my collection

I remember when my mum bought me my first notebook. I was a pensive 5-year-old. 

She taught me how to write my name, how to write my home address. I felt like an adult, because when I saw my parents filling up forms, I knew what they were writing and I knew I could write the exact same thing. 


One weekend, my parents brought us to a national park on the outskirts of Kuching. We stayed in a cosy chalet, surrounded by majestic trees so tall, that I strained my neck trying to spot the highest branch. 

I don't remember much, yet this particular memory remains vivid: 

I remember walking out to balcony. The cool air, the sound of crickets, looking at each tree; from the old gnarly ones to the ones with trunks I could never wrap my arms around. 


Then I stepped on a dead leaf and it crackled under my tiny feet. I looked down and picked it up. I saw others scattered on the balcony. I picked another one. Soon I had a little collection of dead leaves. All this time, my mum was watching.

She joined me. She brought my notebook with her. She took one leaf and pressed in between the pages of my notebook. I watched her, my eyes wide with curiousity. She told me to pick a colour pencil, in any colour I liked. I took one in brown, to match the leaf. 

With the leaf behind a page of my notebook, she started shading. As a 5-year-old, it sure did look like magic when the veins of the leaf showed up on paper. She then did it with a different leaf. By this time, I was sorting through my newly found leaf archive to try it myself. Soon I was lost in a world of colours and textures. She encouraged me each time. 

"Jo, write about it."
"Okay.. Tell me what to write, mummy."
"Write about the leaf. Write about the trees it came from. Anything you like."
"Can I? Can you teach me how, mummy?"
"No, it needs to be your words, not mine. But, if you can't find the words, then you can try draw instead."
"But I don't know what to draw. What should I write, mummy?" 

She smiled. 

"What do you want to call these collection of leaf pictures you just did, Jo?"

I thought long and hard. 

I named it 'My Collection'. 

I was quite proud of myself for using a "big" word [totally disregarding the fact that I only knew it because my mum said it first]. When I printed the words on the front of my first notebook, I felt a sense of achievement. 

"Jo, from now on, use this notebook to record anything that comes to your mind. Share it with mummy or daddy, if you like. Write whatever you like, draw whatever you like. Use this notebook. Okay?"

I nodded. 

My mind was scrambling for ideas. I was always trying to think of something to add to my notebook. Some days it would fill up fast. Some days I'd just forget about it. 

And that was the prelude to my love for writing. 

It started with leaves.