By the light of the candle

*This post transferred here from a handwritten essay done last night, Sept.29--8:20pm

I’m staring at my salvation: a yellow light flickering on top of white wax.

The power hasn’t returned yet in our part of the world. Meralco is begging for a little more time to restore power in all of Metro Manila. After the terrifyingly strong storm that whipped Manila, the bruises—fresh and sore—are evident everywhere. Broken signages dangle dangerously, tree branches and leaves litter the streets, shops not big enough to afford their own generators are losing business.

Today I decided not to work. Partly to give my still-weak body a rest. I almost convinced myself to get a CBC yesterday. The paranoid in me suggests “dengue” but the logical in me reasons out, “If you really had dengue, you should’ve been dead by now.” I do the next best thing instead: a consultation with a doctor/friend who was on call, as in, I called him. He prescribes Cefalexin for 7 days, which I promised that I would take. “I’ll be a good girl.”

Early afternoon, coming from the bank, I walk around SM Bicutan with my eyes darting towards where I might find an outlet—an electrical outlet, that’s what. Near-desperate is what I am, with my laptop battery drained and an outside editing project due.

I order batchoy from Ted’s and politely ask if I could use my laptop. “No,” the crew answers. Running on minimal electricity powered by a generator, SM ordered tenants not to let people like me charge cellphones and laptops.

Halfway through my meal, I hear the devil whisper, “C’mon, plug into their outlet. There’s a chance they wouldn’t see you do it anyway.” I answer back, “But I would know. God would. Besides, my integrity is worth more than an hour’s worth of electricity.” (I make it sound so simple. But the battle wasn’t as easily won as that.)

Still undeterred, I look for another restaurant that could accommodate power-hungry me.
“Do you have corn muffins?” I ask at Kenny Roger’s.
“Yes.”
“May I use my laptop inside your store?”
“Sorry, no.”

I finally accept my sad fate.

But I didn’t go home completely broken-hearted. A blouse, bought at a discount, helped ease my pain. Isn’t it amazing how it takes so little to make us women happy? That’s the secret why less women than men suffer heart attacks—Shopping. Really.

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"I believe in being fully present," Morrie said. "That means you should be with the person you’re with. When I’m talking to you now, Mitch, I try to keep focused only on what is going on between us. I am not thinking about something we said last week. I am not thinking of what’s coming up this Friday, I am not thinking about doing another Koppel show, or about what medications I’m taking."

Good advice from a dying man. There’s something about staring death in the face that blurs non-essentials into periphery. Wisdom is distilled, bottled, and then offered to anyone who might be thirsty for the meaning of life. Morrie is Morrie Schwartz, the teacher afflicted with Lou Gehrig’s disease. The student, Mitch Albom. Their class met Tuesdays. As in Tuesdays with Morrie.

It struck a chord—Morrie’s advice. Because I should take it.

With my proclivity, while talking with people, to watch a hundred dancers garbed in fabrics of reminders—do this, check that, email this, finish that—I should stop them from distracting me. I should stop them from sashaying endlessly in my mind. And give every person the attention his value as a human being—made my God, loved by God—deserves. "Be fully present," Morrie admonishes. Echoes of the words of Jim Elliot, martyred missionary to the Auca Indians, who said, "Wherever you are, be all there."

The light is growing dimmer, and the night, deeper.

There’s something about the dark and quiet that ushers one to a sustained exercise of reflection and introspection. For by the light of the candle, and the stillness of the night, the mind is illuminated as quickly as the heart is thawed.

Seeing Grey

If the time I spent in front of the laptop screen watching the series were used to take the NMAT, enroll in med school, take the board, go into internship—the works—I would’ve been an MD by now. Faster to learn all these medical facts I’ve soaked my brain in the past several days anyway.

Okay, I’m exaggerating but hey I’m a writer so I’m allowed to do this. (But just between the two of us, I think I’m honest—sometimes to a fault—in real life.)

I’m not good in Math so I can’t tell you how many hours I logged in watching Grey’s Anatomy. My interest in the series was jumpstarted by a friend, a doctor, who wrote about it. It was a long time ago but the interest resurrected when I saw a DVD copy of the first and second series.

After the first episode, there was no denying that I had to pitch my tent outside Seattle Grace Hospital, and expect to stay there for some time. No, I haven’t finished watching all the episodes yet but I know, I will, soon.

Truth to tell, I could’ve watched all night long but this mental note stopped me: Warning! Tell heart to not get too attached to something—anything—that will blur your sense of reality. Sooner or later, you’ll find yourself thinking about characters during inopportune times, like when checking a manuscript, talking to your boss, or having lunch. Worse yet, you might think you’re the character and start imagining colleagues to be the other planets in your tiny universe (Oh, the curse of being a writer and having an overactive imagination!).

And so I heed the warning.

After I finish the medical series, I won’t be starting on another one soon. My mind needs some recuperating to do. Too bad the McDreamy neurosurgeon Dr Derek Shepherd won’t be able to pick inside my brain (But not that I really want him to).

See where this is getting me? I’m starting to see grey.

I hope it’s not serious.

Seriously.

advice to self

Unschackle the chains you put on yourself
Think of why you did it, was it of any help?
What were you trying to prove by writing every day?
That words are cheap and easily come your way?

Now you're thinking how much longer you could keep this up
Do you continue beating the clock or simply stop?
You have nothing to lose but a big chunk of pride
You are better with less of it so better halt the ride

Go back to how you've been doing it before
Quit writing constantly, or else your work will soon be a bore
Dance on the keyboard only when the music's playing
When you hear the beat of your heart, that's when you start dancing

"Dandalan"

While I’m typing this*, two boys in Superman sando are within my line of vision. The chickenjoy meal they just ate is being burned as they run, and slide in the Jollibee play area. This day, being a weekend, is a day when I disrobe of my professional persona and play the easiest role of my life: cool aunt slash nanny.

“Anong gusto mong drink?” I ask Pong.

“Dandalan.”

Huh? Two more seconds were needed before the image of the yellow juice flashed in my mind.

“Ah, dalandan!” Can’t blame him. He’s only six and still building up his vocabulary.

The rest of my time with my Pong and Robyn, my nephews, was uneventful. I don’t always get the chance to be with them sans their parents and this time I notice things about them that escaped me before. Like what? Like they can burp at will, and laugh about it (Men!). And that I can ask them to do some things and they will prove to be responsible.

(*I brought my laptop when I treated my nephews to an early afternoon snack. After I fed them, I occupied the nearest seat to the playground and multi-tasked: going through my files and watching over them.)

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This blogwriting marathon is proving to be harder than I expected. I go through my day screening the bloggables and non-bloggables. And just like Cinderella, afraid to be caught in her rags when the clock strikes midnight, similarly I race against time and write a post before the next day officially starts. Why did I even think of doing this anyway? Will I ever make it to the 30th day? Pangs of doubt are starting to attack.

not your ordinary cowboy movie

"I feel lost."

Mitch Robbins just turned 39 and he's miserable. This man who always sees the glass half-empty hates his job at the radio station. The growing discontent which he started to feel when he entered midlife escalates with every passing birthday. Factor in a stable yet stale relationship with his wife, alienation from his children, and it's no wonder he mouths the words that would describe the state of his life, "I feel lost."

And so he embarks on a fantasy vacation with his two best friends, hoping that it will shake off the dreariness of his existence. With Ed and Phil, Mitch signs up for a two-week stint as a cowboy. Their goal: Drive a herd of two hundred heads of cattle from New Mexico to Colorado. Not too easy for a man who couldn't throw a rope and whose first bovine encounter earned him several stitches on his backside. Yet remarkably, while teaching himself to sleep in a tent and eat cold beans, he learns more than what the adventure brochure promised.

The senior cowboy Curly offers Mitch if he'd like to know the secret of life.

"It's this," Curly says, holding up his pointing finger.

"The secret of life is your finger?" asks Mitch.

"It's one thing," the ragged elder replies. "The secret of life is pursuing one thing."

"So what is that one thing?" the younger persists.

"You have to go find it for yourself."

As expected, the movie drives the main character to find this "one thing," but not before he careens through unfortunate circumstances along the way. These were not put to waste, however, as Mitch and his friends discover more about themselves in two weeks of facing campfires and trudging uncertain trails than they did in their lifetime of friendship.

It was the last VCD copy of City Slickers (starring Billy Cystal) available at Astrovision. The decision to buy it, made on impulse yet its impact on me will outlast the five minutes I needed to make the purchase.

I watched the movie fifteen years too late but the timing's just right.

Life Goes On

My tear ducts have been getting a lot of exercise lately. I don't think I can rival Judy Ann Santos in the lachrymal olympics but I've recently signed up for the race. My most recent work-out just happened today, at the office.

(I was considering to relate here what happened but am deciding against it. It still stings a bit. Let me just say that with my immediate boss gone, and with me in charge, I had to straighten out kinks in some work concerns, which involved me writing a Denmark-bound apology letter and reminding our relatively-new security guard of his duties.)

This I am learning:
I could mask the bitter taste of pills with chocolate but there's nothing to sugarcoat feelings of frustration and hurt.

As I cried out to God how I upset I was, it was like a dam suddenly burst: all the other feelings swelling in my heart flowed, and mixed with the salty tears. Like a puny creature shaking its fist at the Creator, I challenged God:

"You are not fair God, because . . . Powerful? So how come You did not . . . "

(On hindsight, it was only by the incredible grace and infinite love of God that I did not get struck by lightning the instant I uttered those words, or even thought those accusations against the Almighty. My surge of bravery--or impertinence?--came from the fact that God sees our heart, and there's no point in lying about how I felt anyway).

The rest of the day was spent with me on catatonic mode--breathing yet barely functioning. It's a miracle I still had some work done. I was placated by the sober realization that in this fallen world, things go wrong.
In relationships.
In our affections.
In urgent fedex deliveries.

Yet life goes on.

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A more positive message is what I imagined would appear as my first entry as I take on my own thirty-day blogging challenge (Yes, I'm officially starting!). But I've let this be. This is real life. Besides, there'll be twenty-nine more days to write about.

Now brewing

Just like coffee. Just as stimulating, maybe, at least for me.

Brewing in my mind lately is the idea of subjecting myself to a self-imposed month-long daily writing challenge. I don't have the stamina of a journalist whose words transform into daily wages but then, what if? What if I arm myself with enough prepaid internet load and then write daily--or nightly, in my case--for the next thirty days? What will this obscure webspace reveal? Even while this is still yet an idea, I've made up the rules: I can't post a previously written yet unpublished piece, no one-liners or quotes from books in lieu of my own words. Will I survive my own challenge? I'd have to let this idea percolate a bit longer.

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Errands. This E word has been eating up my extra energy (which I don't have much of lately). My older sister in the US has given me a to-buy list that could rival the wish list addressed to Santa Claus of a very nice kid. During our most recent phone conversation, Nang suddenly expressed her desire to have an engagement calendar--the kind which opens, in one spread, one-week's worth of days wherein you can pencil in meetings, significant events or probably even haircut appointments. Why she suddenly wants one in the ninth month of the year is beyond me. Oh wait, she explains. Nostalgia. Something to help her recall the year-that-was after many years have passed. And so tonight, the said to-buy list necessitated my side trip to the mall before heading straight for home. I got home safely, thank you very much, but not before running into two near-mishaps.

The near-mishap #1 is when I " lost" the hard plastic numbered tag that guarantees retrieval of the package I deposited near the NBS Glorieta entrance. A swarm of thoughts swirled around my head while I was trying to rummage through my bag in frantic search. If I really lost it, how much do I have to pay to get my stuff back? Or will they even give my stuff back? I'm sure they will! But if the guard asks me what's the number clipped on my package, I'd stammer, "Ah, uhm, you know what, I didn't really look at the tag. So I don't know. Just show me the package and I'll tell you what's inside:3 boxes of HOP polvoron, 3 boxes of greeting cards, 2 magazines . . . ." Now, my memory is resuscitated!

Thankfully, I did not have to pass an oral recitation to retrieve what's mine. I retraced my steps and found my package tag lying on the stack of post-it notes I was previously checking out. But I've learned my lesson: Keep your package tag in a safe place, like your bag. And at least, glance at the number!

The near-mishap #2 would have fallen under the category of a social faux pas that could ignite a religious war somewhere south of Metro Manila. Walking on my way home, I saw "Mia" (as I always do). I don't think she remembers my name but I do hers. Earlier, on the bus, I told myself I'd give her some food. And so when I made small talk with her, I was ready to offer her what I ate on the ride minutes ago. Thankfully, this time I remembered one thing soon enough: She can't eat it! You see, Mia is a Muslim and I almost fed her Eng Bee Tin's Hopia. Baboy. (I cringe at the thought.)

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If this post were coffee, then this makes for one-serving.

Ho-hum, I didn't know "making coffee" could make one so sleepy.