Supersidetracked me

“Superman…Superman…”

A tiny voice calls out. I turn around and see the owner of the voice: Flash Gordon himself. But how could that be when I’m nowhere near the Justice League headquarters? Instead, I’m here in the living room, in front of the computer, planning to spend a productive hour. In fact, for the past fifteen minutes or so, I was thinking ("it's the thought that counts")of writing and meeting my self-imposed deadline (tomorrow) for a promotional article. Now, with two superheroes a few feet away from me, can you blame me if I am held hostage by their cuteness and write about a different thing altogether?

"Superman" (aka Pong, 5) asks me to tie his cape, turns on the electric fan and simulates flying. "Flash Gordon" (aka Robyn, 3) takes off his mask; he doesn’t need his disguise around here—he’s home. It’s past eleven and I’m wondering, with a smile on my face, why did they suddenly feel the urge to don their alter-ego suits? Is there an urgent call somewhere—a building about to collapse, a fire ravaging a town? My guess: with their adrenaline still high, they heard the irresistible call of late-night adventure, and wanted to rescue themselves from boredom. And let me say, they’ve rescued themselves rather successfully.

After several minutes of flexing their mini-muscles and strutting around, the superheroes decide they’ve had enough of their powers and needed to recharge. “Flash, halika na. Akyat na tayo (C’mon now. Let’s go up).” Flash, true to his name, goes up in a flash while Superman lags behind, asks his Tita Beng to untie his cape. I figured he didn’t need it anymore because he’d rather step up the stairs than fly over it.

Now, I’m really the one who needs rescuing—from my procrastination and lack of determination. But I'm trying to ease my guilt over my non-accomplishment of my primary goal with this rationale: It’s not every night that I can write about superheroes. Supersidetracked me is just seizing the moment. :-)

Tired

Tired. No, I did not run the marathon nor did I go shopping—two things I can think of that can make me tired (Not that I ever did the former, but had various experiences doing the latter). The kind of tiredness I’m feeling now stems from spending the day pacing the kitchen and visiting a family four different rides away.

My sister Chayen texted me yesterday, asking if I could cook something—anything—for her when she comes to visit today. Of course she knows I’d say yes. It wasn't surprising, therefore, that this was my first thought upon waking up: “I need to go to the grocery store.” And so I did and then spent the rest of the morning keeping my hands busy with the knife, the rolling pin and the frying pan.

A tricycle, a bus, a train, and a jeepney—I rode them all four hours after my stint in the kitchen to reach a house in Project 6. A quote I remember vaguely says, “The road to a friend's house is never long.” It was time to see a missionary family close to my heart but far from my place. Minutes after my arrival, the kids, aged eight and four, formally introduced me to their pets—two rabbits, a dog, several fishes, an iguana, two turtles, birds (and the rest of those who made it inside Noah's ark, or so you might think). The couple, my long-time-friends-slash-mentors, served me a delicious dinner. But what was more filling for me was the conversation we had in between mouthfuls of food. And the best condiments, as I've tasted, do not come from jars of spices but bottles of laughter, friendship and trust.

My energy might have been depleted but my spirit was full. I’m tired, but it’s a “good kind of tiredness.” I’m slowly realizing what makes life truly meaningful. It’s probably not what I have—or don’t have—in my pocket. It’s who, and what, is in my heart. And of late, I've been asking God to teach me how to sift through my life. By His grace, I'm learning.

But for now, I'm going to sleep tired...and happy.

In-between days

Right smack in the middle. Of in-between days. This is where I am now.

Do you have any of this kind of days? You’re not particularly happy. No cause for rejoicing. No surprises. You’re coasting along the shores of status quo. On the other hand, you’re also not particularly sad. You've kept your heart safe, and you've done your best to be undisturbed. You've succeeded because most of the time, you are. When you look up the sky, it’s a clear day. There might be no dark rain clouds foreboding a storm but it’s not summer-sunny either.

* * * * * * *

My life seems lighter—literally—now that several inches of my hair have been chopped off. For some time now, I’ve been so used to having long hair that my locks have become my security blanket. But three days ago, I bravely walked inside a salon and let a hairdresser snip it. It’s shorter than I envisioned it to be. Blame it on my affinity with the printed page. While seated on the chair, I spent more time browsing through magazine pages than looking at what the hairdresser was doing. Next thing I know, when I looked up and stared at the mirror, I suddenly felt cold. The security blanket has become a towel. To the hairdresser’s defense, “a little vague” best describes my instructions. He did the best his skilled hands allowed him to do. And to his credit, although many were initially surprised to see me with shorter hair, most of them think it’s a good kind of a change.

It’s common knowledge, or maybe an unspoken fact, that some women do something to their hair to make a silent statement. Statements like “My self-esteem is sliding down and I need a make-over to help me recover,” or “I can’t control most of what’s happening in my life but at least I can control my hair.” Or, “How could that guy break my heart?” Several female friends have cut their hair because they were depressed. Or heartbroken. Or sad. I’ve had my share of these emotion-driven haircuts. And the statements I’ve tried to make with these hair alterations range from the pathetic to the plausible. My statement this time is nothing dramatic. Just this: “Let’s see if I could live without my long hair for the meantime (well, at least for the next two months until it grows technically long again).”

* * * * * * *

During these in-between days, I’m using my time reading. Two posts ago, I told you about a book. Hurray! I’ve finished that book last weekend. Since I am in the C.S. Lewis mode, I’m reading his other books, non-fiction this time. I’m also considering doing the following to redeem the time: dab into some serious writing, go back to playing Badminton, rearrange my room.

I think I better start before the calm waters of my in-between days get stirred again.

More than just a carpenter's hands

Maybe he could help us, thinks the grieving father. And so he wastes no time and seeks him out. With the rest of the curious, here I am waiting outside the ruler’s house. A commotion ensues; he’s arrived. I hear him tell the noisy crowd, “The girl is not dead but asleep.” They answer his claim with laughter. Unperturbed by their disbelief, he goes to the lass who lays lifeless. He takes her by the hand and she gets up. His hand becomes the channel through which warmth flowed once more to her cold body.

I follow him through the dusty roads of Galilee. But I am not alone. A crowd swells for many long to hear him speak. I watch from a distance as he stops and delivers a sermon and shares a few parables. The people in rapt attention don’t realize they’ve been listening to him for hours until their rumbling stomachs signal them this. Ask them to go home, someone from his group suggests. He disagrees, afraid that the people might faint when sent away hungry. “Sit down on the ground,” he asks the multitude. Taking the bread and the fish, he thanks God for the food and breaks them into pieces. Piece by piece, he distributes sustenance. The few pieces of bread and fish, made to fill the thousands. How could it be? But how could it not be when he held them in his hands?

What’s so special about this carpenter’s hands? How could his hands, dark and calloused, carry so much power? Aren’t these the same hands that lifted planks and chiseled wood? And then I remembered. These are no ordinary hands—for these are the hands of the Miracle Worker. Hands that, when raised, can hush the violent winds at sea. Hands that, upon touching a blind man’s eyes, can restore sight. Truly, there was nothing ordinary about his hands.

And now, I wonder: Could these same hands wipe away the tears from the hurting one’s eyes? Could these same hands put back together the pieces of a broken heart? Could these same hands lift the body sagging in sorrow?

I stop my wondering and fold my own hands in prayer: Prayer to Him, who is the Miracle Worker and not just a carpenter. And prayer for the one whose spirit needs mending and whose soul needs healing. And afterwhich, I will unfold my hands, believing that there's nothing that He, with the powerful and nail-scarred hands, can't do.

About a book

How could I miss it? Upon entering Powerbooks at Shang-rila, the first table that greets me was stacked with piles and piles of books--all of which were, as if you didn't know what the current movie fare is, Narnia-themed. Narnia activity book for kids. The boxed collection of seven individual books. Narnia comic books. And this.

Lest you think I'm an impulsive buyer, let me say that I am not. I can ignore tempting purchases and delay (or forego) gratification. Just recently, I've let go of two books I wanted so badly because I thought they were too expensive. But when I saw this 767-page volume, a good buy at 20% discount, I suddenly imagined myself to be a lawyer and rattled off in my mind plausible reasons why I needed to have it. And being the "great lawyer" that I am, I won the case. And oh, it helped too that I stood as the judge.

And so I boarded the bus that took me home with a heavy load on one arm but with a light feeling in my heart. I've long wanted to visit the world of Narnia but been postponing the trip. This time, with nowhere else to go, no particular book to read in my list, I bought the ticket. And off to Narnia I went.

And so for the past two days, I've been meeting fauns and dwarves. Listening to talking trees and mice. Tagging along with the Pevensies wherever their battles call them. And Aslan--being terrified and awed by Him. I've not completed the trip yet. In fact, my skin still feels sticky as one can expect after being at sea with Prince Caspian's company whom I was on board with on the Dawn Treader.

I'll make a poor travel agent who uses big words to draw people in so take this advice from a friend instead: Don't think twice about visiting Narnia. You can postpone going alright but after setting foot on this magical land, you'd feel bad about not making the trip sooner. You might not like it as much as I do but take the risk and make the trip. Yes, take more risks and have less regrets.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Yesterday, a male friend was asking me about a book we might have at our bookstore (I work in a publishing house with a bookstore on the first floor). I texted him back and inquired how many copies he wanted. A few minutes later he texted back, saying it was for his mom, who, incidentally, changed her mind and didn't want it anymore. He quips with a smiley face, "Why is it that women easily change their minds?" It was more of an observation than a question. Amused, I replied, "Now at least you know from experience that it's true." I assure him I won't mind in case his mom wanted it, again. Several hours later, back to Narnia, I come across this line said by Rabadash: "For it is well known that women are as changeable as weathercocks. . . " I took no offense and laughed out loud. Two strikes in one day.

Now, this seeming changeability of women's minds, in varying frequency of occurences, is universal--crosses races, generations, worlds. Maybe it's one of the things we, daughters of Eve, couldn't help. Like the fact we women have more delicate features, or that we can bear children. But that doesn't make us incapable of being certain about something we feel strongly about. Of that I am sure. Well, kinda.

On that note, I think I better get back to Narnia.

Having my cake (and eating it too!)

I’ve have always wondered out loud to some friends how having an ordinary-day birthday must feel like. And so last night, they decided to put an end to my wondering. Several friends from the professionals group I am involved in gave me a surprise treat and asked me to imagine that yesterday was my birthday and not sixteen days ago, Christmas day.

All elements that make up a celebration were there. A banner, decorated with small balloons, posted on the wall reads my name as the celebrant. Gifts in red wrappers revealed sleep-themed surprises. A lone candle atop a tiny but delicious chocolate cake heard my secret wish when I blew out its flame.

The small room at IO in Jupiter (the street, not the planet) became the virtual stage where we sang songs for more than four hours. If not for the fact that it was a Tuesday, that we had offices to report to the next day, we would have sung until the computer processing the songs broke down or we lost our voices—whichever came first.

Yes, we left no song unsung, no nacho uneaten. The stress from the hard day’s work was melted by the sweet but powerful concoction of laughter and music. I thank God for good times. And friends. Friends, whom I consider angels on covert assignment, can decorate our lives in a way no accolade or treasure can.

Life is not a piece of cake. But some days, it sure tastes like it—and a birthday cake at that.

On canned replies and trivial concerns

My bed and the computer are in the middle of a tug of war, pulling me in two opposite directions. One beckons me to sleep off the remaining jetlag in my body; the other draws me to pour what’s percolating in my mind. The fact you’re reading these words gives you a hint who’s pulling harder.

* * * * * * * * * *
Don’t you want to stay in the US for good?
I’ve been asked this question countless times already. By well-meaning friends and just-plain-curious acquaintances. My canned replies sit on the shelf of my mind. I pick the can to open depending on who’s asking and how much time we both could spare. As I tap these keys, I’m considering if I have enough mental energy to open the big can with the label which reads, “the top ten reasons why Beng prefers to stay in the Philippines.” Better not. It’s too late into the night to recover from the possible indigestion.

* * * * * * * * * *
Does God have an automated queuing machine that arranges prayers according to their level of urgency or say, the fervency with which these prayers were uttered? For instance, after I shoot a quick prayer for a lost CD, will that get relegated to the back of the queue because a mother’s plea for a sick daughter just came in? Should we feel embarrassed about coming to God with our trivial concerns? If yes, then which of our concerns are trivial to Him who highlights the sky with brilliant colors in the middle of the day just to make us smile?

* * * * * * * * * * *

The thoughts are coming in trickles now. I guess it’s time I let the bed win.

Picture these!

A slice of heaven fell and this is what it looked like: a table at Coliseum Books. A book and a chocolate, two of my favorite things, are on this table. As for the coffee, I'm warming up to it (pun intended).
"The length of paragraph isn't a measure of its intellectual depth. A paragraph expresses a train of thought, and some trains are longer than others. When one gets too long, it should probably be two. If the engine is too far from the caboose, it's handling too much freight." From Words Fail Me, Patricia T. O'Conner
The picture on the left partially shows Ronald McDonald hanging himself after losing the case filed against his company for allegedly fattening burger-loving Americans. Unbelievable, I know. Now, are you ready for another incredible tale? Notice the plate of Caesar salad? This is what I, a non-vegetable fan (to put it mildly), ate for lunch. (PS: Only one of the previous statements is true.)


A slice of Mango in the Big Apple: The Philippine Embassy along 5th Avenue. Serendipity is finding this while I was trying to go someplace else. Ten seconds upon entering, I felt like I was in a government office in the Philippines. The front desk officer, busy with a personal phone call (I could hear him so I could tell), was oblivious to me. I had to wait for five minutes before I could ask if I could take pictures. Nevertheless, my heart swelled with love for my country. I'm missing the Philippines. But after the next two days, I won't be.

glancing at my gallery

My first keystrokes should be directed at tapping the keys that will make me retrospect--look back on the year that was. List realizations, recollect adventures, admit mistakes. Initially, I thought that my weakness (read: bad memory) will get the better of me. How could I possibly remember the twelve months past when I'm sometimes having trouble remembering where I left my jacket five minutes after taking it off? Ah, my blog.

Thank God for allowing me to use this space in the cyber universe to erect memorials in the different places of my life. Glancing through the titles of the seventy-plus posts I have written, I make this observation: My most meaningful writings are those wrapped in metaphors. Because sometimes to describe things as they are is too plain. Or risky. Or simply, just not enough.

And so as a word painter, I spent more creative energy than I usually spend, used bolder strokes on my canvass making these paintings. Revealed to you what my kite was. Warned you about the land of what-could-have-beens. Challenged you to wear your words as you do your clothes. Shared how I've been learning to forgive by writing on stone and sand. Revealed how tentative dancer I am if life were a dance.

But wait. Lest you think I'm always an introspective, mood-driven artist, I'm fondly recollecting blogs I wrote with a silly grin on my face. Bragged about my spelunking experience in the Sagada cave. Told you I was kinda Chinese that could be attributed to many things, my love for tikoy in particular. Relished with delight my surprise for a friend who adores a singer. Shared to you how one day felt like my day.

This new year, I'm joyfully anticipating making similar paintings and then some. Will continue to not love in slices. Still ask my heart to trust God. Keep on learning how to have more Mary than Martha moments. And hopefully, the next coming months will see me finding my own alabaster jar. Because this is what I've been wanting to do. To love God more, myself less. To constantly remind myself that I am not the center of my universe (because if this were the case, then I pretty much have a tiny galaxy).

To all of you who deliberately visit my gallery, thank you. Just by dropping by--and not just by accident--you're making me feel like Picasso. Your time is a valuable ticket. As long as God gives me the colors, I'll be splashing shades of His grace. I can't guarantee that what's on the canvass will always be good but I can promise that it will always be real.

May we all have a colorful year ahead.