To Noah

You’re turning four today, Noah. And how my heart wishes that New Jersey is not as far as an eighteen-hour plane ride away. I terribly miss your smile, your bright smiling eyes, the warmth of your hugs. What I wouldn’t give to have you in front of me. You’d probably look at me with mischief in your eyes and playfully reach for my ear and then giggle—something you enjoy doing for some inexplicable reason.
I am waiting for the day when I could finally talk to you—ask you what you did at school or why you like listening to Barney, or how come you are fond of touching my ears. I will ask you about your favorite book, what you dreamt of the previous night, how you like your hot chocolate—with or without marshmallows? I will talk to you until you tire of Tita Beng pestering you with so many questions. But while that day has yet to happen, let me think about you and tell the whole world how crazy I am about you. Happy birthday, NOAH!

Writing at Midnight

I’ve written more than a few pieces, beaten more than a few deadlines, kept vigil in front of my Dell more than a few midnights already. If Cinderella leaves the ball lest her gown turns to rags at the strike of midnight, then I follow the reverse order. I could slip on my gown, enter the ballroom, and dance, figuratively that is, when the short hand and the long hand of the clock meet at the number 12.

So what letters do my short fingers gently tap? What thoughts will my mind allow me to make public? What feelings will my heart allow to surface? A line flits by my head . . .

"Above all else, guard your heart for it is the wellspring of life.*"

This verse from Proverbs is highlighted in my Bible. I couldn’t recall the exact time and under what circumstances the felt-tipped yellow marker slid across the page. But the wisdom of this verse is as precious to me now as when I was first confronted with its truth. For what else needs constant guarding than the seat of our emotions, the spot where daily battles are being fought? Daily battles between right and wrong, lust and purity, pride and humility.

Battles. I wish I could say I’ve always won these battles. More than a few times, which is an understatement, have I let my self-will dictate my actions. These are the times when God’s voice is drowned out by the enchanting noise of my own desires. When I should have known better and done it—or should not have done it—yet acted otherwise. Arrogantly coasting through life with my I-know-what-I’m-doing-I-can-handle-it days. Oh, don’t we all have one of these days? When we shamelessly believe we could ask God to take a 15-minute break and let us run the universe for the meantime?

I’ve always had a problem with my heart, and it’s not the medical kind. Even after I’ve given my heart to God, I’d still find myself creeping to His side and wonder if He’d let me have it again. To let me chase after false sources of happiness, and wander to desolate places of rest.

I find this business of guarding my heart getting harder and harder. I find this exercise of weighing my motives getting more and more frequent. But I am not about to give up just yet—in fact, not ever. If I would just learn to trust God with all my heart, then there will be no more battles to lose. I may be a slow and reluctant learner but I have the Most Patient, Most Wise and Most Loving Teacher.

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.**"

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*Proverbs 4:23
**Proverbs 3:5-6

Two Questions

I got tagged!

So here I am, keeping my word to Karina (www.blogwhisperies.blogspot.com)by answering the two questions she asked, which incidentally, she thoughtfully answered herself. I told her we had a few things in common, and in the next few sentences, she is about to find out.

What are the things you enjoy, even when no one around wants to go out and play? (I take this question to mean activities which I do on my own, without the participation of any other human being)

Reading. If I were marooned on an island and I had 50 books with me, it’ll be on the 51st day when I will start gathering wood to make fire and send smoke signals.
Sleeping. I am not an insomniac but I usually sleep late (Huh? Here’s the difference: Insomniacs “can’t” sleep, while I, when my mind is still alert and my body can cope, “won't” sleep. That is, until I am able to do every single thing I fancy). But I make up for my sleep-deprived days during weekends and extended vacations. And when I am able to do this, I savor every minute of it, like a bear hibernating in a cave for months. And during these times I could confirm that I really like to sleep.
Writing. Given the inspiration (or the deadline), I could get lost in my writing. Case in point: This post. I should be going home by now. . . but hey, I'm having my "dessert (see March 17 post)."

What lowers your stress/blood pressure/anxiety level?

Chocolates.When I’m depressed or tired, I try to make myself feel better by eating chocolates. Not too long ago, after a particularly tiring day at work, I just had to buy Kitkat to appease myself. I immediately unwrapped it as soon as I was seated on the bus. I rode the bus in Boni, took my first bite in Guadalupe, and by the time the bus loaded passengers along EDSA-Buendia, the chocolate was gone.
Two kids.
Pong and Robyn. My 4 and 2-year-old nephews, respectively, calm me. Wait, let me restate that. My nephews, when they are not hanging precipitously from our stairs or standing by the edge of the bed, calm me.
Silence. I rarely rattle off complaints or causes of my anxiety. Silence to me is therapeutic as I take stock of what is happening around me and inside me. It works everytime. But let me add that it’s not just silence per se. It’s being silent and talking to God. And I'm discovering that I need not be in my room to enjoy these times of solitude and communion with God. I could be crossing a busy street yet still feel that God is as near me as when I am all by myself.

Thanks, Karina, for this game of tag--21st century, tech-savvy, literary style.:-)

If words were clothes

If words were clothes,
Then what do we always wear?
Are we usually garbed in kindness and courtesies,
In pleasant how-are-yous and thank-yous?
Or are we often shabbily dressed in verbal attacks and gossips
In loud how-could-yous and whispered did-you-hear-abouts?

If words were clothes,
Then how could the most beautiful ones—
Made of the silky fabric of love,
stitched with the thread of tenderness—
Be sometimes tucked away and kept hidden
In the closet of fear and indecision?
There they remain hung, day after day,
Gathering dust while we say,
“I will wear these clothes someday”

But what if someday never comes?
What if after days turn into weeks,
Weeks into months,
Months into years,
We realize that these clothes—
Left hanging and unworn,
Don’t fit us anymore?
Why did we not wear them
Even just once, instead of never at all?

If words were clothes
Then I would examine my heart
As I would inspect my wardrobe
No tears will be shed over unworn clothes
It’ll be a different story with unspoken words

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My first attempt, in my blog, at poetry. I don't know the rules--about lines and meters and ryhmes. I'll probably cringe when I read this again after many years but I just felt like wearing, I meant writing, this today. :-)

Rain on Me

Yesterday it rained so hard a part of me was worried that it wouldn’t end—at least for the next four hours or so. I was scheduled to go to Valenzuela that afternoon and I was thinking if I’d have to swim on my way back home to Paranaque. I shoot a quick prayer—more like a quiet wish, really—and ask God to please make the rain stop (Quite audacious for me to ask when I don’t feel I’m particularly “good” lately. But then again, isn’t that the essence of grace? Getting what we do not deserve?). The Lord graciously hears my plea and turns off the heavenly sprinkler system switch. I arrived at my destination safe, sound—and dry.

But in ordinary days, that is, days when I don’t have self-serving motives, I welcome these tiny drops from heaven. The sound of rain—falling drops on the tin roof, like the rhythmic pounding of drums—echoes feelings of peace. And contentment. As if every drop whispers to me, “Life is good.” Most of the time I agree and mutter, “Yes, it is.” And add, “Thanks to God.”

Yet I have this one disappointment. Of all the many rainy days that have come and gone lately, not once have I seen a rainbow slash across the sky. While typing these lines, I am trying to recall when was the last time an arc of color swept past my eyes. Too long ago, I’m afraid. It must be the location, I surmise. For how could I see a rainbow with my view obstructed by the buildings and billboards of the city?

This disappointment, fortunately, is canceled out by one realization. That is, though rainbows shyly hide from me, God reminds me why I need not see one for me to believe it’s there. It is there. Likewise, He affirms to me that hope—what a rainbow represents to me—is always within my reach, though not always within my sight. For isn’t that what a rainbow is made to do—to serve as a sign of God’s promise of love, mercy and kindness?

Life is good. Thanks to God. Let the rains come.

A Culinary Piece

Today I inspected vegetables, weighed dressed chicken, read the label on a bottle, decided between buying four 270-gram packs of vermicelli noodles or buying two 500 gram-packs. Three plastic bags and thirty minutes later, I’m back home. In no time, my figurative chef’s hat is on top of my head and my hands are ready to work.

I chopped, boiled, sliced, diced, sautéed, mixed plus almost all the verbs you read in cookbooks. A confession: I fall into a trance while cooking. Our neighbor could be shouting “Fire!” and I probably wouldn’t even notice. I barely spoke a word while I stayed in the kitchen, with my mental and physical energy funneled into the pots and pans.

In the heat of the kitchen, I made three discoveries: (1) My eyes have already grown immune to the sulfuric acid in onions. Surprisingly, they didn’t sting anymore while I was chopping onions (“Look Ma, no more tears!”). (2) I need to buy a can opener soon. I searched our drawers and couldn’t find a working one. I had to open a can of pineapple chunks using a knife (Successfully, if I may add. “Look Ma, no blood!”). (3)Two hours of ingredients preparation plus 30 minutes of actual cooking time will make me secrete a gallon of sweat which is probably equivalent to three hours of weightlifting, using the treadmill and stationary bike, and doing aerobics in a gym.

Cooking, in some ways, is like writing. A creative pursuit, cooking also demands an investment of passion and critical thinking. Even before the cashier scans the code of the first ingredient, I should already have committed myself to the completion of the piece er. . . dish. If I am mindful about including a sentence in a paragraph, then I should be equally vigilant about an ingredient making it into the pan.

Several hours after my trip to the grocery, I finally enjoy the sight of my family eating. We’re celebrating my sister’s birthday two days early and I offered to cook for her. On hindsight, I realize it’s been a while since I last cooked (That is, not counting the three-minute instant noodles I occasionally “cook” for my nephew Pong).

If in my dreams Martha Stewart would ask me what’s the best seasoning I’ve ever used, I wouldn’t say salt and pepper. Not even curry, oregano or ginger. I’d tell her anybody could make a spectacular dish, just add a generous sprinkling of love.