MAI-Asia Train the Trainer Conference

"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

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

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

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

“Superman…Superman…”

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

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

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

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

Tired

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

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

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

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

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

In-between days

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

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

* * * * * * *

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

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

* * * * * * *

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

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

More than just a carpenter's hands

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

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

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

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

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

About a book

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * * * * * * * *

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

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

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

Having my cake (and eating it too!)

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

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

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

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

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

On canned replies and trivial concerns

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

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

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

* * * * * * * * * * *

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

Picture these!

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


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

glancing at my gallery

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

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

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

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

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

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

May we all have a colorful year ahead.

hating winter, learning trust

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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.