Slowly, so slowly that we never even noticed how it happened, our family stopped talking to each other. Our own worlds opened up to us through the computer or the cell phone or the CD player.

Family Night was born when Mom called us for dinner. Jessica and I came and sat down. Dad loaded his plate and started to rise from the table.

“Where are you going?” Mom questioned.

“To the living room. I have some work,” Dad replied as he hurried away. Mom’s face got tight, but she said nothing. About two minutes later, my cell phone buzzed. Jessica kept her earphones on during most of the meal. Mom was clearly upset.

Family Night started the next week. Mom established three rules: no phones, no music, and no leaving the table. Everyone would eat together and play a game together “like a real family.”

All seemed to be going according to Mom’s plan until the first buzz of a cell phone. After dinner, we had been playing the board game for only ten minutes when another cell phone let out a shrill scream. This time the phone belonged to my father.

“Work’s calling. I have to answer,” he whispered as he hurried out of the room.

Mom sighed, but she forced a smile and encouraged us to continue with the game. We kept playing through every interruption afterwards: the beeping of Jessica’s phone, the buzz of another text message from Darnell, the soothing voice announcing the arrival of an e-mail on Dad’s computer. When the game was over, Mom released us to our rooms.

That first Family Night was not a success, but Mom soldiered on. Every Monday evening we silenced our electronics and gathered around the table; and each time, setting aside our technological toys became a little easier. The next two months my father would be taking business trips. We wouldn’t be able to have Family Night every Monday.

To my surprise I realized that I would miss those few hours each week when the house was filled with my family’s laughter and conversation. I was also glad to know that when we really wanted to, we could silence the electronic buzz and just be a family again.

It was another day of class. As the students practiced parkour (跑酷), a mother and her child walked past. “What are they doing, mum?” the child asked. “They are putting themselves in danger and it is something I will never want you to do,” the mother replied.

I drew back with worry and painful acceptance. What has happened to the natural love of movement in humans, and what will happen to the future generations when technology and convenience are controlling our daily lives?

We recently had a Parkour for Everyone workshop at Bishan. I remember very clearly when Fagan was giving instructions to a group, a young child ran up to a tall pillar (柱子) and started to climb it till a high height with a 2-metre drop. Of course, Fagan called him back due to safety concerns. But deep down, I knew a lot of us were smiling within. Such natural bravery is admired and in my opinion, is a must for achieving success in life.

Parkour is starting to get popular, but many parents do not understand it. Even I hesitate when I tell them I am a parkour coach. I can see their wonder, fear, or dislike. I get tired of explaining its life-changing benefits. Actually, there is a deeper meaning behind why parkour is practised. There is a huge surge of physical and emotional freedom that comes along with its practice.

Fortunately, times are changing. If the parents who do not like this art are positively changed by it, there will be no more doubt in the power that parkour can bring to man. My hope is that the day will come when it is common for parents to put aside electronic products and spend time moving and playing with their children in the open field. Children will grow in imagination and confidence, learning more about the spirit of play.

My mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s (老年痴呆症)last summer. Suddenly, it was difficult for me to accept that the roles were now changed—my mother became my child, and I became her mother. I became impatient, argued with her, once I even yelled at her. Gradually, I was used to this kind of life. Now I am able to deal with her and the situation better. I have learned a lot of life lessons from the experience.

My mother reacts very sensitively to my feelings. That is typical of Alzheimer’s patients. When I visit her, feeling busy and tense, she reacts immediately, takes on my mood, and becomes nervous and negative. But when I appear cheerful and attentive, she is happy. This has taught me to pay more attention to my own feelings when I am with other people.

I always thought I was very tolerant, but in reality, my tolerance ran out as soon as someone turned away from what I considered “right”. With my mother I can now really be tolerant. Through her illness she has developed a childlike tactlessness(不得体). Eating out in restaurants, for example, is a bit embarrassing when she shouts at the waiter that the food is so bad or talks about people at the next table in a loud voice. Of course I make sure that my mother doesn’t hurt anyone, but I’ve stopped complaining about others and have become more tolerant.

I have also learned that everything has special value. When my mother got sick I didn’t want to burden my two daughters with it. They are young and have enough going on with their education, and starting their careers. I felt that it was simply my job as my mother’s daughter. The most wonderful discovery I’ve made through my mother’s disease may be that my children not only offer to help me when they sense that I’m feeling unbearable, but that they take care of my mother on their own actively. They visit her often, play cards with her, and look at photo albums together with her. It shows me that it’s all worth it.