Colour. I want colour. Not always. Sometimes. Not always but sometimes.

The hysterectomy was a wake up call of sorts. Not only has my body changed but my outlook on life as well. Not too much but a little.

While I was recuperating, I thought that I would once again pursue some of those dreams that I left behind years ago such as my dancing and playing the piano. The dance lessons have yet to happen again but I have -- although not always faithfully -- started to play the piano once again. We bought a second-hand piano, a slightly flawed but beautiful piano that serves me well whenever I remember, or want to, practice old music pieces that were familiar to me, as well as learning new pieces to exercise my mind and fingering. It can be a challenge at times and I know how true it is that "practice makes perfect." There are no short cuts; one cannot shirk one's duty of constantly practicing if one wants to be able to play it well. I am still not a good and faithful student -- relearning on my own -- but I believe I am a better student now than when I was years ago. I suppose growing older does that to you. Do it now before it's too late, that sort of thing.

No doubt it wasn't a complicated surgery, and no doubt it was a procedure that happened to thousands of women, young and old. But it was my first surgery so it meant something to me. Not to make a big to-do about it but it opened my eyes, it made me more aware of how fragile life really was. My husband was waiting outside whilst I was in the Operating Room and later, while I was in the Recovery Room for what seemed like ages, he broke the rules and barged into the Recovery area to find out how I was doing. No one had updated him on how I was doing nor could he find anyone to ask. Apparently, my room still wasn't ready and I was kept in the Recovery Room for a few hours, much longer than was usual. As tired as I was and amidst a momentary confusion, I recognised the blurred outline of his face (since I was minus my spectacles) as he came close to my bed -- worry on his face and anxiety in his voice -- and I either said, "You shouldn't be here" or perhaps it was, "What are you doing here?" Even then, I knew that his presence was of some concern. But love makes one do the strangest of things sometimes, even risking being arrested for trespassing. Once he knew I was all right, my husband made his exit and exchanged a few polite words with security personnel who obviously understood his distress. Thank God for that.

For a while after the surgery, all I could think was that I would love to wear the colour red again or wear it more often. I kept seeing red in my head. Not just a dark red but a brighter, cheerier red. A different sort of red. More often. Pink even. Cheerful colours. Yes, even some of the bright colours that I usually stayed away from because there were times when I would rather recede into the background. Perhaps it was because I felt old all of a sudden. Older. Something had been taken away from me and I felt that one way to overcome that loss was to perk myself up by wearing colours that I wasn't normally known for wearing. They were just clothes, after all. Why was it such a big deal? It wasn't really but it occupied my mind for a while, I have to admit.

The thought of colour, cheerful, vibrant, flattering colours popped into my head more than a few times. Just like the city lights at night -- which I always found quite soothing -- colour meant life. Active. Still alive. Perhaps that was what I was trying to convey to myself.

The dream of dancing has occupied my mind once again. Ballet, modern, maybe even flamenco. Perhaps I'm being a tad ambitious. Time will tell. And I know that my fingers enjoy playing the black and ivory keyboard once again. I'll never be a dancer nor a pianist. But I will settle for being an adult beginner all over again in my pursuit of the arts. Perhaps I may even take up a new hobby of building dollhouses since they still hold a fascination for me. After all, I enjoy working with details even though my eyes may not be up for it for too long. And another cross-stitch project waiting for me in an old shoebox. There I go dreaming yet again. But at least I still have dreams. I am still alive. I can still be productive.

So I will start small. And start slowly. But at least I have started. For life is short indeed. And this is the gift of life. I mustn't forget that.