Shades of Grace

Moving words

2007-05-01T23:59:00.000+08:00

How do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight ....

[...this post is interrupted with an advisory that the above words are not the moving words the blogger is referring to.]

The moving words are: "I am moving to another place in cyberspace."

So would you care to hear my thoughts out loud? Click here -> Beng's new site.

Hope to see you there. :)

Today I am lusting after...

2007-04-30T12:12:00.000+08:00

In the middle of my Monday workday, while trying to fix my table, I come across this old newspaper page, the lifestyle section of Business Mirror. My eyes dart down to the bottom of the first page with an article on "How-to's of camera phone photography."

My now-favorite phone brand, Sony Ericsson, is featured (more specifically the K800i). The model is a 3.2 megapixel camera phone, and incidentally, the first to carry the famed Cyber-shot brand.

I've called using other phones before--Bosch (back when only one-fourth of the population had cellphones. To this brand's defense, my blue Bosch once fell off the moving tricycle I was in. When I went down to pick it up, it was still working perfectly well, save for a few scratches). Then of course, the Philippine's staple brand, Nokia. From the lowly 3210 to the relatively more upscale 6600, Nokia became a faithful friend. With easy-to-decipher features and controls, who wouldn't be attracted to a Nokia?

But ever since I used my first Sony Ericsson phone, my present K600i, there's no turning back for me. This is an understatement, but I have grown to love and enjoy this phone. I've seen one of the bad guys in the most recent James Bond movie use my model and I felt mighty proud about it, notwithstanding that he used it to detonate a bomb.

I am now lusting after a new phone, the above-mentioned K800i. Aside from it having an expandable memory(which my K600i lacks), the seller for me is its high-resolution camera. Imagine having a decent camera in your bag which you can take out anytime to take pictures of a perfect rainbow in the sky, or a friend making funny faces, or of Sophia, my 1-year-old niece who might flash her smile on her non-cranky days.

The only problem, that is if I can consider it a problem, is that I already have a phone that works fine 90 percent of the time. When I bought it ten months ago, I promised myself I'd only replace it if it gets busted. The same principle I'm using in relation to my Tungsten E PDA, which is pushing three this year.

For now, I'd have to be content with my cute and functional SE phone. Sure, something better is out there. But then again, there's no rule which says I always have to get what I want. I'm okay with it, really. :)

But the second my present phone dies on me, at least I know what to find.

Kitchen Talk

2007-04-21T23:34:00.000+08:00

Today has been a kitchen day for me. I woke up earlier than usual (for a weekend) so I could get many things done. My plan was simple: Cook the meals I will try to teach a class how to do in the next couple of days. During our upcoming 3-day company retreat in Laguna, I am tasked to show a dozen or so participants how to wield the kitchen wand. (Actually, I am filling in the shoes of the real kitchen whiz, the wife of an officemate, who begged off when she realized that she’ll do more teaching than cooking.) With my finished products on the refrigerator, I think I can teach them how to make embotido, beef tapa and ham and cheese pimiento spread.

Learning to cook is just like learning any other skill. Motivation is the key. You’d have to want to do it. If I were marooned on an island, I’d be motivated to learn how to make a boat even if I don’t have the slightest interest in acquiring shipbuilding skills. So why did I learn to cook, with no husband egging me to cook his favorite meal or no mother-in-law expecting me to serve her son with lavish meals fit for a king?

My top of the mind answer is my mother. She never had an office job yet she shone in the kitchen. I remember seeing her possessed by the kitchen muse which would account for the delicious food spread on the table several hours after her kitchen confinement. I didn’t know it yet then but now, looking back, maybe that was it: She made me want to be a cook.

No marriage or hope of it prompted me when I first wore the apron many years ago. I was still in college when I would bake snickerdoodles and crinkles which my older sister would then sell to her classmates. I’d stay up most of the night mixing batter and waiting for the oven toaster to signal that my cookies are done. From then on, I graduated to baking cakes and preparing non-pastry treats. Longtime friends, especially those who are frequent visitors, would request specific meals. Carrot cake for Divine, lasagna for Terry. As much as possible, I give in to their requests. Their reward for making it to our house, relatively far from where they live, on my birthday. [I cook on my birthday…and Christmas :) , among many other special days.]

I am saying this to inspire women to try cooking sometime. You don’t have to cram acquiring culinary knowledge two months before your wedding. Try cooking even if Mr. Right hasn’t proposed yet. (And even if he never shows up, there will always be people who can benefit from your cooking.) You are never too young, or too old, to learn how to make a meal. Yes, there are many food products now available in groceries—in cardboard packages, waiting to be microwaved for three minutes. But believe me when I say that there is a certain kind of fulfillment that makes your own cooked food taste better than the most expensive five-star hotel meal.

Just ask Nora Daza. Or better yet, ask my Ma.

fifteen minutes

2007-04-18T12:42:00.000+08:00

What do you say in fifteen minutes? This I am about to find out as I try to capture the thoughts that will flit through my mind as the clock ticks during my lunch hour...

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Lately I am finding myself under a constant barrage of meetings, things-to-do, social commitments. My life has definitely returned to its normal pace. Hectic and tiring this kind of life may sometimes seem, yet this life is safe. Enveloped by the familiar, I know where each part, each task, each person fits. But there are times when I just want to be reckless and risk jumping into a pool of possibilities. And then I remember that in real life, I don't swim. But maybe, that should change.

* * * * * *

"Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer." Psalm 19:14

* * * * * * *

Time's up.

Comings and goings

2007-04-14T22:23:00.000+08:00

Businesspeople in trenchcoats don't walk while passing through it, they scurry about. College-aged kids with their backpacks securely strapped meander their way through the people traffic, unsure about their destination, stopping often to see the trip schedules flash on the overhead screen. While I, a 3-week temporary resident of a neighboring state, take in all the sights and sounds of the legendary terminal in New York: The Grand Central.

This is the spot where the scenes of more than a few Hollywood movies had been shot. Maybe it's the kinetic energy that is palpable in this busy space. Maybe it's the incessant turnover of commuters--for every one that enters the subway train, another one exits. Maybe it's the size; it's not called the GRAND central for nothing.

The Grand Central is abuzz with comings and goings--very much like life. Sad is he who, confined to the tiny space he has created for himself, directly proportional to the space he's alloted in his heart for others to occupy, has remained stagnant. No more comings. Just goings.

On this cold day somewhere in the heart of midtown New York, slivers of sunlight manage to escape through the window slats. This should be just like life.

*Originally posted on March 22. I can't remember why I took it out after I posted it but now, I'm deciding to show it again.

Sister stories

2007-04-09T22:13:00.000+08:00

Two women have been the subject of my posts recently so I guess it’s about time I let you meet them. Nang, on the right with short(er) hair, is my soup-sipping eldest sister. On her left is my Goldilocks-cake-loving sister, Rae, who incidentally happens to be the real nurse in the family. I took this picture last April 6, Friday, during the family’s Eat-All-You-Can Japanese lunch.

We three sisters were together the day before, braving the still-chilly air to go to Nang’s plastic surgeon. Her drain tube was about to be taken off. With Nang’s husband Chris at work, Rae drove for her to the hospital. As for me, well, it just felt right to tag along.

At the clinic, my sister’s name was called out while we were in the waiting area. Rae and I wanted to accompany her all the way inside so Rae asked, “Can we come inside too?” Nang answered, “I’m not sure.” I suggested, “Let’s just go for it and wait for them to drive us away.”

No driving away happened when Dr. Borah (who should be grateful the last letter of his surname was an H) saw us. The big doctor with a balding head, amused, simply quipped, “You’ve brought a whole team here.”

Yeah, one’s from Indiana, and the other’s from the Philippines, Nang wanted to answer back. She was expecting the worst, with somebody giving her first-hand information weeks before about how painful the actual removal of the tube felt like. The surgeon, with his skillful hands, immediately went to work. No screaming happened which prompted me to say out loud, “That wasn’t too bad.” In retrospect, I should’ve kept my mouth shut lest the doctor think this petite Filipina was evaluating his performance, he, the chief of plastic surgery at Robert Wood Johnson of all people. No offense, doc. I’m kinda nice in real life, just not always tactful. Going back to the procedure, after ten minutes, we were already on our way out.

Our next stop was at McDonald’s where we had a quick lunch peppered with talks about family, food, and why the honey mustard wrap I ate tasted like it was slathered with nail polish. Then it was time for the sisters’ favorite activity: shopping. But this time, it was controlled (the act of looking and the spending itself) because my eldest sister’s upper body movement was still limited. But you can’t really put a good shopper down—with surgery and all (Rae was already shopping for her daughter’s clothes in the hospital the day after her C-section). Determination, unexplainable strength, love for shopping—what woman doesn’t have these strengths?

* * * * * * * * * * *

I’m already back in the Philippines, still trying to fight off jetlag at the time of this writing. But I brought home more than two heavy checked-in luggages with me. And am I glad that no airport officer can make me surrender this: memories of moments spent with family who should be getting the most costly investment from us—our time.

Sidepost:

Here are pictures of me (taken using a Canon powershot camera and my low-res SE cellphone) with my sisters’ kids: Nang’s Ian and Noah, Rae’s Ethan and Emma. Don't they look adorable? But of course, this Tita is biased. :)

mini-thoughts after my hiatus

2007-03-31T02:08:00.000+08:00

thanks to all who have been for praying for my sister. i was telling her, in room 6 of north 6 surgical oncology ward of the robert wood johnson hospital in new brunswick, that of all the patients being operated on last monday, she was the one most drenched in prayers. the next day after the surgery, i was surprised to see her being able to sit up and move her arms a bit. it wasn't really that difficult being her on-call "nurse" at the hospital because all i had to do then was order her food, help her stand up to go to the bathroom, drain the blood being collected from the tube on her surgery site[okay, for the squeamish, that last part might be hard to visualize. sorry.] now while she's home my duties are more varied. aside from the draining, i prepare her in-the-bedroom meals, remind her to take her meds, shampoo her hair [and blowdry it], and watch tv with her--with the last being the easiest task. no sweat, really. :)

* * * * * * * * * *

the number of goods, products and services here in the US is overwhelming. when we go to the grocery, i walk the aisles and see every product imaginable. i turn on the tv and aside from the QTV channel offering things from acne treatment to jewelry, i also see lawyers advertising their services. one in particular ended his spiel with these words: "get all the money you deserve." seriously. oh man, filipino lawyers would have a field day here.

* * * * * * * * * *

i still do some cooking here whenever i get the chance. just this lunchtime, i cooked the leftover crabs from yesterday and turned it into an crab/red pepper omelette. what i'm missing is baking though. you don't need to go to a bakeshop to buy cakes here. so there's really not much motivation to make one from scratch. what about fish? you can't see fish with their eyes on here. [well, technically, most fish on the frozen meat section are fillets, so what they're actually missing are the heads]. crazy what i notice.

the people? most people here are nice. especially those who might feel you need them to be extra clear about what they're saying lest you don't understand english. "No ingrish.me japanese.moshi-moshi," but they won't buy it. my eyes aren't chinky enough.

Not about me

2007-03-23T00:37:00.000+08:00

My eldest sister will be undergoing surgery three days from now. At this very moment, she's in the other room, working from home with her laptop. An applications manager of a leading investment firm, she has always been an achiever. Always with a good head above her shoulders.

Friends who know about her condition would ask me how she is, and I always say, "She's doing OK. If you look at her, you wouldn't think she's sick." Even I am amazed at the normalcy she's exhibiting. Of course, the thought of the surgery is probably looming in her head but I don't notice that it bothers her. Yes, sometimes, offhand she'd quip that she's a little nervous but that's just about it. No crying spells, no staring in space.

She's the reason I'm here in the US. Last year, when she was diagnosed with cancer, I offered to fly here and be her children's nanny-slash-cook-slash-nurse if and when she goes through the surgery. This year, she took my offer. In no way I am trained medically but I have done my share of taking-care. In fact, I've been in two ambulance rides already, as a companion to the patients, and by God's grace, I still managed to think straight then. But stop, this is not about me.

Going back to my sister, her name is Nang, and many people are praying for her. In another state, an American author who hasn't even met her tells me they're praying for her. In another country--the Philippines--dozens more are praying. Thank you. You just don't know what this means to me, and her.

This woman is teaching me how to trust God unreservedly, to see the silver lining in the clouds, to be brave enough to learn everything about the enemy. Her faith did not waver in this health crisis and did not doubt for a second that God is good.

Some people can display courage and faith that seem larger than life. Yes, it's true. And this is not about me.

Fun Saturday

2007-03-18T11:52:00.000+08:00

Yesterday, my sister Nang (more on her in future post/s) and I braved the snowstorm to go to NY. Two seats were waiting for us to be filled at the Marquis theater in Broadway. And two minutes before The Drowsy Chaperone, the musical within a comedy, start did we arrive.

It was hilarious and entertaining. I wonder how long actors rehearse before they can deliver flawless performances at Broadway. Incidentally, Lea Salonga is playing Fantine in another theater within the area. While walking along the snow-carpeted streets, I saw this poster which simply said: "She's Back." And then below the two words is the image associated with Les Miserables. [I wondered then if she was actually referring to Lea and today, that hunch was confirmed when I saw it splashed in a Philippine-American newspaper, with a reference to her underneath. Wow. Her presence was enough to make people come. She had that great drawing power. I am proud to be pinay. :)]

After a very late lunch at Pongsri, a Thai restaurant, we were walking towards the Port Authority when I saw this three-storey shop: M&M's world. Needless to say, we just had to go inside. Right across is the Hershey's store but it was boring compared to this shop. I never saw so many M&M's--and in every color imaginable (black, lavender, pink, aqua--name it!)--and other M&M's products under one roof. I could live here. Health-conscious people would advise: Eat your greens. In that case, I'm taking their advice. I won't mind eating all the green M&Ms here.

Look, it's a bird

2007-03-16T22:38:00.000+08:00

Ian, 7, is doing his assignment. He asks me for words starting with letter Q and I almost told him, "Come back to me when you get to letter S."

Queen. Check, he got that one already.
Quota. No, too complicated. He doesn't know what it means.
Quail. Yes, that could work.

And then I spell it out for him. Q-U-A-I-L.

What's that Tita Beng, is that a bird or a noun? (Or so I heard. I'm blaming it on jetlag. And I think I slept a million braincells to oblivion.)

It's a bird, Ian. It's a bird.

No, Tita Beng. Is it a VERB or a noun?

(I laugh out loud and think, what good is it to have an editor aunt to teach you when she can't hear you?)

Here's another Q word. Q-tips, or in the Philippines, cottonbuds.

Collecting words

2007-03-15T02:13:00.000+08:00

It’s one in the morning of my departure for the US, both of my luggages to be checked in are still open, while some of my clothes are strewn all over the living room.

So why am I blogging?

My fingers are prompted to glide across the keyboard, with the hopes of producing something sensible from the thirty minutes I am taking a break from packing. The forlorn character of Joe Pesci in the movie “With Honors” would collect pebbles to put in his pocket to remember significant moments in his life. This side of reality, somebody—me—chooses to collect words.

I just had one of the most stressful afternoons of my life. An author and an illustrator drop by the office to discuss a project with me which drags on until 15 minutes before my workday officially ends, a much-loved food—banana con hielo—is chilling for me in the freezer, a US-based friend I haven’t seen for three years surprises me with his appearance at our bookstore, and my desk is still a mess, with blueprints of books crying for my attention.

Thankfully, I survived the late-afternoon surge of stress that almost jolted the living daylights out of me. With much appreciation for reliable officemates, I was able to delegate work I couldn’t handle anymore. In record time, I swept my desk clean with a prayer uttered silently: “Lord, please don’t let me forget anything.” My only regret was not being able to taste even a spoonful of my snack.

But I did not regret catching up with J who waited for me till I called it quits with my day’s work. Over a dinner of Filipino food at Gerry’s Grill, we tried to cram three years’ worth of happenings over a few hours of talking. So many things have remained the same, yet so many things have changed too. Funny how life takes us in different directions and how in the middle of the road we stop and look back on where we once had been.

I think I’d end here. Several hours after I publish this post, I’d be sitting on a Northwest Airline cushioned seat. The next time my feet walks on the leveled ground again, something else will be making me breathless.

friendly fat detectors

2007-03-09T22:17:00.000+08:00

I run into him every now and then. At the hallway, near the employee's entrance, in the bookstore. And just by the way he looks at me, I can sense how I'm tipping the [weighing] scale.

More than a few times already, he has verbalized his disappointment. Just this week, while I was walking towards a palette in our bookstore, he emerges from the door of the Sales department. For one split second our eyes lock. And then I get the look. He's not smiling. There goes my cue to confirm my worst fears:

"Why you looking at me like that, Kuya Jo? I'm getting fat?"

This fortysomething father of three doesn't even pause for a second to feign politeness. He answers, complete with a playful nod, "Yes, Beng. You better..." and then wags his index finger at me, as if warning me that the world is about to end.

I let out a laugh, not a bit hurt. Alarmed, maybe, but not hurt.

There are officemates who act as my fat detectors. They tell me if I'm getting fat or I'm getting thin, if I look fresh or harassed. But not one of them has actually pulled me to a corner and has given me a detailed lecture on the virtues of effective weight management. All most of them do is engage in light-hearted banters with me. No offense is ever taken. While Americans talk about the weather, we Filipinos talk about weight. Funny how we greet another whom we haven't seen in a while: "Uy, parang tumaba/pumayat ka ah!" Say that to a British and you'll be committing a faux pas that will make even your dog blush.

We Filipinos can take it. Just today I overheard a conversation between an old man and a middle-aged woman, former officemates: "Uy, parang tumaba ka nang konti ah," he comments to her. "Naku, Kuya, di lang konti. Madami!" she answers with a smile on her face. Score 1 for total honesty.

As for me, when I get an in-my-face-weight-reading I think: What do I need a weighing scale for? I can get free head-to-toe evaluation just by walking around the four floors of our office. Amusing, really. I love my officemates.

I'm never trading any of my friendly fat detectors for the high-priced talking weighing scales peddled in stores. For with the latter, I couldn't talk back and argue my case. With the former, I can smile my way to thinness.

three wishes

2007-03-07T22:03:00.000+08:00

A genie granted a man three wishes.

“My first wish, I want a million dollars.”

POOF! A million dollars appeared.

“For my second wish, I want a Ferrari.”

POOF! A gleaming new Ferrari appeared.

“For my final wish, I want to be irresistible to women.”

POOF! The man became a box of chocolates.

*Are girls the only ones laughing here? ;) Got this funny text from Nechie.

alive

2007-03-07T20:22:00.000+08:00

"Doesn't anything throw you off? Do you ever get mad at something or someone? Are you living in a perpetually happy place where rainbows dot the landscape and everywhere you turn there's a pot of gold waiting to be discovered? "

"Yes," I wish I could say yes.

Life.is.hard. And sometimes this truth slams in your face when you least expect the reminder, that Earth is not Disneyland. Your tear ducts get an unplanned workout. You get dehydrated by crying. You think yourself to death wondering what went wrong--where you made that misstep, how you can retrace your way back to the safe life.

Yet pain reminds us that we are still alive. For instance, when I bump my leg on the edge of a table, my muscles throb, my skin bruises. I'm suddenly aware of this particular part of my body. My brain reprimands me to be more careful and watch where I'm going. No corpse experiences the sensation of pain, for good reason.

Alive--I am alive now as ever before. My heart is tender, my soul is fragile. The tears come easily, and it's like there's a switch that instantly flips to on at the first sign of fear or distress, and opens the dam of tears. Yet more than any time in my life, I can say that this is a good time. Anytime I am confronted by my weakness and neediness should be celebrated. Because it's starting to get clearer and clearer to me--I can't survive life, in all its unpredictability, with all its complexities, on my own. I can't ask God to take a leave while I manage His post for a while. I need Him.

Like fish needs water.

on faith and little children

2007-02-27T23:48:00.000+08:00

When did we cross the line from complete freedom of action to self-consciousness? When did what people say about us start to matter and we had to convince them we are a hairline away from being omniscient and omnipotent? When did we learn to hide behind the niceties of language and mask our true feelings?

And why does the thought of kids making me ask these questions?

When I’m with my nephews in a public place and I stray away from their sight—whether it’s five seconds or five minutes—there’s a good chance I will hear my name shouted, in the same way, say, a panicking woman in the outskirts of Tondo facing a towering inferno would scream, “SUUUNOG!” Just last week, we were at SM and the two boys were with their mother in the giftwrapping section at the 1^st level. I notified my sis-in-law that I had to go find something at the 2^nd level. Midway through the escalator, I heard my name as if it was being announced through the public address system: “TITTTA BENNNNG!” From the moving stairs, I saw two small creatures near the 1^st level counter waving excitedly to me as if we weren’t together two minutes ago. How could one person be touched and mortified at the same time? Believe me, it’s possible. Case in point: Me.

This scenario gets played out in other settings: the grocery, at church, video shop—name it, they did the name-shouting exercise, only in varying decibels in the different instances. I am learning my lesson: Stay as close to them as possible in public if I don’t want everybody to know who the missing aunt is.

But after my lapse of momentary embarrassment, the truth is I don’t really mind at all. Because kids are devoid of self-consciousness. And they usually mean no harm (usually being the operative word here). In general, little children simply just say whatever is on their minds, and do what they feel like doing. Sure, they need discipline but I think 60% of the time, they're really just being kids. When I'm outside and see mothers shaking their kids to coerce “respectable behavior” even if what all their kids do are harmless forms of fun, I feel like shaking their mothers back and saying, “They’re kids. They won’t be forever kids so let them act their age.”

Honest and needy. Vulnerable and trusting. Little children know they can’t survive on their own so they ask for help. For you to open the can of sausage. Cook their favorite noodles. Buy their snack. Tie their shoelaces. Comb their hair. Count their coins. Read the label. Stay close by when they feel afraid. No pretense of self-sufficiency. No apologies for dependence.

Maybe that’s the reason why Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it” (Mk 10:14-15).

For who else but the most trusting of little children could best show us what it means to be needy and come to God by faith, expecting not to be turned away but welcomed in all His grace?

slice of heaven

2007-02-25T22:31:00.000+08:00

“I haven’t told Nang yet but that’s what I want for my birthday.”

That, incidentally, refers to the ubiquitous cake that has become a staple fare in any middle-class Filipino celebration. And the hopeful wisher for the cake is Rae, another older sister, also based in the US, a nurse, and a mother of two.

I talked to her just recently. Most of our conversation revolved around her two kids, the eldest of which, Ethan, can say in his cute way, “I love chicharon.” Rae told me this US-born toddler has very pinoy tastebuds. He eats whatever his dad eats. Boy Bawang, beef jerky—only time will tell what else. Did I tell you he’s just about to turn three?

Going back to the sis, I don’t get to talk to her much but when I do, we almost always erupt into laughter. Here’s a partial transcript of our exchange:

“Bili mo ako ng lucky me pancit canton, yung maliit.”

“Magkano ba diyan yun?”

“Mga 3 for 1 dollar.”

“Okay na yun. Isipin mo dadalhin ko pa diyan.”

“Ah alam ko na. Ang gusto ko talaga Goldilocks cake eh. Gusto ko pagdating kina Nang, yun ang kakainin ko.”

“Ha? Meron bang Goldilocks sa New Jersey?”

“Wala. Eh baka pwede niyang orderin.”

“Sinabi mo na ba sa kanya na yun ang gusto mo?”

“Hindi pa.”

“Ano bang flavor gusto mo, try kong aralin gawin.”

“Ayoko! Siyempre iba ang lasa nun. Iba ang ingredients diyan kaysa dito.”

“Eh di magdadala ako ng ingredients diyan. Sige na, sabihin mo. Titikman ko dito, aaralin kong gawin.”

“Ah basta gusto ko Goldilocks cake. Gusto ko yung nasa BOX ng Goldilocks.”

“Magdadala ako ng box!”

Nobody won in our verbal tug-of-war but the phone company who was made richer by the many seconds we wasted on the long distance call just laughing.

In the end I wasn’t able to convince my dear sister that I was serious about baking her a cake because she doesn’t want any other cake. Maybe it’s the taste of the familiar she is craving for. The taste of home. Of her days as a nursing student at Makati med. Of her medrep days for Wyeth. Even if by some miracle I could bake a cake that tastes just as good as Goldilocks, or even better, it still wouldn’t be enough. Because nowhere could I buy an ingredient packaged in a box labelled memories.

I promised to go to Goldilocks and ask how long the shelf life for their cakes is. She said she could settle for a half-roll of chocolate and mocha. I’m not sure yet how I could protect them from getting crushed in my luggage. But then again, there’s no way the boxes of rolls will be checked in.

Next time I'll eat a Goldilocks cake, I think I'll have a better appreciation for it. Because somewhere across the globe, a Pinay needs no diamong ring, no fancy car, no expensive clothes to make her happy. Just a slice of an all-too familiar cake will do.

Postscript: I found a Goldilocks website that serves online orders in the US. There's a 99% chance my sister is getting her birthday wish. Now I think it's a good thing she doesn't check out this blog often. Or else, I'll spoil it for her. The surprise, not the cake. ;)

cold spaghetti on a cluttered desk

2007-02-22T14:25:00.000+08:00

What do you get when you eat cold spaghetti on top of a cluttered desk?

A break.

This mid-afternoon snack is punctuating an otherwise frantic and mentally challenging day. The noodles said goodbye to firmness, the meat sauce coagulated already, thanks to its stay inside the ref (said spaghetti was supposed to be my lunch yesterday). With a forkful of the stale pasta, I think of another meal I could have, maybe in a faraway beach somewhere. There, my newly-cooked pasta is served with a tall glass of juice, the kind with a decorative but completely useless tiny umbrella on top. I could be holding a book, with earphones plugged in my ear playing my favorite songs.

But I'm not there. Instead, the music I hear comes blaring from a generic speaker that came with my office pc, but it's music nonetheless. Michael W. Smith is singing for me, "This is my daily bread...And I'm desperate for You...."

Cold spaghetti on a cluttered desk. That's all I have now. Yes, things could be better but I'm not complaining. Because when I start thinking of what I don't have, I might miss out on enjoying what's in front of me—what I can feel, see, hear, touch, taste.

And I thank God. Because even the capacity to enjoy things, imperfect as these might seem, also comes from Him. The garden is not always abloom with beautiful flowers. Life does not always follow the script you have in mind. Sometimes you get the flu that renders you humorless and lethargic.

The taste of cold spaghetti might not be enough to fill a hungry stomach but the assurance of God’s love, with His mercies fresh every morning, is more than enough to fill a hungry soul. With that remembrance from Above, even the stale and day-old pasta can taste like the most delicious meal in the world.

Try lang

2007-02-12T22:17:00.000+08:00

Two years na. Two years na akong nagbablog. Para sa entry na ito, naisipan kong magsulat naman sa Tagalog. Baka naman sabihin niyo na sa Inglisera ako sa tutuong buhay. Pero mapapansin ninyo siguro na hindi straight Tagalog ang gagamitin ko. Kasi tayo namang mga Pilipino, di naman talaga tayo ganun magsalita. Maliban na lang kung ang apelyido mo ay Balagtas at may dahon ka sa buhok.

Sa kauna-unahang post ko, inamin kong di ako marunong magbisikleta at lumangoy. Eto ang update: Di pa rin ako marunong. Ewan ko ba, ang dapat ko yatang matutunan ay paano ba tumapang para di na ako matakot magasgasan ng braso sa pagbibisikleta o di matakot na malunod sa paglangoy. Pero sabagay, kailangan ko ba talagang matutunan yung dalawang iyon? Wala naman akong bike at wala naman kaming swimming pool sa bahay. Sabi nga ni Gary V, di bale na lang. At least marunong na akong mag-blog.

Malapit nang mag araw ng mga puso. Bakit ganon? Kung may araw ng mga puso, di ba unfair yun sa baga, atay, at bituka? Importante din naman sila. Sige, try mong ipantanggal kahit isa sa kanila at tingnan natin kung magbirthday ka pa. Di lang nga cute ang shapes nila para ipandecorate sa mga cards at ipanghulma sa mga chocolates. Kahit yata crush ko ang magbigay sa akin ng card na korteng baga, baka di ko ikatuwa. Malamang ang dedication nun, “You’re the reason I breathe.” On the second thought, kung gusto ko pala siya, okay lang iyon.

Nakita ko pala si Michael V two weeks ago sa Podium. I really like his humor. Naka-tshirt at maong lang siya. Simpleng-simple lang ang dating niya kaya halos di ko siya mapansin nang magkasalubong kami. For one second naisip kong magpapicture kasama niya kaso naisip ko, “Beng, nasa Podium ka. Isipin mo na lang artista ka din na nagma-malling.” So ayun, napigilan ko ang sarili ko at ginawa na lang ay magtext sa ilang kaibigan tungkol sa celebrity apparition na nakita ko.

Hanggang dito na lang muna ang Tagalog post ko. Nagkuwento lang po ako, mga kaibigan. I’m not sure if it’ll stay posted here for long. Malamang after ilang days, makornihan ako sa sarili ko at tanggalin ito. But it wouldn’t hurt to try to do this once naman, di ba? Besides, I’m taking my own advice about giving in to some of my impulses or I won’t be able to do it, ever. In this case, writing in our native language. Because for all I know, the desire to do something this unusual will be gone before... I even finish writing this post. There. I’ve just proven myself right. But hey, I enjoyed doing this post somehow. Just like eating cotton candy. No nutritional value but all fun.

fish tale

2007-02-08T09:21:00.000+08:00

I was ready today. But no, of all the days when I am finally deciding on it, my desire for it was dashed by seven words from the other person on the line when I dialed 8-7000:

"Ay, sorry Ma'am, wala na po yun." (Sorry Ma'am, we don't have it anymore.)

"Ha? Ngayon pa na gusto ko na siya." (What? Now that I decided I wanted it.)

To say I was disappointed is an understatement.

I am talking about Jollibee's crispy bangus belly with rice. Almost every time I eat at the fastfood, or we order at the office, this meal comes to mind. I've always wondered how it tasted and now, of all days, when I am finally ready,

No more. Nada. Zilch.

My fault, really, because I took it for granted. Who would have thought that the great smiling Bee would take it off its list? I should have thought more and remembered the short but stellar reign of another meal, The Honey Beef Rice (which I enjoyed so much before it was it was taken off the menu. From the grapevine I heard that some people developed allergies to it.)

Here's another true-to-life lesson underscoring the importance of holding on to life's opportunities tenaciously. Of not eternally stacking your desires and wishes—especially those you have control over—in the invisible yet real before-I-die-I-will-do-this pile.

Life is too short for us to be in a perpetual party of regret. Mark my words: The next time I see something I want, I will grasp it with both hands and not let go. The moment I hear the first strains of the music, I will dance.

If a big fish can make Jonah realize something profound, then why not a fried fish belly have a similar moving effect on me? :) Carpe diem.

Breaking News (as of Feb.9,2007): A very reliable source told me that this dish will soon make a momentary comeback. Clearly, the heavens decided to give me another chance. Now, let's just wait till the Philippines is in a holy mood to celebrate with me.

seeing an ordinary miracle

2007-02-04T14:35:00.000+08:00

I'm learning a new song, thanks to a pig, a spider and their remarkable friendship. When you come across a song as simple and charming as this, nothing else needs to be said.

Ordinary Miracle by Sarah McLachlan (from the movie, "Charlotte's Web")

It’s not that unusual when everything is beautiful
It’s just another ordinary miracle today
The sky knows when it's time to snow
Don’t need to teach a seed to grow
It’s just another ordinary miracle today

Life is like a gift they say
Wrapped up for you everyday
Open up and find a way
To give some of your own

Isn’t it remarkable?
Like every time a raindrop falls
It’s just another ordinary miracle today

Birds in winter have their fling
But always make it home by spring
It’s just another ordinary miracle today

When you wake up everyday
Please don’t throw your dreams away
Hold them close to your heart
Cause we are all a part of the ordinary miracle

Ordinary miracle
Do you want to see a miracle?

It seems so exceptional
Things just work out after all
It’s just another ordinary miracle today

The sun comes up and shines so bright
It disappears again at night
It’s just another ordinary miracle today

It's just another ordinary miracle today

nanny duty

2007-02-02T12:01:00.000+08:00

Yesterday I clocked out of work on the dot. A more pressing matter was waiting for me at home. Two words: Nanny duty.

But before I boarded the south-bound bus, I swung by 7-11 to buy microwaveable popcorn, the only food specifically requested by one of my wards. Last night was "movie" night and I needed the popcorn to complete the moviehouse effect.

Pong, 6, and Robyn, 4, excitedly greeted me the moment I stepped into the room. By instinct, Pong collects the DVDs for last night’s showing: Chicken Little, Mr Bean, and Justice League.

If you haven't tried watching TV or a movie with kids, you should try it sometime. The entertainment value is upped not by what's on screen but by the reaction of the little creatures beside you who will infect you with their excitement. Pong saw something that made him laugh hard and insisted that I see it. He rewinds the part where a monster-enemy of Justice League spits fire. I didn’t quite get what was amusing about it but I laughed anyway.

Approaching the second hour of my duty, I asked permission from them if I could close my eyes for a while (the three of us were cramped in their parents' bed). Just when I was starting to doze off, Robyn signaled to his brother to tickle me, and thus the source of their delight was transferred from the laptop screen to their helpless half-asleep aunt startled by tiny fingers on her back. The next time I tried to steal a nap, a feather duster was brushed over my neck seconds after I closed my eyes.

I wave the white flag in surrender. No nanny can sleep with two precocious boys on her watch. Boys, in general, are probably harder to entertain than girls. For the next hour or so, they wrestled and I refereed. They played Chuzzle and Zuma and I coached. They worked on their coloring books and I gushed.

Last night I hit the bed with a sense of satisfaction for a job well done. No, not for the nine hours I logged in at work editing books. More for the three-and-a-half hours I spent keeping my two nephews entertained. I might not have been paid a single cent but I won’t hesitate on saying it’s one of the best jobs in the world.

Rusty

2007-01-26T17:51:00.000+08:00

If I had a dog, maybe that’s what I could name him. But for now, I’d have to let “rusty” refer to me. (Rusty for "getting rusty with my writing")
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It’s been a couple of weeks since I last posted an entry in this space.For once in my entire bloglife (which spans to almost two years now), I have decided to deliberately keep my thoughts to myself. In retrospect, that wasn't too hard. But I miss blogging. So here are the other B-s on my mind lately.

Brownies.
Baking has now become a part of my weekly activities. I've gone back to old-school oven cooking and I'm enjoying it again. Most of my finished products make it with me to the office where I distribute them to my officemates. More than one has told me I shoud sell them but I decline. I absolutely have no business sense. So they, in turn, offer to sell them for me. I just laugh it off. It's like grace. People should just take the brownie when I give it. But what if I tell them I accept donations? Hmm...nah.:)

Blind date.
I agreed to go on one. Prior to my "yes-ing", I've been hearing contemporaries say that it should be treated like any other social exercise. And so, when the opportunity (more like a risk, if you ask me) presented itself, I felt extra brave and said yes to a friend whose friend referred me to her friend. First time. I haven't done this yet in my entire life (I don't count the time when a couple invited me for dinner and some other single guy just happened to be there). Now, honestly, I'm feeling jittery about it. Does every social exercise have to be this nerve-wracking? I'm psyching myself that I'll just do this for the experience in the same way some other adventurous person would try his hand at bungee-jumping for once in his life.

Bunny.
I once had a puppy whom I named Bunny. He was all-white, cute and tame. The day he was given to me, I held him on my lap and treated him as if he was the most precious thing in the world. The next day, I think he forgot all about me and started to bark at and bite me. Hard as I try, I can't remember anymore what happened to him.

Now, speaking of dogs, yes, Rusty sounds like a good name. But I'm not getting a dog anytime soon. Apart from the fact that I have zero dog-caring skills, I don't think I could let a creature with four legs tug at my heart and break it when he dies or forgets about me. My heart can handle only so much heartache.

So Rusty? I'll take that name. But I don't want this name for so long. With one or ninety-nine readers, I'll try to post entries on my blog more frequently again. Rusty sounds too masculine a name for me.

the curse of being an Eve

2007-01-07T20:54:00.000+08:00

I start this post with no idea how it's going to end. My only motivation for blogging tonight is the thought that visited me this afternoon while enduring mild stomach cramps.

Salty. I need to eat something salty. Oh, the curse of being an Eve!

Do men ever get stabbed by out-of-nowhere desire for something salty, spicy or sweet? Do they ever get especially touchy and irritable some days of the month for no particular reason at all--with life being presumably normal? Did Adam ever tell Eve, "Oh honey, I'm depressed. Cain and Abel are fighting, and the stress is showing on my skin. I'm going to go out for a while and have a haircut. Maybe it'll make me feel better"?

Shopping--another estrogen-propelled instinct. We women have a shopping chip embedded in our pituitary gland that the scientists have long ignored or dismissed only as a potentially hazardous quirk. In fact, it was activated the moment the first female strolled in the lush garden named Eden. She might have whispered to herself after one lunch, "All Adam ever gives me is this fruit to eat. Maybe I should go and inspect the trees and see what other fruit varieties look and taste good (the shopping instinct kicks in for the first time)." Enter the serpent, the smooth-talking salesman with a tongue of poison who lured Eve into thinking she was getting a good deal with another fruit. Eve, as we all know, got a rotten fruit and a rotten deal.

The consequences of the first sin aside, my point here is why we women like shopping. We are inclined to do it in the same way, say, men are inclined to eat voraciously(or replace italicized word with another male-specific activity that might fit). I realized I have this shopping chip real bad just recently. While strolling with another Eve in Glorieta one night, I suggested we head to Breadtalk. She asks, "Are you buying?" "No," I answer. "I just want to see the breads." Seriously.

Window-shopping for breads? Uhm, yes, but they're nice-looking breads! And they smell good and I like cooking and...I'm full. I don't want to buy any. I just want to look at the breads (You can stop shaking your head in disbelief now. Just imagine I'm window-shopping for shoes).

Before this deteriorates into becoming a completely useless post, let me tell you what's difficult about being an Eve, biblically speaking:

"To the woman he [God] said, 'I will greatly increase your pains in childbearing; with pain you will give birth to your children. Your desire will be for your husband and he will rule over you. (Genesis 3:16)'"

Most women generally find their value in relationships than in their achievements. A woman feels most fulfilled when she's beside her man, or while caring for her kids, or while nurturing any other human being, for that matter. And this is what's hard about being an Eve: When she sometimes feels a longing for Adam and she doesn't know where he is.

Five-word advice for tomorrows

2006-12-31T20:34:00.000+08:00

I pity the angels. Tonight, their immaculate-white clothes will be covered with soot. What with all the fireworks dotting the night sky, there's bound to be some dust that will pierce through the clouds and make their way to heaven. I should tell them,

"Sorry for the dirtied clothes. It's New Year, you know, and the Philippines. Well, here one can't drive past one kilometer without seeing at least ten enterprising persons eager to make a few bucks selling cheap pyrotechnics. Do you have extra angel clothes tucked somewhere? By the way, how are your ears?"

Right this moment, three hours before it's officially another year, I could already hear the non-stop noise. A part of me wonders why some people would do a trial-run of their fireworks. Just to make sure they weren't duped by the smooth-talking man at the corner who promised they'll be burning their money for a visually-spectacular cause? I try to drown the noise with two buds in my ears playing Freestyle's music: "But baby, before I let you go, I want to say..."

-------------------

New Year's Resolutions? No, I ain't got any. I probably made a list or two sometime ago but what do you know? Even before the second month of the year rolled by, I couldn't find my list. Or maybe even forgot that the list even existed at all. No, I'm not pinning it to lack of discipline. More like to my poor memory. Here's me doing a self-talk: Oh, I made a list? What kind? About what I'd like to change about myself? You're kidding! There can't be anything I want to change about myself. Oh there's one. I think I'm too humble but shouldn't I be proud of it?

Seriously now, the turning of the year is more like a metaphor. Like a rainbow is a visible representation of the promise of hope. New Year. Fresh start. Beginnings. All the warm, fuzzy words you can put together that can make you sleep and wake up with a smile plastered on your face. New Year. Like a new notebook waiting for you to scribble words on them. I like the look and feel and smell of new notebooks. And new years too. The idea of a new year, at least.

Yes, I like December thirty-ones and January ones. But there's a day I always look forward to more passionately. It's the day named tomorrow. This day doesn't have to be sandwiched between years. It could be any day. Any day that could make you believe you're up for another shot at the ball. Another day that could find you mumbling, "Lord, I'm sorry about yesterday. I messed up bigtime. But thank You for today. Thanks for waking me up and thinking I deserve another chance."

Tomorrow, which incidentally happens to be the first day of a fresh year, I'm giving myself an advice that will hopefully last me the next 365 tomorrows. My self-advice--simple. Five words. "Worry less, trust God more." No scholar needs to dissect it; only a humble heart needs to believe it. And believe it with abandon, as if life is hinged on these five words. Interestingly, this advice capsuled in five words aren't really my own. A Carpenter from Nazareth two thousand years ago went up the mountainside and urged His disciples,

So I tell you, don't worry about everyday life--whether you have enough food, drink, and clothes. Doesn't life consist of more than food and clothing? Look at the birds. They don't need to plant or harvest or put food in barns because your heavenly Father feeds them. And you are far more valuable to him that they are. Can all your worries add a single moment to your life? Of course not....So don't worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today's trouble is enough for today. (Matthew 6:25-27,34, NLT)

Two-and-half-hours from now, I'll be needing a new calendar. But I'll be needing more than a piece of paper to help me navigate through the 24 hours in a day. Tomorrow, like today and my thousands of yesterdays, I'll be needing the Lord who can make me worry less. Oh, if I could only learn how to trust God more.

Perhaps I could... Tomorrow. And then all I'd have to think about are the todays.

cakes and closets

2006-12-21T17:06:00.000+08:00

Last night, at Mexicali's, I had a cute Goldilocks' chocolate mousse courtesy of my DG--savvy group of women whom I meet at least twice in a month to learn and have fun with (two of them are in the US right now, enjoying their first White Christmas). They surprised me with a 5-day early birthday celebration.

Before giving me their words of encouragement, we shared what about our lives this coming year would we like to change. If our lives were a closet, what would we discard? Are there any paradigm shifts we'd like to make? While one spoke of trying to rid herself of flab (which is hardly noticeable I'm suspecting it might be imaginary), another spoke of taking more risks and developing herself in other areas of interest. She is, after all, more than a number cruncher. She is a music lover who will finally buy guitar and teach herself how to play it (Go for it, girl!).

No more guilt in saying No. This is what I had to say. If you knew me, you'd know that if you asked me to cross over a high wire, I won't say No. I'd say, "Give me time, I'll learn it." But from now on, I don't have to worry myself to death about pleasing every one. I have this dress patterned after paranoia and I'm taking it out of my rack. Another piece of clothing I don't want to wear anymore is the pants of pragmatism. Between trusting God and doing something to solve my problems, the former doesn't always win. I can get pretty impatient waiting for God to work and answer my prayer that sometimes I'd rather find the answer myself. And I thought I had the gift of faith.

I'll be updating my wardrobe. Next year, I'd wear more pinks than blues, more reds than blacks. I just hope those colors fit me. *wink*

wishes on colored paper

2006-12-20T08:44:00.000+08:00

Got some short wishes written on colored paper last Monday. During our company Christmas program, each one was encouraged to make a Christmas wish for somebody else—anybody else—in the room. Sheepishly, I admit that I got more wishes than the few I gave away.

It wasn’t surprising for me, really, to know what most of these people (six out of eight, to be exact) wish for me: a love life. Quite appropriately, the author of the book Love and Courtship (the revised edition of which incidentally was one of the first projects I took on as a novice editor many years ago) said: “I wish you joy and wisdom, a love life that is satisfying and from the Lord.”

As my eyes run through the words scribbled, I couldn’t help but smile. But something else touched my heart during this thoughtful exercise. Another dear and respected author, a pastor, whose most recent book on crisis I edited, wished this for me: “Wish ko lang na gumaling na ang sister ni Beng.” Two more, along with their wish for a relaxing year and a lovelife, also wished for my sister’s recovery.

Thanks. Thanks for caring enough for me to care for the people I love.

I am thrilled to say that God is granting a wish. Just recently Nang called to update me about her condition. Psyching herself for a mastectomy next month, was she glad to be told by her doctor that she would have a lumpectomy plus radiation instead. “I just got my best Christmas gift for this year!!! Praise God!,” she emailed me later. “Yes, Nang, it’s also God’s best Christmas gift for me too,” I emailed back.

Prayers aren’t just spoken out loud, with hands clasped together or even raised upward towards heaven. Prayers aren’t always silently said, or mumbled to an unseen Deity by lowly creatures groveling for a morsel of mercy.

Words hastily written on tiny sheets of paper. A wish written for another. Maybe God reads them too and recognizes each one as a prayer—maybe not eloquent as a minister would say it yet sincere as a child would write it.

Sleepless in December

2006-12-13T18:05:00.000+08:00

Even in my dreams, I was giftwrapping. No wonder I woke up tired, with wrists hurting. (Or at least, that’s my hypothesis. But then again, maybe a more telling reason could be that I barely had four hours of sleep before rushing to work today after burning the past-midnight oil with scissors and tape in my hands).

But no whining here, I promise. This giftwrapping gal is too sluggish to snarl and too weak to whine (but bitten by the alliterating bug bigtime!).

With the same passion as Albert Einstein’s while he was working on his Theory of Relativity, I am driven by my superb mathematical skills (or so, I wish)—divide the number of gifts by the number of remaining workdays, factor in the attire for the day and the size of bag needed (laptop bag or shoulder bag? Handbag?). My goal this morning: Bring as many boxes as I could carry to the office without looking like an undernourished female Santa. (Not much of a challenge, really, as no reindeer-drawn carriage was waiting for me outside our gate.)

And so I made it to the office, in one piece, with all my giftwrapped boxes all accounted for. My reward for my indefatigable spirit came in the form of a wide smile of a treasured author who dropped by unexpectedly. When I saw her, I suddenly forgot how sleepy I was and remembered to snatch the gift with her name under my table.

There should be a study made on how much sleep people get on the average per month—with December probably getting the lowest average. What with the countless parties to attend, reunions to enjoy and, of course, the giftwrapping duties to fulfill. “Sleepless in December” sounds like a good title for a documentary on it, don’t you think?

No, Virginia, there’s no Santa Claus who stays awake at night delivering gifts. But yes, Virginia, there are people out there who stays awake at night wrapping them.

of baking bread and distilling thoughts

2006-12-07T22:22:00.000+08:00

No warm, freshly-baked white bread yet.

Coming home from work, with my loot from Sweetcraft, I initially planned to use my new Breadmaker for the first time. I've searched long and wide and worked hard enough for this moment. I've combed through the aisles of baking products in three supermarkets, in three separate days, before I realized that the right shop was just P7.50 ride away from my office. [I've been trying to find bread flour. Incidentally, all our supermarkets offer are variations of the All-Purpose Flour.]

Any kind of cooking is therapeutic and relaxing for me. In fact, last night I texted a guy friend, when he asked why I cook, that I actually find joy in culinary activity. It's an extension of my creative self--instead of stringing together words, I mix together ingredients.

Now, I'm on a baking mode. Last night my hands were busy making chocolate chip cookies (which my teammates devoured this morning). But tonight, I changed my mind before cutting open the package of the all-important flour.

And so why am I denying myself this pleasure now?

Let me tell you about Dr. Izzie Stevens. She is a fictional character in Grey's Anatomy who, after experiencing a major heartbreak, retreated to the kitchen. There she built a fort. There she whipped as many muffins as the kitchen (and Joe's Bar, and Seattle Grace hospital) could hold. Unstoppable. It was as if in every bowl of batter she prepares, an anesthetic would seep through her hands and find its way to her heart. I understand. For while cooking, she didn't have to think of a dead boyfriend, or her expulsion from the internship program in the hospital.

I ask myself if I am being Izzie Stevens. Am I trying to numb myself of whatever pain it is I am feeling by doing something that will at least deaden it, albeit temporarily?

Not like the pretty doctor's reasons for sadness is how I would describe mine. Nevertheless, I am still sad. Primarily, for and because of my sister. [And until my sister gets healed completely, I will carry this lingering sadness in my heart. Yet please do not mistake this sadness for loss of hope. I know, and I am sure, that God is much bigger than the cancerous tumor in Nang's breast. But for a second, hear me out: Isn't it normal for us human beings to at least feel a pang of melancholy upon knowing that there's this shadow of uncertainty hanging over our loved one's life?]

There are other reasons for sadness. A text received the other night, exposing an inadequacy on my part to fill a role I realized I wasn't qualified enough to fulfill. I ask myself over and over: How does one overcome the guilt of having hurt someone she had no intentions of failing? How will she make things right?

And so I don't bake. And refuse to touch any cooking utensil that will provide artificial happiness. Instead, I distill my thoughts using words I can form. And later on, I will be using more words-- to voice my sadness to the One who can clearly hear the emotions behind them.

The baking pan can wait another day.

Tales from Thailand 2

2006-12-01T23:59:00.000+08:00

Finished!

My boss, Ate Yna, and I can finally breathe a sigh of relief. Lest you think that I am in Thailand exclusively for leisure, let me say, not really. We were invited by a Christian publisher with a new editing team to teach its staff about the various aspects of book publishing. The teaching ended around lunchtime today and so after another lunch, off to sightseeing we went.

Katie Holmes might have her Tom Cruise, but I have my Tom Yum

Presenting to you the most delicious food in the world (drum roll, please), Tom Yum! This is my fourth serving of the famous dish since we flew in last Sunday. I’m considering buying Tom Yum mix from the supermarket tomorrow just so I could try to duplicate the experience when I return home.

Mirror, mirror on the wall
How many are there of you all in all?

If you’re asking the mirror(s) at the Grand Palace in Wat Phra Keo, Bangkok, the answer must be millions! Now I understand where the inspiration of the intricate and ornate designs of Thai fashion came from! I have never seen anything made by man that was as grand and as beautiful as the structures inside the Grand Palace.

Sunset in Bangkok

Tonight we ate inside the market near the port. While waiting for our meal, I looked to my right and looked at the sunset. I suddenly missed our very own Manila Bay.

I better turn in now. Big day tomorrow. Chatuchak, the biggest outdoor market in Asia (or so Jannie, one of our hosts, said) is waiting for me.

Tales from Thailand

2006-11-27T14:39:00.000+08:00

Long Live the King

Today, a Monday, is a yellow shirt day here in Thailand. In commemoration of the King’s upcoming birthday on December 5, the Thais would wear a yellow (polo) shirt with a royal patch. I asked Nok (who drove us this morning) if there’s anybody or any group in Thailand who doesn’t love the King. In broken English, she said, “No. Every body love the King. Whatever the King say, we follow.”
Everywhere I look, there’s somebody wearing the “shirt”—from the most sophisticated office professional to the humblest street peddler.

Want a taxi? Spell fuchsia
Yesterday, on the road and barely out of the airport, a car caught my eye. I couldn’t help but point to it, “Look, a pink taxi! (technically, I think it’s fuchsia). Other colors plying the highway include orange, bright blue, and even the dual colored ones, in addition to the generic white. “Can men ride these taxis too?” I quipped with a naughty smile. Thais drive on the right side of the road, apparently owing to the British influence.

I love Thai food!

Feeling that we had more than enough appetite for adventure, we agreed to eat by the roadside. Rat na is made of wide, flat noodles with meat and some vegetables. How could they serve food this delicious here when you pay big bucks just to have the same in Manila? I’ll gladly have another plate of this Thai noodle dish, and more servings of Tom Yum (which I ate for dinner yesterday and lunch today).

Sad

2006-11-22T15:30:00.000+08:00

Do You know how I feel?
Do You see me whenever I shed a tear?
Will You answer my prayer for another?
Lord, will You please heal my sister?

three stanzas for sophia

2006-11-19T17:42:00.000+08:00

Don’t grow up so fast, little girl

And miss out on all the fun

Take time to twist and twirl

And enjoy playing under the sun

Don’t grow up so fast, delicate one

The world is your playground

Go out—hop, jump and run!

Delight in everything you see around

Don’t grow up so fast, lovely baby

Let the make-up and high heels wait

Wear bows and dresses, all pink and frilly

Live each day and learn love, hope and faith

[Picture taken yesterday during Sophia's first birthday party that her parents, Reggie and Chayen, lavishly gave her. This just-awakened butterfly is my first niece.]

seventy times seven

2006-11-10T00:54:00.000+08:00

His name was Art.

Will there be a choir gown for me? Maybe. There's bound to be an extra one for me somehow. Many years ago, while struggling with high school biology and algebra, I would make time to go to church every Saturday afternoon to practice the anthem for the following Sunday's service. Art, or more specifically, Kuya Art, was my choir director. A gentleman, he would give me a ride back home whenever he could. He was everything I thought a Christian man should be. Until one Sunday morning when he stood behind the pulpit and declared,

“I've been keeping a secret from you all—I have been a smoker, for many years now. And I have been diagnosed with leukemia.”

More details flowed. Kuya Art was guilty of duplicity and owned up to it. That was the first time that I was jarred by the shame of sin. Imprinted on my young mind then was how a broken man could stand before God and man, and admit his sinfulness. Our church continued to love and support him while he battled the ravages of his disease. Yet although his spirit won, his body, sadly, failed him.

His name is Art.

Or at least that what he wanted Mike Jones, the male prostitute, to call him (his second name is Arthur) . Unlike my choir director, I do not personally know this man. What I know about him is based on what I read on the internet and magazines. More popularly known as Rev. Ted Haggard, he is the founder of the New Life Church in Colorado Springs that boasts of a 14,000-strong membership.

“The fact is I am guilty of sexual immorality. I am a deceiver and a liar. There is a part of my life that is so repulsive and dark that I have been warring against it for all of my adult life.”

Aghast, I mutter: “How terrible! How could he do such a shameful thing?” But before I said any more, an inner voice challenged me, “Do you realize that if not for the grace of God, you would have fallen into the same trap of sin and shame? Don’t you too struggle with rebelliousness and self-sufficiency? Have you always won the battle against pride and lust?”

The ugly Pharisee in me was hushed—and hopefully will stay hushed for long. With my heart softened, I shed some tears for this fallen brother, and some more tears for his family. For his wife who will probably lie awake in bed at night, wondering if she can ever fully trust the man beside her. For his five children, who every time would see a gay couple might whisper, “That could’ve been my father.”

Sin breaks hearts, and not just the heart of the one who commits it.

I am not a perfect Christian; I do not have a halo. I still fall short, many times awfully short, in fact. Sometimes I don’t like to pray. There are days when I wonder if God really exists at all. If He does, I ask, then why doesn’t He make His presence more known?

During the times when I am in the pit of doubt and despair, He lets down the rope of truth and hope. When I sin against Him, the God of love grants me a second chance. A third chance. And seventy times seven more chances await me. Yet I do not claim exclusive right to this privilege. For this was also true for Art, my former choir director now in heaven, and is true for "Art", the disgraced Colorado pastor. And this will hold true for men and women who have fallen into sin, broken and repentant, and need Someone with a grip strong enough to pull them up and never let go.

5 Things You Might Not Know About Me*

2006-10-29T16:40:00.000+08:00

*I got tagged by Bituing Marikit. So here's my list of 5 things:

Naps, no problem!
I am a no-sweat sleeper. In fact, I can catch a quick nap while riding any moving vehicle--plane,bus,jeep,tricycle. These naps can be deep that I'd even get dreams.

Could you answer this, please?
I love asking questions, not all of them serious. My other questions could range from the practical to the absurd. Spend a day with me and you're bound to discover this quirk of mine.

"Allergic" to IV
I haven't spent the night in a hospital as a patient (that is, aside from when I and my twin brother were born prematurely one Christmas day many years ago). IV fluid has never passed through my veins.

For love or money?
Some people have half-seriously suggested that I put up a restaurant. With a smile, I've answered, "I will only cook for love, and not money." :)

Can't resist quick wit and intelligent humor
I like Billy Crystal. I can still remember one of the earliest movies of him I watched, "Throw Momma from the Train"--an underrated but very funny movie with a crazy plot. Wait, there's another funny person I like: Steve Martin. I don't enjoy slapstick but enjoy humor that would tickle my brain and my funny bone too.

Now, I tag Gypsy, Jen, Reigne, Swipe and Nechie.

B for Cebu

2006-10-22T23:24:00.000+08:00

It was a Friday morning and I traded the bus for a plane ride. This particular workday my destination was not Mandaluyong but Mactan. So off to Cebu I went! The night before the writing workshop I conducted for young people, I was still reviewing my notes for the half-day teaching slated the next day. Aprilboi, the laptop, proved to be good company.

“Every time she sees me, she wants me to kiss her,” so went the opening sentence of James's essay. I stopped for a second when I read his first line aloud and laughed. “Oh no, love story ba ito?” Silly me, I spoke too soon. “Teka tungkol sa nanay mo!” No?Ah, lola. Now how many boys would lovingly write about their grandmothers in a writing workshop? Sweet.

The cheapest pork barbecue in the world, at four pesos only, (and probably the tiniest too), is here in Cebu, more specifically at Lartian. You eat with the jeepney drivers and businessmen, al fresco, in a strip where you use your hands instead of a spoon and fork to bring food into your mouth. They serve rice inside this woven coconut leaves called pusó. T’was a whole sensory experience—your ears hear rock music blaring from the speakers, your eyes water from the smoke coming from the grill, your fingers feel the sticky rice, your nose smells meat and seafood cooking, and your tastebuds tickle with the flavor of the local food.

My unofficial yet very gracious tour-guide is Lynnie, an ex-station manager-slash-deejay and now marketing officer in our Cebu branch. This tall woman has taller dreams—to go to Korea for a prayer course, and later on, Europe. To you, Lynnie, when Cebu becomes too small for you, I hope that you can just go out and conquer the world.

Many times work doesn't feel like work. This too—the joy of loving what you do and working with people you love being with—is a gift from God.

five o'clock calls over the moon and stars

2006-10-14T21:13:00.000+08:00

Most women are cheap.

And I mean that in a positive way. Let me clarify: Most women could be made happy by the simplest of gestures done with the sincerest of intents. While the most passionate lovers promise to pluck the moon and stars to lay at their woman’s feet, many women wouldn’t be impressed if all talk is what they did.

In a birthday tribute we gave a friend recently, a letter addressed to him was read aloud. It was from his wife who wasn’t in the celebration because she needed to be home early to care for their baby. In it, she extolled his virtues as a father and a husband. While listening to her public affirmation of him, my respect meter for the guy, Miler, shot up. Earlier in the day, I texted him and said he was the person with the coolest head I know and that his gentleness was a gift—to us, that is. Midway through the letter-reading, this one fact melted the heart of every female in the room: His wife said that since one day in May 2001, when they were still getting to know each other, he would call her when the clock strikes five pm. More than five years, a marriage contract, and a baby later, he still does it. Calling Rachelle at the office every five o’clock in the afternoon. Every day. Without fail. How could one guy do it when most guys would fizzle out soon after they hear the girl say “yes”?

It actually takes so little to make us happy.

A few years ago, a guy friend dropped by my office and gave me a bag of pan de sal. I never thought the most underrated piece from the baker’s oven could make my heart swell. Why? Because days (or was it weeks before?), I casually mentioned to him that I read a newspaper feature that talked about this delicious bread in Laguna. I probably asked him if he tried it. The next time I saw him, his smile came with a brown paperbag with the round bread inside. He remembered. The bag of pan de sal, carried all the way from Laguna, was still warm. The thought and care inside each piece made it warm. Yes, for me, it's the thought that counts.

This post is for men. If you’re attached—with a wife or a girlfriend—take the time to show her you’ve been thinking about her. You don’t really need to wipe out your bank account and buy her diamonds to make her the happiest woman in the world.

Diamonds may be forever. But a lifetime guarantee of 5 o’clock calls—the security and warmth of connection through shared conversation—can outvalue those precious gems and outshine the moon and the stars anytime. Or maybe, it's just me.

Workaholic Woes

2006-10-08T23:53:00.000+08:00

More than one person has accused me that I’m a workaholic. And I say, “Guilty as charged.”

I’ve spent countless extra-work hours in the office—after 5:30, a couple of hours before midnight, on weekends, and I’m ashamed to admit, a few times past midnight on weekdays. There was even an instance when I, with several of my officemates, was working on a catalogue. We worked non-stop till around 5am the next day (kept awake and functional by laughter, food and the threat of a baby doll that looked like the monster doll Chuckie). While three members of the work-vigil team went home to rest and take the morning off, I with two other girls managed to sleep for three hours in the conference room and then report for another day of work at 8am after a joltingly cold shower. Crazy is what others would call that kind of set-up. I call it unusual and once-in-a-lifetime. You know, how Halley’s comet would blaze through the sky once every seven decades.

Last Friday, I almost went home with a stack of pages to edit during the weekend. Afraid that I would soon be cramming to make it to my deadline, I initially thought that the best way to avoid the impending rush-rush scenario is to sacrifice a part of my rest time to breathe a little easier the week after.

Then I decided. No. I will break the cycle, and change my attitude.

My life does not have to be dictated by the to-do list on my desk. It might be a big boost to the ego to feel indispensable and important, but I don’t need to feel that kind of importance when I’m at home—resting, playing with my nephews, cleaning my room, or when I’m at church—teaching kids in my Sunday School class. For two days in a week, I can be simply me, with no business card to flash, and no need to prove anything about myself and flaunt skills I have, or think I have.

And so, before clocking out of work to welcome the weekend, I do something else instead. I map out my upcoming week and pencil in goals—finish X number of pages in a day— which I vow to accomplish, come hell or high water (or in Manila’s case, come Meralco brown-out or Milenyo). Feeling my week-long plan realistic enough, I make a mental note to be doubly diligent with my work and be extra-cunning about how I use my time. With my self-imposed load out of my backpack, I go home a little lighter—in more ways than one.

Tomorrow’s a Monday. I promise to do my best to deliver work that is pleasing to God and guard against being swallowed alive by my desk.

“Yes, I am a workaholic.” But that will soon be, “I was a workaholic.”

Will that change even be possible?

Of course. I'll be working on it.

By the light of the candle

2006-09-30T13:07:00.000+08:00

*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.

- - - - - - - - - - -

"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

2006-09-24T21:51:00.000+08:00

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

2006-09-17T22:12:00.000+08:00

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"

2006-09-16T19:01:00.000+08:00

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.)

------

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

2006-09-15T23:49:00.000+08:00

"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

2006-09-14T22:02:00.000+08:00

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.

-----------------
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

2006-09-07T23:37:00.000+08:00

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.

------

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.)

------

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

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

Googling flu

2006-08-27T11:07:00.000+08:00

I’ve been googling “flu cures, treatment” and all related articles for the past couple of days and nights. So far, I have read more than I need to know. I even came across a comparison chart of colds and flu. Now I know what differentiates the two. (And this confirms yet again that I am truly a geek. Only a geek would spend a portion of his/her rest time surfing the internet for cures. The hypochondriac, on the other hand, would probably call an ambulance, pronto.)

What I’ve read just verifies that I really got hit by the flu virus. And oh, the feeling that twenty hollow blocks fell on me is another telltale sign. Funny because eleven days ago I had a flu shot. I read one article too late, written by a doctor, which reveals that the shot doesn’t protect a person 100% from getting the flu (sometimes it makes one even more susceptible to infection). Case in point, me.

There’s really not much left to do now but lock myself in my room and try to stave off the fever and body aches by bed rest. I’ve slept more than I wanted to and I’ve drank more bottles of Gatorade than an NBA player during championship games (the tropical fruit variant is my favorite). There are three different books under my pillow and many more are waiting to be taken out to keep me company.

During these alone times, I usually get hit by realizations that wouldn’t come to me in my more lucid state. Realizations like what? Here are five:

1 Eat more vegetables

2 Don’t stay out too late too often.

3 Avoid stress.

4 You don’t need to please everybody.

5 And . . . you still have a dozen things to be grateful for.

As soon as I get better, I might forget the first four in my realization list but not the last. Because regardless of how I feel, good or bad, whether my temperature is up or down, the goodness of God is constant.

Thank You, Lord, that I didn’t get the flu while I was caring for a sick aunt, or while I was rushing to finish several book projects, or while I was vacationing in Palawan.

And thank You, Lord, that even if my throat is sore and my head throbs, I don’t have a runny nose.

And thank You, Lord, that I don't need a bachelor's degree in Math to count my blessings.

Of crocs and mismatched slippers, Of butterflies and barefoot dinners

2006-08-16T00:49:00.001+08:00

With my non-refundable promo ticket to Puerto Princesa bought more than four months ago, I hurriedly pack my bag with the reminder: There’s nothing to feel guilty about taking this break. The world will continue to spin without me sitting on my old rose swivel chair, frantically checking pages and pages of typeset manuscripts. And so, off to Palawan I go with my ever-efficient, equally-adventurous and French-speaking friend Jenny. Here’s a slice of my four-day, August 12-15, Palawan life:

Who says an animal needs to growl or hiss to generate fear among humans? You don’t get to have 3,000 teeth in your whole lifetime (30-40 at a time; they constantly grow their biters) and weigh hundreds of pounds for nothing! Meet the croc. Did you know that they can live up to a 100 years and weigh up to one ton? And that they can open their jaws, stay in that position, and not move an inch for an hour? At the crocodile farm, or more specifically, the Palawan Wildlife Rescue and Conservation Center, I realize that my worst nightmare is falling off the steel bars that separate me from the tens of crocodiles underneath. Fed only twice a week, a hunch tells me they would be happy to chew a morsel of Manila meat. I guess I’d have to tell them the truth: “But I don’t taste like chicken!”

Who says slippers need to match? I enter our room in the city apartelle and I wonder out loud to Jenny, “Why aren’t the left and the right the same color?” Sure, they’re the same size (way too big for my size 5 ½ feet) and proved useful in the shower but is this pair a reflection of the establishment’s sales figures? Couldn’t afford to buy new pairs to offer to guests? For three days the question danced in my head only to be halted by this hypothesis: The management didn’t want guests to be taking home these slippers as souvenir items. What a smart, anti-theft idea! Who in his right mind would walk around wearing these slippers outside the shower?

Butterflies live for only two weeks. This is just one of the few new things I’ve learned about these winged creatures when we visited the Butterfly Farm. Of course, we all know about me-ta-mor-pho-sis; how an ugly caterpillar turns into beautiful butterflies. But nothing beats learning the science lesson up close by actually seeing dozens of butterflies fluttering their wings, as if beckoning admirers to follow them. I don’t need a pendulum to be hypnotized; the beauty of God’s creation can do the trick.

Save the best (dinner) for last. Dining is not just about good food; it’s also about the whole sensory experience. A short tricycle ride away from where we were staying is Kalui’s, a seafood restaurant highly recommended by the locals. At the entrance, a receptionist gives me a cylindrical wooden block with a number and instructs us (with Dr. Zayda, a dentist/churchmate of Jenny) to take off our footwear. He then proceeds to store them in a wooden pull-out box and guides us to our reserved table. The walls of the restaurant are adorned with paintings and from its ceilings hang decorative fabrics in the shape of fish, among others. For dessert, they serve us complimentary slices of fruits on a half-coconut shell. What about Kalui’s isn’t great? Just one: the fact that they don’t have a branch in Manila.

At the beginning of our trip, I almost believed that we were experiencing the reality of Murphy’s Law: “If anything can go wrong, it will.” So, okay, we might have had endure a four-hour bumpy ride to and from Sabang for nothing and postpone our underground river tour booking due to harsh weather, but then who decides that Murphy will always have the last say? God might have allowed the sky to rain on our parade, er, vacation but by His grace, He still enabled us to see the good in everything. You see, every good and perfect gift comes from Above. Some of these perfect gifts just come in unusual packages.

raining on the inside

2006-07-23T23:36:00.000+08:00

The days have been woefully gloomy lately. I don’t recall feeling the warm rays of the sun on my skin anytime this week. Tonight, after a quick trip to the nearby mall, I got home all drenched with the sudden downpour. The tricycle got me home but did little to keep me dry while I was inside it. But I had no hard feelings for the driver. He himself was struggling to keep his eyes open, what with the strong wind slapping the rain on his face. I almost asked him to stop for a while and park somewhere before continuing on our way.

There’s something powerful about the rain. The way it refuses to be stilled when it decides to strike the earth; the way it locks arms with the wind and announces its presence.

I can hear no more trickling on the roof; the smell of damp earth serving as the only reminder that the angry sky just unleashed its fury. But I can still feel the rain. . . on the inside. This time, not even the biggest umbrella could keep me from being soaked.

Just when I am starting to overcome a pain or a loss, God allows another crisis to come and disturb my peace. And somehow, the magnitude of the trial escalates: A lost phone one day; the threat of losing a loved one the next. By instinct, I’ve known what to do. I could tap the play button in the recording of my mind and listen to myself say these lines over and over again: “God loves me. I don’t have to worry. He will see me through this pain."

Sounds positive, I know, yet God knows when I’m just mouthing the words, like a mantra, and when I sincerely believe it. And so, some days I feel a bit braver, more honest, and not move a finger to tap the play button and instead say (from the top of my head and the bottom of my heart): “Lord, I don’t understand this at all. Isn’t it in Your power to help me get through my difficulties? I’ve been good, no, make that extra benevolent. But then why am I still in this rut? Lord, please show me how all this makes sense. O God, are You even listening to this cry?”

The sky must have peeked over my shoulder and glanced at this post. Decided that this writing needed an accompaniment. What else would be appropriate than the distinct sound of rain? Yes, after a momentary pause, it rains again—on the outside; now in synch with the falling of the rain inside my heart. And so I listen. And hope that maybe if I listen carefully enough, I could hear a faint melody that will make me believe there’ll be sunshines ahead.

Working in "vain"

2006-07-14T11:51:00.000+08:00

It's Friday noon and I'm sitting on a La-zy boy chair, having my toenails done, and sipping orange juice. And unbelievable as this may sound, this is official business. My boss actually knows that I am doing this and approves of it.

Minami is the name of the relatively new beauty parlor right across our office. With my bag containing my laptop strapped on my back, I walked the twenty steps to this haven of beauty this mid-morning. And at this very moment, I'm trying hard not to get distracted by the cascading water on the wide glass with two Japanese characters etched on them. The girl files my nails; I squint a little.

Yes, the reason why I'm here is work. Our office is still on dial-up and it takes forever for us to get files--especially ones coming from publishers abroad. Cover files, inside pages, fonts--we've downloaded them all. And wonder of all (techie) wonders, this parlor offers wi-fi connection! And no need to buy any cards (what do you say of that, Starbucks and Seattle's Best?)! We needed to download a file from an FTP site and I volunteered to do it since I also needed to download a cover file from an illustrator. And since I first sat here, I've already managed to set up a gmail account, receive the cover file, and write and respond to urgent emails.

And so with minutes more to wait--for the other download to finish--I snatch some time and gather some thoughts to write this post. But nothing particularly thoughtful or inspiring here. For after all, how deep can one get while having her toenails done? ;)

PS: Lest you think I'm too "sosy" (that's sosyal or "high class")to be sitting on a La-zy boy and tinkering with my laptop, let me mention that I just returned to the parlor after a quick lunch next door, at Tess and Trish snack bar (a carinderia, actually). With a smile on my face, I say, "It's good to be pulled back to earth and shake off the illusion of class and grandeur."

Eureka!

2006-07-09T15:47:00.000+08:00

This is the last Superman-related post you will read from this space. After watching Superman 1&2, DVDs lent to me by Ian, I now understand why.

You can trash my number 2 observation in the post below (though I still think Lois Lane is not an easy girl but now it becomes more plausible for me to take why she could sleep with Richard).

I miss Christopher Reeve. And I miss the witty dialogues from the first two supermovie installments. Yes Gina Camus, I now understand why you like the older versions than Superman Returns. Though technically inferior, the earlier plots were cohesive and well-developed. Moreso, how blue can those Superman eyes get? And this was pre-contact lens days! And Swipe, you must have thought how foolish I am for my line of reasoning on Lois Lane. Now, I'm embarrased for reacting the way I did!

And with this, I end my super ramblings. Promise. Next post please.

Writing about you-know-who

2006-07-01T23:59:00.000+08:00

I am no Lois Lane but let me use my writing pencil for a minute and write about you-know-who.

My heart has returned to its normal beating now, that is, after the post-movie watching palpitations I’ve experienced last night. Breathtaking is how I can describe the seamlessly tailored scenes. Within that window of two hours when my eyes were glued to the cinema screen, if somebody were to set me up on a blind date with an alien, I would have gladly said yes. But he should be 6’4”, with blue eyes and wears spandex.

Now that I’m over gushing, here are 3 observations on this much-awaited return of the Superhero:

1 As the 5-year-old Jason’s unexpected display of strength suggests, he is no ordinary boy. Granted that he really is the son of the man of steel, how can he have the lungs of straw? (I can almost hear you saying: Wait for the next Superman installment and maybe it'll be explained why.)

2 Lois Lane is pictured as a smart, busy and tough woman who can almost singlehandedly run her life. But then, did I miss the part where it was told that she also was an “easy girl”? Okay, she had a one-night stand with Superman five years ago. How could she then sleep with another man (Richard) during that same month she shared intimate moments with the man of her dreams (Superman)? (That is the implication because Richard believes the asthmatic boy is his). Let’s just say the story goes that Superman disappeared shortly after their tryst. Does this warrant the Pulitzer prize-winning journalist to make a stupid mistake of sleeping with the next available guy? With her strong, driven personality and her tough exterior (plus obsession with Superman), is she the type who would sleep with another man she has just met? If you ask me, it’s out of her character. (Obviously, the Superman Returns writer is a man. And obviously, I'm overanalzying here.)

3 Is Clark Kent a reporter or is he just pretending to work at the Daily Planet? The scriptwriter and director failed to show that Kent was worthy of his post at the newspaper. (Or maybe I’m just asking too much—a sprinkling of intelligence—from my superheroes when they're cloaked in ordinariness.)

When I wrote the first words of this post, I thought I’d be swooning up to the last word about Superman: the character and the movie. Yes, Clark Kent (a.k.a Superman) looks good. Yes, he’s got the eyes to melt bullets and with his stare, any girl’s heart. Yet after the stardust has settled, you start to think that maybe earthlings are still more interesting than aliens.

But don't let that previous sentence fool you. Let me say I thoroughly enjoyed watching Superman Returns. Four girls and a guy can attest to that.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Every woman—no matter how tough she has made herself to appear—longs to be rescued. She might not cry for help even while inside a plane doomed to nosedive and shatter to pieces, but she knows better. Deep in her heart, she needs somebody outside of herself to convince her everything’s going to be fine and ask after the plane is safe on the ground, “Are you alright?”

Rainy Saturday

2006-06-24T15:17:00.000+08:00

Pong bended the blinds strip and saw it raining hard outside. Bored of watching TV with me and his younger brother Robyn, he wanted to stretch his muscles and play basketball in the garage.

“Ay, umuulan. Gusto ko pa naman play ng basketball.”

There was a tinge of disappointment in his voice. His babysitting aunt (i.e. me), wishing for a streak of color to brighten up this gray Saturday, had a quick thought. I heard the words stumble out of my mouth before the rational part of me reasoned against the idea.

“Gusto mo maligo sa labas?”

It was like asking a chocoholic if he wanted a bar of Toblerone. His face lighted up and he loudly replied, “Sige!” When it registered to the mind of 3-year-old Robyn what would soon be happening, the excitement immediately rubbed on him.

And so outside we went—They, half-naked, with only their shorts on, and I, uhm, well, let me just say I “dressed for the occasion” too. Robyn opened his mouth wide and turned his head up, drinking the water from the sky. Pong dribbled the basketball and made more than a few successful shots. Seeing me by the side, they cajoled me into joining them where all the action was happening. They passed me the ball and watched me fumble with it (I’m no match for them but I think they were happy just to see me try.)

Soon, the heavy rain started to turn into a drizzle.

“O, pag tumigil na ulan, pasok na tayo ha.”

“Bakit wala nang rain, Tita Beng?”

Chuckling, all the answer I could muster was, “Eh wala na eh. Sige pray kayo na mag-rain pa.”

Little Robyn folded his hands and followed my advice, “Loooord, tenk yu por dis fud…”

My chuckle turned to laughter. Meanwhile, Pong’s contribution was an adaptation of a popular children’s rhyme. He sang,“Sun, sun, go away, come again another day. Little boy wants to play…”

But then all good things must come to an end. Finally, I convinced them that our time's up. I dried their feet and we headed towards the shower where they imagined they were still outside, playing in the rain.

There are some seemingly irrational things we adults shouldn't mind doing: Eating dirty ice cream in the street where our officemates might see us. Risking looking silly (don a giant goldfish costume, anyone?) in the name of good fun. And playing in the rain with kids. It's refreshing to revive the body; much more refreshing to revive the soul.

Table for One

2006-06-17T23:36:00.000+08:00

I had a late lunch at 3pm, that is, if you could still call that lunch. This Saturday, I decided to take it easy. After all, I earned this lazy Saturday after almost being swept away in a whirlwind of weeklong activities which I logged in at work and out of work.

While sipping my iced tea, I told myself that I don’t want to get used to this. This, the independent, carefree single life.

Most people look at a single woman and blurt out, “Why are you still single? Maybe you’re too picky.” Based on the expression registered on their face, you could almost read the unspoken message: “What’s wrong with you?” And sometimes, you don’t even need to have a face-to-face conversation to decipher this message. Three days ago a married friend called me at the office. After exchanging how-are-you’s with her, she broke the news: “Our friend L is getting married. When will yours be?” My first reaction was surprise. I didn’t even know that L had a boyfriend (it turns out to be a long-distance relationship). The second was irritation, due mainly to the way she asked it. It was as if she was irked that she couldn’t hear any change-of-status news from me. My saner side stopped me from saying, “Thank you for giving me a reason to gripe to God this day about my singleness. I definitely needed that boost when I am days behind my editing projects because I’ve been helping my boss with her presentation.”

If she (and the rest of the world wondering why I’m still unattached) had the time, I would probably whip up a presentation worthy to be delivered in an international forum. Let me answer two points usually brought up when my singleness is the topic:

Maybe you’re too choosy.

Will you play Russian roulette on something that will affect the rest of your life (and your future children’s as well?) Don’t get me wrong. I’ve given up on the illusion of meeting Piolo and him finally seeing the light that I’m the girl for him. “You're too choosy” in your language could translate “I just know what I am waiting for” in mine. When he turns around the corner (or makes his presence felt more deliberately), this seemingly-choosy girl will finally make her choice.

Maybe you’re intimidating men because you’re too smart.

Do you think I hand books to guys and ask them to submit a 50-page book report? Or that when somebody gives me a love letter I will edit it using a red pen? No, of course not. I’ll use blue. Kidding aside, I can enjoy shallow conversations as much as I do the mentally stimulating verbal exchanges. Yes, we could talk about books and ideas but we could talk about popcorn and the weather too.

I’ve had occasions when somebody would introduce a guy to me. The guy starts a conversation: Asks me where I live, where I work. His extra attention signals interest. Then drops the axe that will kill it: “So what do you do?” I tell him and then a few seconds of silence. Suddenly, he’s tongue-tied and feels the urge to check if his subject and verb agrees. Almost hilarious, really, if you’re not me.

If God wills it, I’d take the greatest risk of my life. But first, he, whoever he is, must also think I’m worth the risk. And then I can start writing from the other side of the fence.

But for now, I've got to finish my lunch in my table for one.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Check out the amusing (and serious) travails of some single friends:

1 The top ten ickiest remarks made to singles
2 Singular perorations
3 Random thoughts of a single gal
4 Ano ba talaga ang type mo?

Times are bad, God is good

2006-06-03T21:56:00.000+08:00

It was too early to cry. But as soon as I swiped my card to log in for work, I felt the tears well up in my eyes. By the time I reached my desk, there was no stopping me. I sobbed and cried like any brokenhearted gal. But can you blame me? We’ve been together for twenty months already—the longest I’ve stayed with somebody of his kind. Sure, he was acting a bit weird lately: not doing what I wanted him to do, conking out on me in the middle of a task. But I’ve grown to love him. I consider myself faithful and didn’t even think of replacing him on a whim. Not even if there were others out there more attractive, taunting me, tempting me to try them.

Now "he" is actually an it: my Nokia 6600 phone. And the last I saw it was yesterday.

Our parting happened on my way to work. When I was getting off the non-airconditioned bus, a man wearing a sports cap blocked me on my way down. Irritated, I asked him, “Bababa ka ba (Are you going down)?” Little did I know that his hand was already in the outside pocket of my backpack, getting my treasured cellphone. I’ll stop here with the storytelling. The memory of the violation still stings. (That word, violation, encapsulates what was done to me. I felt violated and it deserved a good cry.)

My tears yesterday were of anger and frustration. Ian, who was just a few steps away from my workstation, just stood by my side while I was sobbing on my desk. He had also once lost a cellphone and so understood how I felt. “It’s OK to grieve,” he advised. And so I did—for fifteen more minutes. My teammates (and other officemates) did a great job cheering me up. My boss, Ate Yna, ordered an extra Chicken inasal for me for lunch (I told her afterwards that it was the best chicken I’ve tasted ever). Marian graciously offered to wash my plates. Ruben gave me a Mr. Donut chocolate twist to sweeten my afternoon. The rest offered words of encouragement like, “You’ll get a better phone” or would sincerely check up on me, “Are you feeling better now?” They, my burden-sharers, made it easier for me to go through the rest of the day. In fact, by lunchtime I was already laughing and joking about my loss, thinking absurd thoughts such as “What if I offered to buy my cellphone from the snatcher? I could probably haggle for a discount.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Mine is a safe and sanitized world. The people I work with love God, pray before meals, and don’t cuss or swear. Outside work, I spend time with others who likewise love God, pray before meals, and don’t cuss or swear. Over time, maybe I’ve been falsely conditioned that the Fall of Man didn’t happen and that the Garden of Eden was still pristine and perfect. This one incident jars me back to reality that ours is a wicked world longing to be redeemed. Yes, there are cellphone snatchers out there whose hands are too calloused to feel their crime burn through their skin.

“Times are bad, God is good,” a line from Psalm 100:5 on my bedroom whiteboard reminds me daily. In the context of this truth I am praying—and yesterday, prayed more fervently—“Lord, even if bad things happen to me, please don’t let me sin against you. Don’t let the circumstances happening around me fool me into thinking that You are not good. That You are not loving. That You are not in control." I remember Job, the biblical character who had experienced exponentially greater losses yet did not sin. Tell me, what is losing a cellphone compared to losing your children, your livelihood, your health?

God is good—still is and always will be. All I have, material or otherwise, is His. God has already surprised me with extraordinary blessings before. He has answered more prayers than I can count. He has made me feel special with people in my life who are actually angels in disguise. The love of God is with me and no thief—a cellphone snatcher or even the Devil himself—can steal this from me. (Romans 8:5,38-39)

at the airport

2006-05-20T11:23:00.000+08:00

A man beside me is holding a magazine, hoping that whoever needed to see it would glance his way. Patiently, he holds it up while scanning the sea of faces flowing his way, checking if one would flash a hint of recognition. “Ayun siya, para nang Amerikana!” I hear another excitedly call out. Floating on top of the giggles and high-pitched conversation is the distinctive sound of happiness. A part of me feels I could share the hope and happiness of these strangers that the corners of my lips turn up for a smile. I’ve got a great vantage point from where I am—at the greeters’ area. It affords me a ringside view of the faces of the arriving passengers that suddenly light up at the sight of their loved ones.

Though my presence in this place is business-related [to fetch a Thailand-based author slated for a weeklong speaking engagement], I don’t want to let this moment slip by uneventfully. While waiting for my own passenger to arrive, I still want to see the world around me spinning. And then I started my wondering. With every cart of baggage being wheeled out, a story of life is being written. The long-haired teen sporting a backpack with white buds on strings glued to his ears, might have a life sprinkled with adventure. I see a young mother, with a 3, maybe 4-year-old in tow while a younger boy was nestled in her arms, and wondered if hers is a life of contentment and domestic bliss.

I’ve been to many airports—from the most sophisticated where overhead trains could take you from one terminal to the next, to the most simple where signs are still done in crude, handwritten lettering. But whatever its location, there’s something about the air in the arrival area in airports that smells and feels the same. Maybe it’s the fragrant smell of hope, and the fuzzy feel of love.

For don’t you think that the airport’s arrival area could easily be named as the happiest place on earth? What with every reunion it has witnessed—lovers who endured months, or years, of loneliness can now revel in each other’s gaze and embrace. Families once separated and limited by geographic boundaries can now experience the warmth hardly simulated by a thousand phone calls.

And last night, at the airport, the lines of a new song aptly played on my ears:

When love takes you in everything changes
A miracle starts with the beat of a heart
When love takes you home and says you belong here
The loneliness ends and a new life begins
When love takes you in, it takes you in for good
When love takes you in

I’m beginning to like airports. Not the runway, not the duty-free shop, not the departure area. The best spot in all airports in all of the world is where travelers are embraced and whispered, “You’re home.” Yes, you're home.

when the answer is silence

2006-05-11T23:16:00.000+08:00

Is there a divine blueprint stacked somewhere in heaven which details the course each of our lives must take? If we pray—hard enough, long enough, fervently enough—will a scroll magically fall down from the sky, land on our feet, and then reveal a message that will erase our uncertainties about the future and make us grasp the present with the firm grip of courage?

I could ask a thousand and one more questions and still get an answer not different from what I got the first time I asked: the deafening sound of silence. Cloaked in the fine linen of mystery, silence can alternately be disturbing and calming, induce fear and hope, appear as black and white.

So how does silence reveal itself to me: as friend or as a foe? Does the answer of silence to all of my questions rattle me? Do I stomp my feet in impatience or wring my hands in despair? Or can I take silence as a companion and realize that silence can purge my ears of the unintelligible ramblings of the world and its litany of worries and woes?

Here in my room, where the hands of time seem to be frozen and the boundary of the Milky Way is confined to my room’s four corners, I distill my thoughts. Revel in the sound of silence. Waiting. Praying. Patiently hoping that it won’t be long until silence is dislodged in my heart by what would best take its place—the sound of a still, small Voice.

The "G" word

2006-05-06T23:13:00.000+08:00

geek:’gēk/:noun:1: a carnival performer often billed as a wild man whose act usually includes biting the head off a live chicken or snake;2: a person often of an intellectual bent who is disliked;3: an enthusiast or expert especially in a technological field or activity [computer geek]

- - - - - - - - - - - -

I can’t be a geek. It’s bad for the reputation. The geeks I know are the underdogs in B-movies whose glasses are as thick as windowpanes, with hair rarely visited by a hairbrush, and with a social life confined to the front and back covers of a book. Okay, so I'm not willing to wear the tag. Yet another thought challenged my initial apprehension: But who says we can’t break the stereotype?

And so ended—with minimum struggle—my stint in the geek denial stage which lasted all five seconds (though it necessitated a confirmation from a “greater geek” who answered my “Am-I-officially-a-geek-already?” question with a simple, and relatively painless reply: need u ask?? :-B).

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Today I accompanied Jenny, a Mac-user, to one of their monthly mac gatherings. They might not make a people-power crowd but what mac users lack for numbers they make up for passion. Mac-using geeks (there’s that word again) intently listen to the speaker/forum moderator as if he was teaching them how to survive WW III. But then again, if they were willing to give up a weekend afternoon to be sitting in wooden blocks at the Powerplant Mall, is it any wonder how they could stay glued to the seminar?

However, my friend and I had another agenda: Can we wi-fi and surf? Scouting for a hotspot, we zoom in on the outside tables at Figaro. But before we order anything, first things first: does it have signal? It does! Two 12 oz. iced tea please!

And so after folders of music and picture files were shared, a Q&A discussion on some websites took place, and all the battery power was drained (mine), we sipped the last drop of our drink and felt satisfied with our virtual victory. [On the left is an evidence of my satisfaction. Thanks for the picture, Jen!]

Yes, Merriam-Webster. You can call me a geek.

Finding "the one" in (cyber)Promised Land

2006-05-01T10:14:00.000+08:00

The Promised Land seemed so near—an MRT ride and a hundred or so steps away from our Mandaluyong office. Initially, I wasn’t sure if it held what it seemed to promise for me but I was hopeful. There was bound to be “the one” for me somehow. You see, it was my first time to buy a brand new computer, a laptop, and a thousand butterflies were dancing in my stomach.

My six-footer technical guru Aleks (who multitasks and acts as my voice coach and pianist in some instances) and I trekked to Cyberzone in SM Megamall. It was a Friday night and there was a midnight sale ongoing. We expected the two-kilometer mall to be bursting at the seams. Thankfully, we arrived before the people frenzy began.

All I wanted was for it to be white. I didn’t care if it had an expandable memory or if it could write DVDs or if it could accommodate multiple USB ports. Sounds Greek to me, really. Call me simplistic, or better yet, call me naïve who is fixated on a color [At least I still had enough sense to ask somebody else to act as my common sense!]. Aleks would laugh at me when he would see me obliviously walking past the non-white laptops which didn’t deserve a nanosecond of my time. In retrospect, it was like me looking for shoes: “I need brown shoes,” which eliminates all the other hues in the color spectrum. Going back to the laptop, we finally found the one I liked—a Taiwan-made Twinhead 12.1” notebook with features that seem excellent for its price. And needless to say but I’ll say it anyway: It’s white, shiny pearl white. I’m one happy camper.

Over dinner, Aleks asks me what name I’ll give my newly-purchased gadget. I laugh and answer, “I haven’t named any of my things before.” But then again, why not? I’ll be spending days and nights with this piece of machine I might as well humanize it. “Do you want it to be a boy or a girl?” he asks. “A boy,” I answer. I mull it over and after a quick trip to the restroom I confidently state my laptop’s name: “April Boy.” With a silly grin on my face I explain, “Well, it’s a boy and I bought it in the month of April.”

And so the next time I hear “Di Ko Kayang Tanggapin” over the radio, you know why I’ll be smiling.

All about days

2006-04-29T19:57:00.000+08:00

Twenty-five days. This is the longest time I’ve waited since the last entry I wrote (not counting the Peanuts comics strip I’ve posted). I hope my fingers haven’t grown stiff with their under-exercise. I’m missing every nook and cranny of this spot in cyberspace so much that during idle moments, I’d relish in my mind the thought of blogging again.

Four days. That’s the number of days I’ve spent with my officemates during our annual company retreat last April 23-26. Ilocos, Bicol, Cebu, Boracay, Banaue—we’ve been to these faraway places before but this time, we hied off to somewhere nearer: Laguna. This year’s theme had me thinking about risking and trusting God more about the future; considering who my only comfort is; wishing He’d take me to higher ground in my spiritual life, career and personal life.

One day. This is the day I am waiting for. I am praying for the day when I could do more than just pay lip service and prove to God that I love Him. Wondering when I won’t use the currency of words anymore but pay Him the love He deserves with more of my time, energy and thoughts. Whether that happens here on earth or only when I get to heaven is only for Him to tell. All I know is that I’m waiting for this day.

I have a strong feeling there’ll be better days ahead.

fishy me

2006-04-29T19:09:00.000+08:00

Yes, some nights I get fishy. The giant Styrofoam goldfish (now left rotting in a trash bin in Laguna) was a product of several trips to National Book Store, a few late-night sessions of cutting and taping, a couple of hours’ worth of brain activity and a big dollop of silliness.

For a publisher, we’re pretty much relaxed, don’t you think? Let this picture dispel all notions that we brood over books each time we meet. On the contrary, you’ll find us some nights disrobing of our normalcy, donning an alter ego and fluttering (or in my case, swimming) the night away.

I bagged the second prize of our Retreat Fun Night Costume Awards (the theme: creation) with the grand prize going to an officemate who came in as a tree (She wrapped her body in brown cardboard and used a green umbrella as her leaves). You might be wondering what would compel me to sweat it out looking this silly. Here's what: Seldom do I get the license to be outrageously playful, I might as well give it my all and enjoy the experience. And enjoy I did, not just mine but the costume of my equally creative and playful officemates! [Temporarily curly me with Ian the angel, Lea the butterfly, Gladys the ladybug and Ate Glo and baby Nathan.]

Ever lost a library book?

2006-04-11T19:25:00.000+08:00

A Gypsy and a Geek Poet

2006-04-04T17:40:00.000+08:00

A gypsy and a geek poet have been added to my blog roll.

The gypsy, I’ve been egging to start her own blog since she visited mine. I’m thinking what a waste it is for her random thoughts to be lost in oblivion because she doesn’t write them down. Her blog will surely be interesting, I tell myself. And I convince her of the same. Now with three posts to her week-old blog’s credit, my persistence has not been in vain.

I warn her, though that her life will be changed. Her fingers will be doing demanding calisthenics on the computer keyboard, she might as well be preparing for the blogging Olympics (that is, if there was one). In a recent email, this writer-slash-new blogger tells me, “You’re right, it’s addicting.” Very recently, she wailed about her life as a pedestrian. Yes, she wrote about her ordinary walking days because this gypsy ain’t riding a caravan. More like surviving EDSA, really. She shares, “I find myself a hair’s breath away from speeding buses and motorcycles. If they swerve just half an inch on my side of the road—well, we will then have to include ‘humans’ somewhere in the definition of roadkill.” Funny! I can tell, this early on, that I'll be inspired and entertained to read what is dancing in the gypsy's mind.

As for the geek poet, no, I had nothing to do with his blog. A friend from way back (we worked on several projects—a newsletter, an interactive CD, book covers), some of his posts remind me of what I knew about who he was while others reveal for the first time who he now is. Who could miss his blog’s unique design, with tabs not usual to blogger.com templates? Go figure—he designs websites for a living (Check out his other baby, the Crossover Singles website).

Among many things about his life, this geek poet writes about a "bloody" dating book, his nephew Iko and his life as a singleton. A paragraph of his what’s-my-type-post reminds me a little of Chandler in his pre-Monica days. An amusing line from this particular post reads, “I don’t want to end up with a cow eh! (he's referring to a real cow here)” This from the guy who, though considers himself as nice, would rather be known as something else. He laments, “Don't you hate it when you hear people say what they think about you and you hear... nice?”

I'm looking forward to adding more links on the right side of this screen. Because there are other bloggers out there whose lives and adventures merit a few clicks on my mouse, and a couple of rolls on my scroll. If the worldwide web is a street, then am I glad to be running into a gypsy, a geek poet and all the other characters in between.

The Dorian Society

2006-03-30T23:34:00.000+08:00

Vice-President. That’s the position I’m occupying in this not-so-secret society I and several of my officemates have established (at least in our imagination). We could be holding regular meetings but why bother? We’d probably forget we’re supposed to meet.

Our group’s name, in full, is “The Dorian Society of People Who Regularly Suffer from Temporary Amnesia.” We are naming ourselves as such in honor of a fish, Dory of Finding Nemo, who’ve brought to light the plight of those of us who have this uncanny ability to obliterate details from our consciousness. Details such as you have to take out the key from the ignition before getting out of the vehicle and locking the car (the current president confessed to this). Or that you can stop worrying that your cellphone got stolen because you actually left it at home (the secretary’s case).

Among us bonafide Dorians, we share the same anguish and self-loathing after a particularly frustrating forgetting episode. We all want to knock ourselves in head for forgetting such seemingly consequential things. How could I forget where I left it?!But most of us are making progress. The president told me that he’s installed automatic locking system in his vehicle and trained himself to push the button to lock/unlock. The secretary, I think, is improving as I haven’t heard of any more of the false alarm Oh-no-I-think-I-lost-my-cellphone instances.

So it is with much sadness for me to admit that I might soon be up for the presidency. Today, I’ve had three strikes against me. Strike one, I dial-an-order for pancit from a nearby eatery. The delivery comes. Halfway through our mid-afternoon meal, I discover the sixty pesos from my wallet didn’t make it to the deliverer’s hand (she also forgot to ask it from me). Strike two, I pencil in a piece of paper the subscriber code I needed for a bank transaction tomorrow but then I couldn’t find where I put it (This case too common!). And Strike three, on my way home tonight, I buy an astringent from a small drugstore right next to Ang Barbecue ni Alex (The Pride of Davao) [For a second I wondered if it was the business of somebody I know!]. This time I paid. I gladly handed the storeclerk my payment. So what did I forget? The astringent. Because I was more excited to check out the barbecue I ordered which was grilling at the adjacent store. (But I eventually remembered the astringent, after I got the barbecue.)

Now, unlike some petite women in the Philippines like me, I am not position-hungry. I don't want to be the president of the Dorian society! Forgetful I might be but hopeless I am not. Now, if I could only remember that.

* * * * * * * *
Meanwhile, Jenny's take on forgetfulness, it being a curse yet a gift, is interesting.

if loneliness were a road

2006-03-27T23:04:00.000+08:00

The wooden sign sitting atop a rusty metal pole with crudely etched letters read, “Loneliness.” She takes tentative steps, her gait—wobbly, unsure, unsteady. Isn’t there another way? But in her heart she knew, she must pass this way—even just once in her life.

And so she enters the road and lets her eyes take in the sight. The horizon looks bleak; with the skies overcast with dark clouds, threatening heavy rains. But where would I go to shelter myself when the downpour comes? A drop falls but not from above. A lone tear makes its way down her cheek, which she quickly wipes away with the back of her hand.

She draws a deep breath and decides to resume her walking. The terrain, constantly changing, seems painted in gray—not one streak of yellow, not a hint of red. Will I survive the lonely journey? The few steps multiply but not the courage in her heart. While treading through the rocks of insecurity, she didn't know where to plant her feet. While braving the sandstorm of unfulfilled longings, she wasn’t certain where to hide. And after surviving yet another near-fall in the cliff of compromising, she pauses for a moment. Tired, she’s almost ready to give up.

She drops to her knees, buries her face in her hands and asks, How many more steps? I can’t go on anymore. Her eyes finally succumb to the fatigue in her heart and release a flood of emotions. The tears, now flowing freely, are salty with frustration, despair. Hopelessness.

In between sobs, she lifts her head and sees an outstretched Hand in front of her. Its fingers, calloused. Its skin, a deep brown, tanned under the hot Jerusalem sun. And the Hand, showing a scar as a heavy nail once spiked through it.

This time, it is this Hand that wiped away her tears. With her head now lifted, she scans the horizon again and realizes that the gray suddenly doesn’t look as gray anymore. Maybe I can take His Hand, she mutters to herself with a weak smile. Maybe she’ll make it through this road after all.

The (Non) X-(Rated) File

2006-03-24T15:47:00.000+08:00

I’m thinking about sex.

You can recover from your shock now. Heave a sigh of relief or wipe that silly grin from your face because (thankfully) it’s not what you think.

Percolating in my mind lately is this talk on sexual purity I’m giving to the young people’s group of a Chinese church tomorrow. (I got invited by the virtue of my being a True Love Waits [a sexual abstinence campaign] trainor and a Sunday School teacher for college students in my church.) For the past several days I've been logging in hours reading reference materials, archived notes, internet articles. Also, clipping newspaper ads to prove that ours is a sexually charged society using the lure of the flesh to sell almost everything—from health food to cameras, to slippers even!

How can a fish swim against the current? And how can a person keep his way pure while living in a world that promotes instant sexual gratification? How can one overcome the carnal struggles to feed romantic fantasies or to entertain lustful thoughts? Difficult? Yes. Impossible? No. For how can a person not trust an All-powerful God for battles he cannot win on his own?

But make no mistake: I have learned that God is pro-sex. The idea was His; this masterpiece designed in His own drawing board. God's Word celebrates sexual love. For tell me, why else would Song of Songs make it to the Bible's table of contents? Or how could a sentence like "May your kisses be as exciting as the best wine, smooth and sweet, flowing gently over lips and teeth" be found in the same Book where we could read "I am the LORD your God; consecrate yourselves and be holy, because I am holy"?

When I said that I am thinking of sex, it’s not that there’s an X-rated movie playing in my mind. It means that I’m thinking, and thanking the All-Wise Creator who officiated the first ever wedding, of Adam and Eve, in a garden named Eden, and who spared nothing in ensuring that a husband and wife enjoy the most intimate relationship a man and a woman can have on earth.

Day 12

2006-03-19T21:50:00.000+08:00

It’s everywhere. I watch TV and I see this Goldilocks ad with a woman taking out a black forest cake from the ref. I scan through today’s Philippine Starweek and a feature on The Last Chocolatier greets me. Why is it that after you’ve decided to swear off something, this very thing taunts you and makes its presence felt as if saying, “Hey, don’t you miss me?”

And if I may answer back, “You know I do.” Like crazy.

The first few days after I’ve declared my self-imposed 30-day choco fasting were peanuts. For two consecutive days, I’ve had opportunities to sink my teeth into two varieties of chocolate and I’ve turned my back on them. How hard can that be? After all, my tongue can still remember the taste of the three months’ worth of chocolates that has passed its fibrous road. Now, on my twelfth day, I’m miserable. Miserable enough to wonder, “Why did I ever decide to give it up in the first place? Is there anything inherently sinful about chocolates? It’s not as if I’m taking Ecstasy or smoking marijuana. Did God even want me to do this chocolate fasting?”

I count the days, like a little girl counting the days till Christmas. Day 12 of 30! I’m not even halfway through. How will I possibly make it through the next eighteen days when thoughts of McDonald’s hot fudge sundae, Nestle crunch, chocolate cake—any kind, and other eatable chocolates dance in my head like John Travolta doing his signature moves in Saturday Night Fever? (Now where did that metaphor come from? I plead temporary insanity, your honor.)

Forgive my ranting. Withdrawal symptom, I guess, alongside the headaches and depression. Yet my fleeting doubts notwithstanding, I know I am still convinced why I'm doing what I'm doing. If this small sacrifice can help me honor God with my body, then I know He will honor the heart behind it and give me the strength to make it. I love God more than all the chocolates in the world.

So when you see me in the hallway and you’ve got a chocolate, do me a favor: Don’t let me see it. :-) I’ve got a serious chocolate battle to win.

when words shouldn't be like gold

2006-03-16T00:29:00.000+08:00

beautiful, loving words
are as precious
as a chest full of gold
or an endless string of pearls

but . . .

the analogy of words and treasures
should end with their worth.

for words,
unlike a chest full of gold
or an endless string of pearls,
should not be kept hidden
in a cold, impenetrable place
where they are
unseen,
untouched,
untold.

so how could you ever be happy
until you free your fingers
to glide across the keys,
to let words precious to you show
for all the world to see?

and how could i be writing about a "you"
when this is really about me?

About a boy

2006-03-12T00:42:00.000+08:00

What is the national food of the Philippines?
a. Turon
b. Adobo
c. Chickenjoy
d. None of the above

If that question was asked of me five months ago, I wouldn't know how to answer. But now, courtesy of a five-year-old nursery student, I can. It's D, none of the above!

"Ang pambansang pagkain ng Pilipinas ay lechon!" Well, at least, that's what my nephew Pong tells me. But when I follow up with a trick question, "Anong klaseng lechon, baboy o manok?", he just shrugs and says, "Di ko alam."' How irrational of me. Of course, he wouldn't know. They learn that in Kinder. It's unbelievable what they teach kids nowadays. (I'm suspecting that Aling Mila and Mang Tomas are somewhat involved in cooking up this national fact.)

Pong also loves knock-knock jokes. Here's a sample:
Knock, knock(which sounds more like nak, nak).
Who's there?
Titanic.
Titanic who?
"Tay-ta-nik ay di biro, maghapong nakayuko. Di man lang makatayo . . . "
(The joke gets lost in transcription. Believe me, it's funnier listening to it.)

This rice-loving, basketball-playing fella is one of the few people who can make me do what I don't want to do. Like play catch football when I should be finishing a parttime editing job. Or make me watch TV with him when I'd rather be catching up on much-needed sleep. But you can't really blame me. For how else can I discover that lechon is the national food of the Philippines? :-)

* * * * * * * * * *
I actually asked some people if they knew about this national-food-fact. Surprisingly, two out of three answered in the affirmative. Maybe I just wasn't listening when this was discussed in my preparatory school class light years ago.

*picture taken very recently at the Enchanted Kingdom.

Chocolate Chronicles

2006-03-07T16:04:00.000+08:00

“So you can’t eat ice cream?”
“No.”
“And you can’t eat chocolates?”
“Nope.”
Gasp! “What kind of life is that?” I smiled and rhetorically asked D whom I spent five days with in our most recent conference. What elicited my shock was her declaration: "I'm allergic to sugar." I enumerated all the sugar-laced food I can think of, leading me to mention ice cream and chocolates. Ice cream, I can manage not to see for a month or two but chocolates. Now, that’s a different story.

On top of my desk is a bank of chocolates that allows me to make daily withdrawals. This bank, in the form of a canister, currently holds the following assets: a mini-Nestle crunch (the last piece from the bag of chocolates my sister gave me), a tiny bar of Hershey’s milk chocolate, generic chocolate bites wrapped in foil, Harry and David’s chocolate almonds, and the chocolate raisins I bought from Toby’s house of nuts last night.

Since I came back from my month-long vacation in the US and reported back to work in January, I have not missed a single workday when I did not eat chocolates. Not one. It’s March already. You do the Math, and figure out how much chocolate has tickled brown my tongue. By the way, did I tell you that I couldn’t donate blood? With the amount of chocolate I’ve ingested, the RBC, the WBC, the hemoglobin and all the other components of blood officially adopted cocoa as one of them and made it the leader of their team. So now my blood type—C (for Chocolates)—wouldn’t match anybody’s.

But I don’t intend to let chocolates rule my life this way anymore. I am declaring Proclamation 0-choco-30. No chocolates for one month. Thirty days, I think, is long enough to convince my brain that this body is not made for and of chocolates. Thirty days can help me clean my palate of the sweet, smooth taste of this brown piece of heaven. With God’s help, I know that I’ll survive the thirty chocolate-less days. In fact, I can’t wait to be free of my addiction that I’ll start not eating chocolates—tomorrow.

As for today, I will seize the day. I have some serious clearing of assets to do.

Unbloggable

2006-03-05T19:48:00.000+08:00

The common apprehension I hear from people who I know would make good bloggers is this: "I don't think I can share personal stuff about myself."

And I tell them, "That's how I felt too." If I had time, and their interest, I would tell them that I once compared blogging to stripping. That is, peeling off layers--but this time, not clothes that cover your body but pieces of armor that protect your heart. With a hundred or so keystrokes, you suddenly become vulnerable. Open to understanding or misinterpretation, admiration or ridicule. Risking to be thought of as wise or foolish.

I have taken eighty-six risks, the number of posts which have appeared on this site. And so far, the risks have worked in my favor. Save for a single post I unposted because I felt it wasn't true anymore, I have not regretted any single article I have written. Yet I have this one regret.

That there are unbloggable topics. That there are still places in my life I could not lead you into to take a peek. That there are still emotions I could not bring myself to share. That I am, still, after a year of "stripping," guarded and careful. The "S" in my middle name should stand for "Safe."

Q & A in a state of emergency

2006-02-28T23:37:00.000+08:00

“State of emergency signed by GMA.” A text read which I received 11:39 am of February 24. I was then in a building somewhere in Makati, attending the second day of a two-day forum. Mixed with the alarm over the state of our country was the alarm I felt over an event I was supposed to attend that night. Will it push through or not?

“It” was a post-valentine event sponsored by a professionals group based in Quezon City, a good one hour away (sans traffic) from where I was. I received the invitation to sit on a panel weeks earlier; the panel consisting of a married couple, a single guy and me. To help remind me in the future that this is how I once felt about love and the single life, let me post and abbreviate a few of the Q & A's:

How would a guy know if it’s the right time to court?
Do you know enough about the girl to say what makes her happy and sad; what makes her laugh and what makes her cry? Think of yourselves as a student of the girl. If an exam was given about her, would you pass? If not, then it might not be the right time. We women want to be loved for who we are; not for who you think we are.

Previously you had a relationship (and a close friendship) . . . was it a good closure? What important lesson did you learn from it?
You enter into a relationship with the hope that it'll be for keeps. But in our not-so-perfect world, breakups do happen. What I learned from these aborted attachments is simply this: what it means to love and be loved. I’ve realized that the best way to learn how to love is by actually doing it and not just by reading about it. When the relationship ended, it doesn't have to necessarily mean that the other is a bad person. It's just that the relationship didn't work out. I was telling somebody who broke up with his girlfriend that it was okay to still talk with her. Time and a forgiving heart can help you sift through the rubble of a failed relationship.

What advice can you give to unattached singles?
Don't spend your days thinking,"If only I'm married, I would..." Refuse to live your lives on hold. Jim Elliot said, ''Wherever you are, be all there." Fully engage yourself in the moment and don’t be halfhearted about life. Married people sometimes envy us because we have a lot of time in our hands. Let's put this privilege to good use: develop ourselves, discover what we're good at, learn new skills, polish our character, make a difference.

Thank God for making me "me," and not the president of a crises-crazy country such as ours. In a state of emergency, this is the state of my heart. Life's still good after all.

MAI-Asia Train the Trainer Conference

2006-02-21T18:14:00.000+08:00

"On this site in 1897 nothing happened." Thus reads the sign at Kusina ni Salud, the oriental-themed restaurant of Patis Tesoro hidden in a town in San Pablo, Laguna. This was where we had our Friday dinner. "We" are 27 publishing professionals from countries such as the Philippines, Malaysia, Nepal, Myanmar, Bangladesh, Indonesia, Australia, Singapore, Hong Kong, India, Thailand, Cambodia and the US of A.

In the cool and candlelit night (the electricity was out when we arrived; Muriel, of Hong Kong, thought that the candles were part of the dinner package), we feasted on Filipino fares such as Ubod roll, Pinakbet, Tilapia, Lechon Kawali, Turon and Buko juice. Yummy! (May ilaw man o wala, masarap talaga pagkain natin!)

Who can resist the charm of our jeepney? To travel to the resto, we rented a jeepney so many of the foreign delegates could ride our unique mode of transport for the first time.

But we did more than eat and have fun. It was five days of intensive training--learning styles, understanding codes, tuning our listening skills, preparing workshops, delivering presentations. Dr. Richard Crespo, a specialist in adult education, coached us into flexing our teaching muscles (and literal muscles too!He led early morning Pilates session. Shame on me, though, for not participating in it when others twice my age gamely joined the sessions.)

Rizal Re-Creation center, with its landscape dotted with coconut trees, was the perfect place for us to learn. I enjoyed walking in the grass, feeling the cool breeze, and inhaling the fresh air! (Here is the official class picture. Being the youngest, I volunteered to be the whiteboard cleaner and errand-runner. But it's okay. After twenty years, it's going to be somebody else's turn!)

"Help us, Lord, to continue to publish words that will lead people to turn to The Word."

loving thoughts

2006-02-14T01:24:00.000+08:00

While clothes are left lying on my bed, waiting to be packed for a five-day training, I’m in front of the screen, writing. The call for my fingers to glide across the keyboard is just too irresistible to ignore. So please indulge me as I metaphorically steal a few bites of my dessert before I eat my vegetables.

As I push my fingers on the square keys, it’s now officially Valentines Day. Last year I greeted the occasion in the same way, by blogging at midnight. And why not make this Valentine blogging an annual tradition? I should consider making a pact with myself that I will write every time February 14 swings by. This writing I will do regardless of the state of my heart. Let’s see how long I could keep the “same time, next year” exercise. Will my views on love and relationships evolve throughout the years? Will I quit being dreamy and start being cynical? And will I . . . ?

My views on love this year is not much different from last year’s. I still think that love is not the fireworks that illuminate the sky every new year’s eve; it is the constant, steady light from a lamp that brightens a room every night. It's not being blown away by the music of a symphony orchestra; it's being warmed by the strains of a familiar tune from the radio.

And love, more than being about passion, is rather about grace. For isn’t this the same way we are loved by God—that we are loved, not because we deserved it (we didn’t and we don’t) but because He simply chose to? That we didn’t have to pay Him with good works for us to be declared worthy of love? For if that were the case, wouldn’t that be another form of barter system, “my good works in exchange for Your love”? Will it ever be right for love to be cheapened to mean an obligatory gesture by the other party because of the services to whom it was rendered? No. A thousand times no.

With this train of thought, I could go on and on and not be able to pack a single shirt in my bag before this decade ends. So let me stop. And think about love some other day.

* * * * * * * * * * *
In my book, this beats Jerry McGuire's "You complete me" line:

(Harry, realizing that he can’t let Sally slip away, follows her to the New Year’s Eve party. There he matter-of-factly states that he loves her. She dismisses him, saying, “You just can’t show up here, tell me you love me…and expect that to make everything all right.” She tells him that it doesn’t work “this way.”)

"How about this way? I love that you get cold when it's 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a crinkle up on your nose when you look at me like I'm nuts. I love that after spending the day with you I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you're the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely and it's not because it's New Year's Eve.
I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

A year of Shades of Grace

2006-02-11T00:05:00.000+08:00

It’s been a year since I wrote my first post and published it under Shades of Grace. Several days—or was it weeks?—before that day in 2005, I was mulling over the idea, debating with myself about this blog thing. Initially, I was content with just visiting the blogs of my more technologically-savvy officemates. Yet as I read their posts and enjoyed the slices of their lives, it has eventually lured me into thinking, “Maybe this is the right time.”

And so I took the plunge and tapped my first ever post. Here’s how "Bike, Swim, Blog" read:

I’ve never learned to bike and to swim for exactly the same reason: fear. Fear of not learning (yes, I can be irrational at times), fear of experiencing discomfort—scraping my knees and swallowing salt water, fear of disappointing whoever will be patient enough to teach me.

This same fear has almost kept me from setting up this blog. Friends have been prodding me to try my writing hand on this fairly new technological phenomenon. Most of the time I just smile and mutter, “I will,” not really saying when. My mind says, “You can do it. You love to write.” But my heart counters: “What if you make a major grammatical error? People would wonder how you could have kept your job all these years! What if your words and experiences are too boring? Not interesting enough? Or worse, what if nobody reads your blog at all?”

The paranoid in me shouts like Goliath taunts young David. Good thing I know my way around my Bible and read how David struck down the giant with one smooth stone from the stream. Maybe, just maybe, I could hush the paranoid in me with one heartfelt, sincere entry.

So here I am, tentative but thrilled, scared but sure. I may never learn how to pedal a bike or swim in the sea. I may never be able to skid through rough terrain or glide gracefully in the water. But I can try to warm your heart, make you smile, challenge your mind. Maybe I can make new friends or reconnect with old ones by bridging the chasm between my keyboard and your screen.

All I can offer are my words.
Come, be my guest.

Fast-forward to 2006, this space in cyber-universe now feels like home. Here I can immortalize feelings and events. When I look back at a particular time, I think about what I wrote in my blog. Just two days ago, while talking with friends about how I’ve been learning to forgive, I recalled a post about stone and sand. When I mentioned to somebody about my trip to Mindanao, I told her about a post entitled "Seven Days in Mindanao." Eighty-two entries can help me do that as these posts remind me of joys and pains, people and places, small delights and grand ideals.

Not having the patience to do a scrapbook, I’m delightfully surprised to realize I’ve maintained a scrapbook of sorts—a scrapbook decorated with words, each page arranged with the gentle tapping of the computer keys. Today, on my blog anniversary, I'm thanking the Creative God who enables me to interact on life with my words. Here's wishing that these words will continue to be true to what they wish to reflect: Shades of Grace, not mine, but His.

Saturday Stampede

2006-02-04T21:20:00.000+08:00

How heartbreaking it is to see our countrymen die while trying to get into a gameshow in the hopes of winning money. Ganito na ba tayo kahirap? 61 people died in a stampede in ULTRA, hopefuls for Wowowee, celebrating its anniversary, offering big prizes. This tragedy is doubly heartbreaking—for its result and cause. :’{

Thus reads the text message I sent to friends this mid-morning. The supposedly quiet and lazy Saturday morning was jarred by news of the tragedy in Pasig. With no appetite for breakfast, I stayed glued on the TV screen the rest of the morning. I see the Vice-President and a Secretary helping with the rescue operations. One footage shows a lifeless woman being lifted on an army truck already loaded with corpses. A camera scans through one area where several more cold bodies lay. A few hours before, they were still alive, with blood pumping with excitement. If they get inside the auditorium, they’ll have their one in a thousand shot at big bucks. Now, not only is their chance lost. All is lost.

I couldn’t help but shed some tears for these people because these are my people. Filipinos, suffering the kind of poverty that makes them endure hours, some, days even, of waiting, wishing for a single gameshow ticket, one out of the 17,000 printed. This ticket was not just paper with words; it represented the promise of a better life. It dangled the hope of their being snatched out of the pit of poverty. How much was at stake? Probably a million pesos—money they could never earn otherwise, not in a decade, or probably not in their lifetime.

I hate it that our country is desperately poor. I hate it that hundreds had to face days of hunger and sleeplessness, not in their own shackles but outside a huge building in Pasig. I hate it that many survivors of today’s stampede didn’t even have enough money to make their way back home. I hate it that one grandmother is appealing on national TV because her 5-year-old granddaughter was snatched away from her by another in the midst of the confusion.

And I hate it that all I can do, aside from watch news on TV and say a prayer, is blog about how awful I feel.

Supersidetracked me

2006-01-30T23:59:00.000+08:00

“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

2006-01-28T11:58:00.000+08:00

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

2006-01-24T16:06:00.000+08:00

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

2006-01-18T00:57:00.000+08:00

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

2006-01-15T19:31:00.001+08:00

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!)

2006-01-11T13:00:00.000+08:00

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

2006-01-09T22:42:00.000+08:00

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!

2006-01-04T09:29:00.000+08:00

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

2006-01-03T09:35:00.000+08:00

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.

hating winter, learning trust

2005-12-30T12:16:00.000+08:00

Life is unpredictable. Sometimes the best gifts come in the unlikeliest packages. The best lessons, from the unlikeliest teachers. For instance, who would have thought I’d relearn something as central to my faith as trust from three little boys?

For the past few weeks, I have been feeling that the chilly air is freezing my faith too. The prayers have been short and shallow while the doubts and fears, lingering and deep. I could almost touch with my hand the nagging sense of wrongness about what I have been feeling. I hate winter—not what’s outside the window but what’s inside my heart.

And then, it hit me. This word, trust. How much do I really trust God? Is my trust in Him strong enough to withstand the cold winds of life’s uncertainties? Enough to keep me feeling safe and secure when I am not sure which roads to follow, or if, in fact, there are still other roads to take?

And then, it hit me. This childlike kind of trust, theirs. Ian, who sometimes is jolted awake by bad dreams, can be hushed back to sleep by a simple stroke on his back. I should know, I have been sleeping next to him for the past few weeks. I tell him everything’s going to be alright with me by his side. And no monster, make-believe or otherwise, can harm him. Noah, when we are out at the mall or some other place, holds my hand and lets me take him wherever I lead him. He isn’t worried that I don’t exactly know if we should be turning left or right. With me walking with him, even without his parents in sight, he doesn’t panic. His hand is firmly grasped in mine. Ethan, the two-year old toddler, of my sister Rae, lets me bring him up in the air with my feet. No fear can be traced on his face as he lets go of a hearty giggle. He doesn’t care, even for one second, that I might drop him or break any of his fragile bones with one wrong move from me. He knows I wouldn't just let him go. Such trust. Unbelievable, yet real.

And so last night, I prayed.

Give me a faith like theirs, Lord. I want to trust You like they trust me. If they, in love, could trust a finite, limited, and faltering mortal like me, how much more should I be able to trust an infinite, powerful and faithful God like You?

I see the snow thawing. Winter—mine—will soon be over.

He (Jesus) said to them, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as there. I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it." And He took the children in His arms, put His hands on them and blessed them. (Mark 10:14-16)

Season's greetings

2005-12-23T22:21:00.000+08:00

and a Happy New Year!
We, Ian and Noah, greet you on behalf of Tita Beng. She wishes that you experience that true meaning of Christmas with the Celebrant Himself, Jesus Christ.

Another day in NY

2005-12-21T08:40:00.000+08:00

I could pitch a tent here. Here is a 42nd street bookstore, Coliseum Books, with an in-house cafe serving Kobricks coffee. Waiting for the clock to strike 11, when the New York Public Library across the street opens, I browse through its extensive collection of books. The sign which reads "Limit 2 books in the cafe" is hard to be missed so I find two interesting titles by the counter. With my medium-sized house blends coffee, time whizzed by me as I grew more and more comfortable in my spot. I could have stayed here the whole morning except that outside there was so much happening.
Ancient. This word best describes the glass-encased books being displayed at the New York Splendor of the Word: Medieval and Renaissance Illuminated Manuscripts, baits bibliophiles to marvel at a collection of pages dating back between the 10th and 16th century. Impressive is the next best word. Now if I could only find the room with a fireplace I saw in The Day After Tomorrow.
Times Square is easily the busiest area in NY. Even in the brightness of the day, blinking lights and tickers flash and command attention. Gigantic billboards and signs dwarf even the tallest of New Yorkers. While waiting for the NJ-bound bus, I notice the traffic. A massive transport strike cripples New York. No city buses, no subways. I didn't feel its effect; I was walking the whole time. My feet temporarily expanded one size bigger to accomodate the stress they were taking. As for my keeping warm, extra layers of fabric helped me cope better with the chill this time. And they say it's just another NY day.

My temporary career shift

2005-12-20T05:27:00.000+08:00

After many years of editing books, I’m trying my hand in a different career. It’s a short-term employment and I get paid in hugs and kisses: being a nanny. Of Ian and Noah, six and four, respectively. Last night, their parents and grandma had to leave for somewhere and I volunteered to stay behind and watch over them. I assure their mother that the kids will be fine with me. My sister’s eyes betray her doubt that I had to remind her that I once was left with them last year. For two hours. Well, this time, I’ll be logging in five.

Two hours since they've left, the phone rings. My sister Nang greets, “O kamusta na (So how are things)?” I answer, “Buhay pa sila (They’re still alive).” She laughs and retorts, “At buhay ka pa din (And you’re still alive too).” My turn to laugh out loud.

It’s amazing how many things can happen in the span of five hours—my longest five hours ever. I cook and feed them. Wrestle and play with them. Clean up after them, and at one point, stand as a referee in their toy feud. Some moments stand out in particular:

I ask Ian if he’d like me to sing for him. His song of choice: Feliz Navidad. And so I sing. “...I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heaaaaart...”

Was he satisfied? I ask, “So Ian, did you like my song?” He answers, “Umm…a little bit.” What? I complain, “Just a little bit?” He thinks again and says, “O—kay! When you sang ‘heart,’ it was good.” He gets up from the couch where we were lying and comes back a couple of seconds later. Written on bond paper: 100. He tells me, “This is your score, Tita Beng. But only for the ‘heart.’” O—kay. I’ll take it.

Meanwhile, Noah is up and about, running around, doing his puzzles. I load the Jollibee VCD and he joyfully dances and sings, “Jolly, jolly, Jollibee, jolly, jolly.” Just when I thought everything is fine, he comes to me, takes my hand and leads me to the bathroom. Now, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to decipher what needs to be done. And so I did it—assist him in doing his “thing.” Twice, in a thirty-minute interval. My baptism of fire. Quite appropriate because “baptism” and what I did required water.

I think I’ve managed quite well. There were no dirty dishes left on the sink. No toys were lying around. No blood, no broken bones. As I tucked myself to bed, I felt a heightened sense of respect for mothers and guardians who do 24/7 what I did for five hours.

Seeing royalty

2005-12-17T05:44:00.000+08:00

Today I’ve seen royalty—the kings and queens of Narnia: Peter and Edward, Susan and Lucy. And of course, the real king of Narnia before the children of Adam arrived, Aslan. My “royal” experience coincided with the first time I’ve set foot on a Stateside movie theater.

So what was it like? The grandest thing about my moviewatching experience was the movie itself. The moviehouse this side of the world is not that different from the ones we have back in Manila. In fact, many of the Ayala cinemas are bigger than this one I entered. Only one-sixth of the approximately 150-seater moviehouse was occupied. It was a small community cinema, housed inside a one-floor building. The low ticket sales could probably be attributed to the fact that the movie was already running for a week now.

I won’t go into the details of the movie. Many of you who’ve read the book know how the story’s going to turn out anyway. But let me just say that there’s always something magical about letting your imagination run loose: You wouldn’t know where it would take you. I say that for C.S. Lewis and the creative people behind The Chronicles of Narnia, the movie.

Mrs. Beaver asks the fox who has seen Aslan, “So what is he like?”
“Like everything we’ve ever heard.”

A Day in NY

2005-12-15T21:21:00.000+08:00

Wearing layers of clothing to brave a day out walking the streets of New York, I thought, "This should be enough to keep me warm." I was the epitome of confidence, posing for the camera for a minute while waiting for the Coach bus to take us to NY. Now, I think I'm as accurate in my prediction as the local weatherman with an accuracy rating of negative ten.

It was to be my first day during this 2005 visit to the Big Apple. Destination: Broadway. My sister Nang graciously treats me to a musical which bested others in the Best Musical category. With eight Tony awards, this should be good. Hairspray is a fun, entertaining visual and auditory spectacle about a plus-size protagonist Tracy Turnblad, a teen who dreams of making it to the Corny Collins show and be noticed by the singer/dancer dreamboat Link. It was 1962, in Baltimore, when towering hairdos rule the world. And what better else to help the beauty-conscious women than a can of hairspray? And so there were lots of singing, dancing and yep, cans and cans of hairspray. In fact, near the end of the show a giant hairspray figured in the center of the stage which turned out to be a trojan horse carrying the hard-to-be-missed Mrs. Turnblad (actually played by a man, John Pinette). And what started out as a teen romance story turned out to be a tale of the fight against segregation, during a time when "coloreds" were separated from the "whites." The company of players, after delivering a seamless performance, was honored by the audience as it rose to its feet for a standing ovation and non-stop applause.

It was nearly five pm when we got out of the Neil Simon theater but it could have been eight--it was already dark. As we walked briskly, my face started to feel numb. My nose could freeze and fall off and I wouldn't even notice. And it wasn't just me, a non-New Yorker, who thought so. Even my sister who has gone through countless winters already quipped, "Oh man! It's cold--and I live here!"

I'll be back to New York. But next time, I'll be as tightly wrapped as a lumpiang sariwa from Goldilocks. With that thought, why am I suddenly missing the Philippines?

Not Narnia

2005-12-14T20:41:00.000+08:00

"I stepped into this wardrobe and was surprised to see this from the other end."

That's me wishfully thinking that I'm cast in the C.S. Lewis's masterpiece-inspired movie and Narnia is where I found myself in. You won't find the White Witch from where I am but from the previews of Narnia movie, this almost looks like it. It's winter--when the landscape is covered in a cold white blanket.

Snowflakes, when they fall from the sky, feel like cold specks of powder. But snow, when it has settled after a few days, feels like the accumulated ice on the sides of the freezer. I'm mighty glad that it doesn't snow in the Philippines. Many of our countrymen would freeze to death, not just because of lack of heating but lack of houses.

*This picture taken a few minutes ago is the view from the back of the house where I am staying in New Jersey.

Jetlagged Thoughts*

2005-12-11T16:25:00.000+08:00

Zero.
That was the amount of sleep I had before boarding the first of the three planes that took me here in the US. While still at the NAIA, I had to run on pure adrenaline during the whole, almost complicated process, of checking in for my flight. At 5:45 am, while queing to get my boarding passes, I suddenly wished to be the president of the Philippines. With the kind of privilege PGMA's position affords, she doesn't have to face this airport nightmare. But then again, with the state our country is in, she's probably got enough nightmares to keep her awake every night. And so I take back my wish. One-time stress versus six years' worth of it: nah. I'll take being an ordinary mortal anytime.

Buy it. Read it. Return it. And get a 50% refund.
An airport bookstore in Detroit (where I took my connecting flight to New Jersey), Heritage Borders, makes this offer. Coming from the book business, I knew it was a great deal. No wonder people in the US have become booklovers; they're spoiled! I see people in the airport lounges reading while waiting for their flights. Reading, with a sandwich on one hand and a paperback on the other. I did my own share of reading, while up in the air and down at the terminal: Fearfully and Wonderfully Made by Dr. Paul Brand with Philip Yancey (which I highly recommend). Another book tucked in my luggage somewhere is an ancient copy of Elisabeth Elliot's Shadow of the Almighty.

Like earning a masteral degree in self-denial.
That is how parents must be feeling while taking care of their kids. I'm not in the program yet but I can already imagine its demands. My nephews gladly tell me this, and in non-verbal terms too. Case in point: I catch some precious sleep on the couch while watching Madagascar with them (this was probably about an hour of my arrival). While in the REM cycle of my sleep, I suddenly hear a loud voice reverberate in my ear, "Tita Beng, wake up. Wake up! The movie's over. Let's play." I had to remind myself that in my dictionary, the word "they"-- these thousands of kilojoules of energy contained in tiny bodies--comes before "me." And that they're the primary reason why I've willingly allowed myself to be sleepless.

*These 3:30 am thoughts canned after my body couldn't tell if it was day or night and prodded me to write instead of sleep. I'm hoping to recover from this confusion-slash-jetlag soon. :-)

Feels like my day

2005-12-09T16:23:00.000+08:00

I was running late coming to work. As the clock ticked away, I was already thinking of tasks which needed to be done today—my last day at work for 2005. I gasped for breath and pictured the day’s challenges. Ready to be stressed. Bring it on.

But on my last step up the stairway leading to our room, I wondered: “Is everybody late? Why are the lights still not on?”

As I turned the door knob, another question entered my mind: “And why is the door locked?” After a couple more seconds, I discovered why.

And oh, what a discovery! A dark room greeted me, illuminated only by the light from candles atop a Red Ribbon mocha cake. My teammates offered me a heartfelt rendition of the Happy Birthday song while I grinned from ear to ear as a bottle-ful of exhilaration was spritzed on me.

The Publications team didn’t miss the chance of celebrating my birthday before I left for the US. Nobody seemed to have minded, well, especially not me, that we are celebrating my birthday sixteen days early. My boss, Ate Yna, thoughtfully bought a cake the night before. The same thing Ian, an editor, did who handed me a bouquet of pink roses. The cake tasted sweet but the euphoria I felt over the pleasant surprise was infinitely sweeter. The flowers were beautiful but do not compare to the beauty of kindred spirit we share.

It’s not everyday when I feel like it’s my day. Today is one of those days. Wow.

PS: Before the day ended, another friend, Gracia, handed me a slice of cake and a can of coffee. For the coffee time we couldn't share anymore, she gave them to me instead. Now, who needs coffee when you've got great friends like these to perk you up?! :-)

Blinders

2005-11-29T17:35:00.000+08:00

Racehorses have them, and I wish could wear them too: blinders.

This random thought visited me this morning while singing a Praise song with the line which says, “You’re altogether lovely, altogether worthy. Altogether wonderful to me.” Now how could an earthly thought such as this come to me while singing a song directed to the heavens?

Why the wish?

Because I am afraid that I am missing out on how lovely, how worthy and how wonderful He is. Sadly, I am often consumed by what I can see with my naked eyes. Most of the time I think only about the here and now. I should pick up my passport from the travel agent. Will that package fit my luggage? What astringent best lightens pimple marks? Yes, my being nearsighted and not having 20/20 vision makes me feel bad. But what makes me feel worse is my nearsightedness that cannot be remedied by a pair of prescription glasses.

Now, add to my nearsightedness my unbelievably strong tendency to get distracted by what or who are in the sidelines. I would easily get rattled when I catch a glimpse of the regrets of the past, insecurities of the present, fears of the future. Now, if I had blinders on, my focus will remain steady, set as flint. And that is, on Him who is the Author and Perfecter of my faith. On Him who thinks I'm special enough for Him to give His love and life to. On Him who tells me, “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

To keep my eyes fixed on Him I need to give all of me: Exert every ounce of my strength, unravel every shred of my faith, and squeeze every drop of my self-will. Either I do that or God gives me blinders.

And I still have a long way to run in this track called life.

"So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen
is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal (2 Corinthians 4:18)."

12 days before take-off

2005-11-27T23:10:00.000+08:00

Details of my upcoming trip to the US have been occupying almost every available disk space in my hard drive of a mind these several days. I’ve been planning how I could manage to buy all the stuff my sisters and mother want me to bring them: La Visa Loca VCD. Latest Martin Nievera CD. Cashew polvoron from Goldilocks. Bag from Greenhills. A capiz, blinking parol. Ad infinitum. To date, I have completed only 30% of their purchase requirements. With only twelve 24 hours left—with most of these days to be spent in the office, promised dates with friends, an early Christmas party—I’m imagining extra-stressful days (and nights) ahead.

I decided to fly early October when I learned about the Northwest airlines promo of 50% discount with their cash and miles promo. I saw the figures and thought that it was a great deal. I won't be able to fly to the US at a cheaper rate than this! And so I ask permission from my boss for the extra-long December leave, book my flight, and renew my passport.

So why am I flying? Here are the reasons, according to level of importance:

1 Ian, Noah and Ethan, my US-born nephews, won't be little kids for so long. Soon they will leave home, go to college, have their own families. Okay, so I'm overreacting. They're only 6, 4 and almost 2. But if you'd see them, you'd understand why I'm willing to endure the 18-hour travel to be with them.
2 The change of pace and location will do me good. I don’t love the US the same way I love the Philippines but since half of my family is there, then half of my heart is there too. Besides, the wealthiest nation in the world is never wanting in its offering of sights, tastes, and experiences.
3 I’m taking advantage of my US visa. I got mine pre-9/11; the consul then felt extra-trusting and gave me a multiple entry one. But there’s no assurance that the US of A would let me enter their backyard again after my visa expires.

It'll be my first time to go to the US as a blogger. I’ m looking forward to writing while I’m freezing in the snow or getting lost in New York. While playing with the boys or reading them stories. But an early warning is in order: My blog will probably read like a travelogue or the nanny files.

Hope you'll still be around to keep me company then.

the new kid on the block. . .

2005-11-21T16:59:00.000+08:00

. . . is a girl.

I was never good at Math but it's inevitable that I do some division. You see, my Tita-Beng-heart, once divided into five to make room for five nephews, should now be divided into six. The occupant of the additional room is a 6.5-lb. niece who moved in last November 15.
The miracle of birth is one of God's greatest. So I wasn't with Moses' group to see the parting of the Red Sea, didn't see Lazarus come out his tomb when Jesus called him out. But I need not have been there during those times to believe in the awesome display of God's power. For I am a woman of simple faith. Just the wonder of birth is enough to blow my mind away.

So here I am, still smiling, at the remembrance of a baby--still wrinkly, with eyes shut, fragile and helpless baby. My sister Chayen and her husband Regie's baby. Awesome.Hello to dolls and ribbons. Hello to frilly dresses and everything pink. And hello to you, Sophia Maureen. Feel at home in my heart. Welcome to my life.

*I finally had a picture with Sophia. Here she is, barely two months old. Taken January 8, 2006.

finding my own alabaster jar

2005-11-12T12:19:00.000+08:00

“How wasteful,” the other guests whispered among themselves. Yet even after hearing their muffled protest, still, she was undeterred. Yes, she knew that the jar contained no ordinary oil. But this she also knew: He was no ordinary man.

Now, the precious alabaster jar is empty. Yet her heart has never been so full.

Mary of Bethany stands on one side of the room, her long hair still damp. Her eyes, though puffy from weeping, sparkles with joy. The corners of her mouth upturned to reveal a smile. The oil from the jar she has just broken seemed to have seeped through her skin. Its fragrance, distinctive, yet not overpowering.

What could have prompted her to offer such a lavish sacrifice? It was, after all, worth more than a year's wages. What does she know about this itinerant Preacher who walked for days on end, with a ragtag group of men? Did she listen to Him speak or see Him heal? . . . marvel at His miracles or taste His compassion?

I walk towards her while considering which of these many questions to ask. Upon learning of my intent, she smiles and tells me I could ask just one. But what do I really want to know? Ah, not one of those questions but this.

“Where do I look for an alabaster jar filled with oil, like yours, to offer Him?”

“My oil was my most precious possession, for I am a woman of modest means. When I learned that Jesus was coming to Simon the leper’s house, I knew I had to look no place else to find what I can give Him. The oil in that alabaster jar was my treasure, it was my everything. And He deserved every single drop.

"You ask me where you could look for an alabaster jar like mine. But you have asked a question only you could answer. Look around your house. Or better yet, look inside your heart.”

She picks up a piece of the broken pottery and hands it to me. I walk away, feeling the hardened clay between my fingers. Wishing, that I could soon find the answer to my own question.

For my Savior deserves nothing less, nothing else, than my own alabaster jar of love.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

And I’ve come to pour my praise on Him like oil
From Mary’s alabaster box
Don’t be angry if I wash His feet with my tears
And I dry them with my hair
You weren’t there the night He found me
You did not feel what I felt
when He wrapped His loving arms around me
You don’t know the cost of the oil
In my alabaster box
-From the song of Cece Winans, “Alabaster box”

Haircut: 90. Smile:Toothless

2005-11-07T23:28:00.000+08:00

Last Saturday, on a whim,I beg my five-year-old nephew Pong if I can tag along when he gets his haircut. He obliges and lets me stand by his side. But before the barber’s first snip, I take out my camera phone and ask him to smile. The picture on the left will probably not land him a toothpaste commercial deal but it’s good enough to be posted on his doting aunt’s blog.

Now what good is a “before” picture without the “after”? This time I join him for this shot in the mirror.

There’s really nothing profound or poetic about this post. If this post were food, this must be cotton candy—high on sugar but low on nutritional value. Please let me. I like having cotton candy every now and then.

Like now. :-)

My Grip on Gadgets

2005-11-04T23:46:00.000+08:00

My typical day includes interaction with different kinds of gadgets. For instance, this non-working Friday, I surfed with my laptop (resurrected after a handyman-slash-officemate repaired the broken adaptor), sent and received texts with my cellphone, and listened to MP3 music while having dinner at a fastfood. And before retiring to bed tonight, I’m thinking of checking my schedule for next week and keying in some reminders in my year-old PDA.

Sure, my gadgets have made life easier for me. My MP3 player, only a few centimeters bigger than a matchbox, so light sometimes I even forget it’s hanging on my neck, assures me that I will enjoy the songs coming from the earplugs. No DJ will pester me with his/her sometimes incoherent banter. My PDA helps me carry around details of my schedule, important contact info, quotes from my favorite books, unfinished essays, ebooks I don’t have time to read save for the Wizard of Oz I already finished. It even entertains me with a few (okay, sometimes not just a few) rounds of Bejeweled. As for my laptop(a gift from my bro-in-law), I’m connecting with you with this black contraption with its eighty-nine keys. I’ve written hundreds of pages using this old Dell model. Some published on paper and on the web, some to be hidden in its hard drive memory forever, or until the hard drive crashes. As for my Nokia, today I exchanged texts with an acquaintance, my sister, an author, a psychologist/soon-to-be-writer.

But am I being swallowed by technology?

This self-assessment prompted by a Reader’s Digest article, entitled “Me Me Media,” I pored over earlier. Have these technological tools become so important to me that I will feel that my life will be less meaningful without them? Have these gadgets become mini-gods in the sense that I have already been worshiping them and am drawing significance from them? And have I, in a way, been subconsciously assigning price tags on people based on the gadgets they are tinkering on with their hands?

A part of me is thinking of loosening my grip on these things. Yes, I will continue owning these tools but I will not let them own me. With you as my witness, let me stick this mental post-it: I will not lust after the latest Nokia model, the slimmest laptop, the PDA with more features than I can use, or the MP3 player which could store thousands of songs.

God has already blessed me by allowing me to have what I have. But I need not let these gadgets, and the desire for flashier ones, consume me. For now I would have to teach myself to be thankful. And to be content with what I have. And to spend more time with people than on my gadgets.

I guess I still have a lot to learn. Maybe a day-long gadget fast is in order. Now, if I could just fish out my PDA from my bag and write when that day should be....Uh, er, yes, obviously I still have a lot to learn.

Three days in Tagaytay

2005-11-01T23:27:00.000+08:00

My three days of this four-day long break were spent with a group of more than seventy people, men and women, from different professions and persuasions. All of us enjoyed the cool Tagaytay weather while billeted at Sunrise Holiday Mansion. “Rest, Security, Hope in Him” was the theme of this year’s convergence, an annual conference organized by Influencers International [Picture of Makati II delegates, the largest group represented].

It was a welcome change for me, not having to think about work for several days. My soul and body were nourished. My body was fed with an array of delicious food, relished over stimulating conversations. As for my soul, spending time with God and listening to His messages were enjoying feasts. As the theme suggests, I learned about rest, security and hope. The gifted speaker, in three sessions, reminded us about our need to take care of our bodies through proper attention to rest, nutrition and maintenance. Then came the challenge for us to reconsider where we base our security. Is it money, relationships, success? And lastly, the message of waiting expectantly, which is the essence of hope.

And, lest I forget, there was the “disturbing” message, from another resource person, about biblical manhood and womanhood.

- - - - - - -
Am I a nice girl, tough girl or an emasculating controller? (Three other kinds of women were in the list of manifestations of control: the helpless controller, little girl and busy girl).

Pierre, seated on my left, asked me if I fit the mold of the tough girl. I took no offense, smiled and replied, “That’s just what most people think.” After the session, Wendell, my one-time verbal sparring partner, approached me and half-seriously (I hope) tags me as the emasculating controller. This time I took offense and playfully answered back, “Hindi ah! Nice girl ako, NICE GIRL!” After I twisted his arm, Wendell relented and agreed that I, indeed, am a nice girl (And a joker too. Incidentally, the first part of the previous sentence was a joke).

Why the categories?

The premise was that after the Fall (read: Adam and Eve disobeyed God, listened to the cunning serpent and each took a bite out of the forbidden fruit), men and women ever since have not been true to God’s original design. This explains the different categories women (and men: the little boy, macho boy, good boy, and distant boy) fall into. Men have been avoiding courageous movement by violence, immobilization, compensation and massive denial. While we, women, have long ceased to follow the man’s lead and instead have been taking matters into our hands and control men and our world. So what was God's original intent for man and woman?

God’s design was for man to move in sacrificially, courageously, risking for the well-being of other. But because of the Fall, man has now become avoiders in relationships both as initiator and as the one responsible for it.

God’s design was the woman to trust even when there’s no reason to; to give her soul to encourage someone else, to be soft and vulnerable. But because of the Fall, she has become more concerned about how she could least be damaged and hides her tender responsiveness.

I agree on both counts.

It will take a kilometric article for me to detail my interaction on the subject. Besides, I am still thinking(and thinking hard at that) about my response to the challenge of biblical womanhood. How can I truly grasp the essence of femininity, be securely aware of my worth and able to make others feel welcome? Can I be truly beautiful, that is, have a heart of faith and rest in God alone? What does it mean to be soft and vulnerable? Will I take the risk and learn to be inviting enough to give room for others to come into my life?

Can we, daughters of Eve, change from being manipulative, controlling women to valiant women? To borrow Shakespeare's words: "To be or not to be[this kind of woman]: That is the question."

It will take one great leap of faith, and the enabling of an infinitely greater God to help me answer that question. But deep inside, I know I want it to be a "yes."

"I'll take care of you"

2005-10-23T21:26:00.000+08:00

With barely three hours sleep, I let the cold shower jolt awake my senses. I donned the long sleeveless floral dress which I accentuated with a pearl necklace and pearl earrings. After about thirty minutes on the road, I saw the sign to the entrance. My feet in 2-inch sandals hurriedly walked towards the Orchidarium. It was an early morning wedding. How early? 6am early. My only consolation is that my friends, the bride and the groom, will only do this once.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The groom in his crisp barong lovingly crooned to his blushing bride. Both his arms enveloped her; his left arm around her left shoulder, his right by her right hand. His singing accompanied by acoustic guitar, his soft albeit tentative voice wafted through the air. The electricity was out so he had no microphone to amplify his voice. But he didn't really need a microphone or anything else. All he wanted was for her—only her—to hear his song.

I'll take care of you
Don't be sad, don't be blue
You can count on me,
your whole life through
Coz I'll take care of you.

There was no promise of plucking the moon and the stars from the galaxy to lay at her feet. Nor did he commit to diving the depths of the ocean in search of a treasure from a sunken ship. Simply and wholeheartedly he offered what he knew he could do: I'll take care of you.

Now I find myself liking that song. It took a man who desperately loves his woman for me to appreciate it. There was nothing in the lyrics which was especially literary. Any listener would tell you that the song is ordinary. What made it beautiful aren't really the lines in the stanza. For me, it's the fact that a new husband borrowed these lines to make a promise to his beloved wife. "l'll take care of you . . . "

I hum the song.

And pray.

For the couple on their first of endless days together as lifetime partners. That their union will stand the test of time and trials. And that they will continue to give me a reason to believe that in this part of earth, there still exists a kind of love made in heaven.