I attended a birthday party recently, and it was one of the best that I've been to in a while. The food was excellent; the music was great, and the company, even better.
Never mind that the combined ages of the 40 friends and family members who were in the Chinese restaurant’s private dining room easily exceeded 2000. (Except for a handful of teenagers, most of the guests were, to put it gently, well over 40.)
We didn’t all know one another. But we were united in our reason for being there: to celebrate my Aunt Daisy’s 70th birthday.
When she stepped into the room and smiled warmly at everyone there with wet eyes, I couldn’t help tearing a little too.
This was my favourite aunt. She used to babysit my sisters and me when we were little.
She’d take us for walks to see the ducks and chickens that a neighbour down the street had in his yard. Sometimes she’d take us to the nearby night market, that would be set up on Friday and Saturday evenings, and buy us little treats.
She loved children. It was why she chose to become a teacher and stayed in the profession until she retired. But retirement didn’t stop her from continuing to do what she loved.
She still teaches catechism from home, is active in church, and she’s been helping a friend who runs a special reading and writing programme for young children for several years. At 70, she is always busy, and has friends of all ages and from all walks of life.
The party had been organized by several of the guests. Music had been specially selected so that we could all sing along and dance to golden oldies.
A group of her friends got together to sing a song about one of her recipes.
Another relative, who is a nun, read out a humorous but loving prayer for many more birthdays to come.
One of her teenaged godsons, who had been born with a complicated medical condition and had not been expected to survive childhood, played the violin to thank her for her prayers and constant loving support.
It was the most untraditional Chinese sit-down dinner I’ve been to.
They were simply celebrating. Not just the occasion, but life.
We sang along to songs like Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round The Old Oak Tree and Knock Three Times while tucking into special marinated duck stuffed with chestnuts, and abalone with steamed vegetables. Lyrics were mischievously changed to suit the mood, and we rapped on the table to keep time with the music.
The songs that were played brought back so many memories for me. They were songs that my dad and my aunts used to listen to on the radio when I was little. Back then, we all lived as an extended family in my late grandmother’s seven-bedroom bungalow, and music was very much a part of our lives.
And then the dancing began. At 70, my Aunt Daisy can put much younger people to shame with her stamina on the dance floor. She did the cha-cha, the two-step and even the a-go-go with every man in the room. And Dad, who is 80, boogied right along with her.
It was riotous, rollicking good fun.
Even members of the service staff were tickled. They kept finding excuses to keep coming into the room. And who could blame them?
The music, the singing, the dancing and the laughter were infectious. Most of all, the feelings of love and joy in there were real and powerful.
That power, I realized, was the power of living in the moment.
And as I watched Dad and Aunt Daisy dancing, I marvelled at the example that they were unconsciously setting for everyone in the room.
They didn’t worry about what others might say about their “undignified” behaviour. Neither did they bother about the aches and pains tomorrow would bring.
They were simply celebrating. Not just the occasion, but life.
