.

If I could meet him, I would not meet him as a historical figure. I would meet him as an ancestor whose choices shaped the path that eventually led to me. I wonder what he was like as a person outside of battle. I wonder what he feared, what he hoped for, and what drove him to carry responsibility that heavy. The written records focus on warfare and resistance, but I imagine a man who also worried about his people, who made decisions that weighed on him, a man who had moments of doubt and understood that his actions would have consequences beyond his lifetime.

I would ask him what courage meant to him. I would ask him what it felt like to stand in front of his warriors and lead them into danger. I would ask him how he held his ground when the world around him was changing. And I would want to know what he thought about the legacy he would leave behind. There are times when people describe me as sharp or strong-willed, and I think about where those traits may have come from. Perhaps those traits were passed down from him to me, just as ambun returns to nourish the young paddy shoots without anyone noticing.

I think about the belief in Sebayan and how it shapes the way I imagine meeting him. I do not picture a physical meeting. I see it more as a recognition, something that happens inwardly through the echoes that live within us. When I feel the urge to protect my roots or speak about my heritage, I think that he might be part of that voice. The belief that the soul returns as dew makes the idea of connection feel less abstract. If ambun holds the last traces of our ancestors, we may encounter them repeatedly through the land, the rice, and the aspects of ourselves that seem older than our years.

The blog prompt seems simple, but it opens a deeper reflection for me. Meeting a historical figure means meeting someone who has shaped the world you inherited. For me, that figure is not distant or symbolic. He is the ancestor whose bloodline runs through mine, whose story lives on in my people’s poetry, and whose bravery still affects how I live my life.

When the ambun is heavy on the grass in the morning, I think about the souls who have traveled their full journey through Sebayan and returned to nourish the living. I imagine Aji among them. I think that in some small way, he is still here, still part of the cycle that continues without end. And in that sense, the meeting I long for might already be happening in the early morning, when the world is still and the dew falls softly on the ground.

The Traditional Path of an Iban Weaver

Among the Iban, weaving has always been a measure of a woman’s place in the community. The knowledge is passed down from mother to daughter, usually when a girl enters her teenage years. She learns each stage with patience: preparing cotton yarn, tying the threads, selecting designs, and working through the complex dyeing process. Every step includes a ritual to maintain balance with the spirit world. A weaver must be skilled, but she must also be spiritually open in order to progress. Through weaving, she learns how to approach the unseen forces that shape her life as a woman and as an artist.

A weaver must follow the traditional sequence of learning. If she attempts skills before she is ready, she risks falling into layu, a state of spiritual deadness. Elders say this condition can affect both the mind and body, and once it takes hold, death is believed to be the only release. Every Iban woman understands this danger, so she approaches her craft with devotion and deep caution.

Pua kumbu is a way to understand a woman’s status. Her rank depends on the dyes she uses, the complexity of her patterns, the precision of her technique, and her relationship with the spiritual world. A pua is not judged by beauty alone. It reflects the weaver’s inner state, her discipline, and the spiritual guidance she receives. Even though many Iban families today have adopted modern beliefs, the traditional criteria for judging a pua still hold meaning. The rituals and techniques behind each piece continue to define its value.

There are several ranks within the weaving world. At the first level are women who do not weave, called Indu Asi Indu Ai or Indu Paku Indu Tubu. They may not come from weaving families or may lack the resources to learn. Much of their time is spent farming and managing household life, and they cannot afford the labour or materials needed for weaving.

The next group consists of women known for their hospitality, called Indu Temuai Indu Lawai. These women usually have enough rice, help, and stability to weave simple designs. With guidance from others, they can produce basic patterns such as creepers or bamboo motifs.

A novice learns within strict boundaries set by tradition. She begins with a small piece of cloth and a simple pattern called buah randau takong randau. She may only weave a cloth that is fifty kayu in width. As her skills improve, she increases the width of her work. By her tenth pua, she will reach a width of 109 kayu. These rules are deeply respected, as they are believed to originate from the spirit world.

When a woman becomes skillful, she is known as Indu Sikat Indu Kebat. She can weave recognised patterns but cannot create her own. Her designs come from motifs passed down through her ancestry. If she wishes to learn new patterns, she must make ritual payment to a more experienced weaver in exchange for permission to use them.

A higher rank is held by the Indu Nengkebang Indu Muntang. She is able to invent new designs, often revealed to her through dreams. She has the ability to attempt complex and spiritually demanding motifs. Her community respects her greatly, and she wears a porcupine quill tied with red thread as a mark of distinction. Other weavers pay her well for new motifs.

At the top of the hierarchy is the Indu Takar Indu Ngar. She is a master dyer, a master weaver, and a ritual specialist. She understands the exact balance of mordants and natural dyes and knows how to fix colour to cotton successfully. Many people know the basic ingredients, but only those with spiritual guidance can complete the process with precision. Her knowledge is both technical and sacred.

To reach this level, a woman must excel in all areas of weaving and dyeing. She must also receive recognition from the spiritual world. This acknowledgment often comes in dreams, which serve as both initiation and confirmation. Sometimes another person dreams on her behalf, affirming her role. Many women at this level come from long lines of weavers and dyers, inheriting designs, dye knowledge, charms, and the support of ancestors whose status once brought additional labour to their families. This allows her to devote herself fully to her craft.

The Indu Takar Indu Ngar is responsible for the ritual preparations of the mordant bath. The ceremony includes animal sacrifice, offerings, and prayer. It is known as kayau indu, or women’s warfare. The ritual is private and demanding, and the leader must be courageous. If she loses control of the spiritual forces present, she risks falling into layu. Her bravery is regarded as equal to that of a warrior.

She also plays an important role in public ceremonies. During Gawai Burong, she scatters glutinous rice at the ceremonial pole. During Gawai Antu, she prepares garong baskets to honour the master weavers of earlier generations. When she dies, her funeral is filled with praise, and her worth is compared to that of a prized jar. Her husband receives honour as well.

Every pua kumbu carries the status of its weaver. Its complexity, width, ritual purpose, and intended use shape its value. Pua kumbu textiles accompany every stage of life and death for those who still observe traditional Iban practices. Each design is tied to a specific ritual, and the ritual gains its character from the cloth chosen for it. This is why pua kumbu remains central to the spiritual life of Iban women.