If Life were a Dance

Don’t worry about what you don’t know.
Life’s a dance.
You learn as you go.

John Michael Montgomery, Life’s a Dance

I am safe, content with where I am—by the bleacher, watching, cheering others on. The fluid movements of the dancers enthrall me as I wonder how the rhythm of their bodies beautifully matches the music. The way they completely abandon their self-consciousness and capture their ten minutes of glory amazes me. The music stops; the dancers walk away.

The dance floor is now empty. As I stand to leave, a Voice calls out. “It’s your turn.” Another melody rings through the air. “It’s your song.”

It can’t be me. Ask me to watch everyday, and I will. You will find me here—right on the dot, and sit on the same spot. But me, on the dance floor? Just the thought of being warmed by the klieg lights freezes me. I can’t. Or I won’t.

But what if? What if for a moment I disrobe myself of my self-consciousness and take on the dance floor? What if I take—careful and tentative—steps, from the bleacher to the center? Sure—I might make the wrong step, trip on my own feet but what if for ten minutes failure didn’t matter?

I am now where the Voice asks me to be. I don’t immediately move and sway to the beat. I’m taking my time and feeling the music. Hoping that my feet, my arms, my body obey what my heart tells me to do. Will I ever learn to dance as gracefully as the dancers I admire? Can I risk being away from the safety of the sure and known?

The music is playing.
The dance floor, waiting to be caressed by my feet.
Life's a dance. I will learn as I go.

*This post inspired by the challenges I'm anticipating. One of which involves me stepping out of my comfort zone and doing something new. If and when I do it, you'll read about it--soon.

A Poem for Ian

Once there was a boy named Ian
Who loves to laugh and have fun
He likes his ice cream vanilla white
And with his necktie is quite a cool sight

He’s the sweetest boy you’ll ever meet
How could I tell, you might think
With his skinny arms he’d hug me tight
And ask if he could stay by my side

He’d say out of the blue, “I love you”
Now if you were me, what would you do?
What else but smile and wonder out loud
How of him his parents must be so proud

Over the phone I ask him one day
“May I come on your birthday?”
He says, “Okay, just ride a big airplane”
Now, if it were only that simple and plain!

So I’m giving him this poem instead
He’d be thrilled upon seeing our picture posted
“Ian, as you turn six today, stay as cool and sweet
Of all the Ians in the world, you’re my favorite!”

H A P P Y B I R T H D A Y, Ian!

Thinking of Seven

Seven things that scare me
1. Getting a really bad haircut
2. Mice / rats
3. Offending people, especially those who mean a lot to me
4. Missing a deadline/failing at my responsibilities
5. Losing my students’ respect because of a bad choice(I teach a College Sunday School class)
6. Reckless driving (that’s why I don’t drive)
7. Breaking God’s heart

Seven things I like the most
1. Talking with my nephews
2. Reading a good book in my bed, on the bus, in front of a hotsprings in Banaue (anywhere, actually!)
3. Watching a good movie
4. The privilege of making a difference through what I do
5. Making people smile/laugh
6. Having unhurried, meaningful conversations with friends (usually one-on-one)
7. Listening to music

Seven important things in my room
1. Bed
2. TV
3. Pillows
4. CD player/radio
5. Books
6. Drawers where I keep all my stuff
7. Me when I’m inside(Hehe!)

Seven random facts about me
1. Kabalo ako mag-Bisaya, di ako mabaligya
2. I share a Christmas birthday with a twin brother
3. I enjoy surprising people with unexpected treats
4. I’m nocturnal but not insomniac
5. When I order chicken, I specify to give me any part except the leg (ma-masel kasi. Lagi kasing naglalakad ang chicken. Explain ko na lang sa inyo ng personal kung gusto ninyo)
6. I can delay gratification
7. I can trust God even when things do not make sense

Seven things I plan to do before I die
1. Join the Palanca and win
2. Take a short course at a culinary school
3. Love like I have never loved before
4. Have a family and put my cooking, budgeting, child-rearing and other skills to use
5. Tell all my loved ones about Jesus
6. Go to Israel and see where Jesus walked
7. Discover all I could about God and give Him all the love, praise, service I am able to give

Seven things I can do
1. Sing
2. Cook
3. Teach
4. Use different voices when storytelling to kids
5. Risk looking silly just to have fun (I once made and wore a giant watermelon slice costume during our fun night in our company retreat!)
6. Go to an unfamiliar place on my own
7. Be faithful to God, my calling, the one I will choose to love

Seven things I can’t do
1. Act
2. Bike
3. Dance
4. Drive (I can drive pala but I won't)
5. Swim
6. Eat balut
7. Deliberately disobey God

Seven things that attract me to the opposite sex
1. Love for God
2. Strength of character
3. Ability to communicate
4. Gentleness and kindness
5. Sense of purpose
6. Wit
7. Hair

Seven things I say the most
1. Talaga?
2. Shocks!
3. Ngii!
4. Kiss muna! (said only to my nephews. Well, at least, for now. Hehe!)
5. Gusto mo ng ________ (fill in the blank with whatever I have at the moment)?
6. OK lang
7. Yaiiks!

Seven celebrity crushes
1. Philip Yancey (What a brain!)
2. Jim Elliot (kaya lang patay na siya. Pero gusto ko pa rin siya, based on what his wife tells about him)
3. Jerry Yan (kaya lang di ko siya maintindihan)
4. Piolo Pascual (kaya lang di siya book reader)
5. Steve Martin (he’s so funny!)
6. Beast of Beauty and the Beast (I love the way he shed off his rough exterior, figuratively, and loved her)
7. Donald Duck (just to make a list of seven)

Seven people I want to take this quiz
1. Gina
2. Jenny
3. Karina
4. Pstr. Bong
5. Nechie
6. Olive
7. Anjou

To Ivy and Aleks, I had a great time reading your lists (and learning more about you) too!:-)

Three Whens

"When do you stop loving someone?*"

I was asked this question several weeks ago by one of my closest friends. I didn’t have an answer for her then, in that split-second instant she cornered me, but I’ve been letting it simmer in my mind ever since. I think better when I write so here’s me thinking about it:

When do you stop loving someone?*
Let me answer with three whens. When it will cost you more pain to continue loving him. When using your dwindling supply of energy into keeping him is not just draining strength but the life out of you. When nights of you crying are outnumbering the days of you smiling.

Selfishness? Not really. Self-preservation? Probably.

But while you’re in this stage of indecision and uncertainty, know that just like all other heartaches, this too shall pass. All heartaches do. And as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, God will wipe away your sorrow.

So trust God and let the tears flow.

"The LORD is close to the brokenhearted;he rescues those who are crushed in spirit." Psalm 34:18 NLT

- - - - - - -
*Not in the context of marriage

Sweet dreams are made of these

Like a top girl scout anxiously anticipating her first camp, I was prepared. I knew I was going to crave for chocolates so I entered the cinema with two Kitkats in my bag (I didn’t eat both though. I gave the other one to my officemates). But the explosion of sweetness in my mouth was no match for the burst of delights popping right before my eyes.



Chocolate waterfalls. Candy foliage. A chocolate factory transformed into a whole universe where a glove-wearing eccentric man with perfect teeth (not necessarily perfect smile) is king. Sweet dreams are made of these. And this dream flashed before my eyes—uninterrupted, and in full-color too! It was an eye candy, literally and metaphorically speaking. Oompa Loompa danced, Willy Wonka strutted, and Charlie melted my heart with his cute smile and innocent soul.

Oh what fun to be a kid again! I did not have to hop into a time machine to go back to my carefree days of childhood. I simply suspended my rational, logical judgment for two hours, and imagined myself as a young child again. My eyes got misty when Charlie opened the first two Willy Wonka bars and didn’t find the golden ticket. My heart skipped a beat when Willy Wonka ushered the children into rooms painted with the colorful strokes of imagination.

It was an excellent tale by Roald Dahl, masterfully brought to life by Tim Burton. While the images of their creation are still replaying in my mind, thoughts about life and wishes for us all are providing the backdrop.

"May the worries of adulthood not cloud our sight. May we not trade our bright reds for the drab grays. May we never lose the sense of wonder of discovering the new. Because even when we’re wrinkled and eighty, in our hearts we can be forever eight."

Freezing Ice Candy, Learning Patience

How long does it take for a tube of ice candy to harden in the freezer? Tell me please because for the past ten minutes, my nephew Pong has been asking me if he can have one.

"Tita Beng, pwede na?"
"Hindi pa."
(Pong, whining) "Pwede na. Tingin ako."

I lead him towards the refrigerator and take a tube out of the freezer. I tell him it’s still juice and that we have to wait a little longer. The four-year-old, three-foot fellow squeezes the tube, finally believes me and goes up their room. Meanwhile, while I am trying to surf the internet, he comes down the stairs, almost every two minutes, to ask me:

“Tita Beng, gusto ko ng ice candy. Pwede na?”

I laugh out loud. Can I blame my persistent nephew? He is still mastering his ABCs and there’s no way he will understand the concept of freezing point, of how it takes time before liquid turns into solid. Besides, even if by some stroke of genius his brain allows him to understand, will I be able to explain it to him? I’d rather coach him on writing an essay detailing the link between ice candy and world peace. It’ll be quite a stretch, I know, but hey, I can try. I’ll find that easier than explaining how the movement of molecules causes the change of a matter’s state.

Going back to Pong, I realize he is starting to exhibit the inherent male quality of having a focused mind. The conqueror in him has been awakened. He has a goal (the ice candy) but its fulfillment is not yet within reach. Nevertheless, that doesn’t stop him from channeling every ounce of his mental energy thinking about a tube filled with flavored liquid in the freezer. He wants his orange-colored ice candy NOW. I hear heavy footsteps. . .

“Tita Beng, okay na ba?”
“Hindi pa. Tatawagin na lang kita.”
“Okay.”

I’m making progress here. At least he’s starting to take my word for it and doesn’t feel the need to touch the ice candy himself. Ah, my nephew is displaying faith. Learning patience.

While I’m checking in on his ice candy, I’m considering giving him some words of wisdom. “It's not always easy to wait for something but if it means so much to you, it will be worth the wait. Trust me. God is teaching me the same.”

* * * * * * * * * * *
Epilogue: Pong didn't have to wait until the next morning to enjoy his much-coveted treat. Shortly after I finished writing this post, the ice candies were ready and I gave him and his brother a piece each. And since I did my own waiting on it too, I figured I also deserved one, a red one, as my prize. Just in case you're wondering, let me confirm, "Yes, it was worth the wait."

Girls' Talk

My throat is still sore. I blame it not on a virus but on my XX chromosomes.

Sugarhouse Megamall, August 4; 6 pm. I take the table by the glass wall and wait patiently for one of my closest friends since college whom I’ll identify as Girl 1. She arrives after several minutes and the talkathon officially starts. She is still as cute and as effusive as I remember her to be. A working mom, she tells me how she has been looking forward to this long-delayed get-together. I think I haven't seen her in a year! Only after seeing her did I realize how much I missed her too.

Her husband follows her shortly. We exchanged how-are-yous and the husband-and-wife team tells me how family life is. I tell them a little about my life but keep from talking about myself too much. Between spoonfuls of our rice meals, we talk about career and health issues. Other friends and each others’ parents and siblings.

After the husband reached his quota of 200 words, he excused himself and let his wife and me use our remaining 2,250 (a conservative estimate, really). By 8 pm, the third member of our 4-member peer group, whom I’ll identify as Girl 2, shows up. She was initially non-committal about the meeting but decided to surprise us by dropping by. Halfway through her mango torte, she laments about her LQ with her boyfriend. We listen and give not-so-few unsolicited advice.

We could have put Boy Abunda and Kris Aquino to shame with our endless chatter. In fact, the other diners have already left! The waiters putting up the chairs and clearing the tables give us the cue that we should be going. And so we stand and leave. But not yet for home.

From Sugarhouse, we turn left and walk towards the parking area. When we get there, the three of us search for Girl 1’s silver car. After five minutes, which seemed like eternity, the case of the missing car remains unsolved.

Girl 2: "Saan ka ba nagpark?"
Girl 1: "Mega A. Mega A ito, di ba?"
Beng: "Hmmm...Di ko sure."
(The three of us go back inside the mall to consider the situation.)
Girl 2 to security guard: "Manong, ano po ba ito, Mega A or Mega B?"
Security guard: "Mega B po."
Girl 1: "Sure kayo?"
Beng: "Malamang sure siya. Dito siya nagtratrabaho eh.:-)"

We just laugh the whole thing off. We take easy strides from Mega B to Mega A while, yes, talking. After finally finding the car, we speed off to Racks in El Pueblo. Over fried chicken and potato wedges, our talk turns to relationships and expectations, boundaries and friendships. Funny experiences and beauty tips.

It’s fun being a girl and having the excuse to talk non-stop with friends. Good for the heart but bad for the throat. :-)

To Noah

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

Writing at Midnight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two Questions

I got tagged!

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

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

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

What lowers your stress/blood pressure/anxiety level?

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

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

If words were clothes

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

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

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

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

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

Rain on Me

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

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

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

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

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

A Culinary Piece

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what do I want?

"Did I want what I wanted, or did I want what He wanted, no matter what it might cost?"

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

"How would we learn to submit to the authority of Christ if we had nothing to submit?"

Elisabeth Elliot, Passion & Purity

Of Sleeping Beauty and Compatibility

I woke up feverish, with my body aching all over. I felt like I spent the previous night in a boxing ring, as one of the featherweight contenders, and lost the fight. And what does a losing boxer do? Rest. And so I rest—text my boss about missing work, stay in the small space I call room and challenge myself to outsleep Sleeping Beauty. This time, I think I had a fighting chance.

Later in the day, a friend broke through my mid-afternoon slumber with an issue so pressing she had to text me: "Question: How will one know if she has found the right person? Is it OK to just go for compatibility instead of love?”

It took me several minutes to text back. Am I a reliable source of wisdom, being unattached myself? But my self-doubt didn’t stop me from diving into deep thinking. And so, with the knowledge lent to me by Elisabeth Elliot, Joshua Harris, James Dobson, Norman Wright and other writers whose books I’ve read, I text back:

“Risk will always be involved in making choices. We could minimize the risk if we get all the facts and think about the pros and cons. What makes two people compatible? I think it’s important that they have similar life goals. Could their two separate lives be woven into one? Do they connect and communicate? Love can be learned. Hopefully, she learns before they marry.”

Reading my text before sending it, I’m convinced that yes, in 320 characters, I’ve encapsulated what I believe in. Five minutes later she texts back: “So you think love could be learned? Wouldn’t that be hard? Wouldn’t that be unfair to the other person because you’re just compatible and you don’t really love him?”

I imagine where she is coming from. My instinct tells me that my friend might be framing the question in the third person but it is actually about her. I confirm it to her later but first, her follow-up question needed an answer:

“Now we are able to choose who to marry but in the past, it has been arranged marriages. And we have proof that they work. Personally, I can’t say that I will marry without love. But...I will choose to learn (last line edited).”

After a couple more texts, I offer that we meet sometime to talk about the love vs. compatibility issue more lengthily. I promise to think about her and pray for her concern as it percolates in her mind and heart.

Several hours ago I woke up feeling like a defeated boxer but this time around I stayed awake feeling like a trusted counselor. But with my temperature still up, I quit the mental calisthenics and instead indulge my aching body yearning for more rest.

Love vs. compatibility? Hmmm. Ho-hum...
But I still have to outsleep Sleeping Beauty*.

___________
*I could have won over Sleeping Beauty but if I slept a little bit longer I would look like Kerokeropi (remember the cute frog with bulging eyes?). So I rise and do a few productive things my feverish body allows me. Like write this post.

Ice Cream Day

Yesterday was a record-breaking day for me: Ate four flavors of ice cream in three separate occasions. Two cones of Arce’s Chunky Chocolate ice cream traipsed by my lips immediately after lunch, a treat from a teammate who celebrated her first year at work. To my delight, two hours later, two other flavors, Selecta’s Coffee Crunch and Double Dutch waltzed into my afternoon, ushered by an officemate who leaped from probationary to regular employment. Magnolia's Mango ice cream on top of a crepe, meanwhile, swayed and sashayed its way into my night at Café Breton, shared with another officemate who recently turned a year lovelier.

No one can possibly be sad while eating ice cream. Or one who was initially depressed will turn less somber while the cold creamy drop of heaven melts in his mouth, forcing his cheek muscles to spread into a smile. Ice cream invokes feelings of happiness, signals a celebration, and breaks down defenses. For who can stay angry with someone who feeds him ice cream? I say, take out the scoops and let the whole planet enjoy ice cream. And have marshmallows, chocolate sprinkles, nuts and world peace as toppings.

Ice cream, anyone?

- - - - - - - - -

Incidentally, I'm currently reading Billy Sprague's Ice Cream as a Clue to the Meaning of the Universe. Here's a quote:

Life is a journey toward eternal delight. It is a bittersweet recipe for a delicious future that first requires crushing, sacrifice and dying. At all levels, atomic to cosmic, the universe is spinning. We are being turned and blended, prepared for eternity with The Maker in whose presence is a fountain of endless pleasures.

Here, for now, we may taste the diluted hint of the paradise frost that awaits us. There, we will savor fully even as we are fully savored. And in that place, you will taste the ice cream and the ice cream will set you free.

At a Wedding

I check the text which reminds me of the time of the wedding: June 11, Saturday, at 2 p.m. It is already past 12 noon and I am still in Alabang. As I am waiting for Jenny, an adventurous soul who agrees to go to National Arts Center in Mount Makiling with me, I am scanning the buses for the sign that reads UPLB. No luck. When Jenny arrives, we take the only aircon bus on its way to Laguna, not minding that it would only take us to as far as Pansol/Calamba Crossing.
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1:39 p.m.
Oh no. I don’t think we’ll make it to the UPLB Admin in time to catch the transpo arranged by the couple.

I text Nanie and ask where we could take a jeep going up the National Arts Center yet silently wish he’d offer us a ride. Heaven hears my quiet plea and Nanie tells me he’ll be waiting for us at the PCARRD stop. Can’t wait to see his wife Elvie and their two kids, Gabby and Ian. I wonder how big the two boys have grown.

Five minutes later, we get off the jeep we took from Calamba and walk to the parked car. As I take the middle backseat of the car, I unexpectedly see a once too-familiar face. I don’t know who is more taken by surprise—him or me. After an awkward pause—the five seconds my brain went overdrive reminding me who this man is, or more accurately, was— I smile at him and start small talk. He likewise quickly recovers from the shock and even manages to crack a joke. He has lost some weight, I notice, and I verbalize it. He doesn’t confirm my observation but I couldn’t blame him. After all, it’s been eight long years since we last saw each other.

At the wedding, our small talk turns to serious talk. He initiates a conversation and relates to me his turbulent and life-altering journey of faith. He feels he owes this to me. With the privilege I felt I had as one who once had access to his heart, I ask him a few hard questions. He doesn’t even flinch and answers them all. I listen.

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It’s strange, in a mind-boggling sort of way, what eight years can do to a person. How almost 3,000 days could radically transform how we think, feel, what we believe in. How in eight years, we become so different from the persons we once were. How we can find ourselves walking in a spiritual path away from where our feet once tread.

Yet changes, whatever forms they take, validate our humanness. For we are not mere robots made of steel and bolts—machines which, with occasional tune-ups, will stay the same. We are, after all, made in the image of our God. Given the gift of choice, with free wills built into our souls. Given the freedom to respond to Him and to His costly yet free gift of grace.

And in the final analysis, only God can tell if we have chosen well.
Oh, that He would keep our hearts restless until we have chosen well.

The Land of What-Could-Have-Beens

A writer whose hands are handcuffed to her job while her heart pulls her to the mission field. An architect whose dream to serve God in a different capacity is higher than the skyscrapers he could build. A man whose uncertain future painfully prompts him to let go of the woman he loves.

My heart goes out to each of them—and to every person whose longings are still unspoken and unheeded. For tell me, what could be more excruciating than having a dream and not being able to follow it? What could be more heartbreaking than having a love for somebody and not being able to express it?

Why my sympathy?

I backtrack a bit and inspect the many calendar pages, yellowed by time, I’ve already torn. How many of those days have regrets penciled on them? How many of my feelings have I left untranslated into words? How many times have I traveled to the land of what-could-have-beens only to find myself crawling my way back to my home of hope?

If you haven’t been to the land of what-could-have-beens, then don’t plan to visit. The fare is costly—paid in the currency of tears and sighs. A dreadful place to be, it is where the sun is always on its way to sleep, where relentless rains forbid rainbows to appear, where the only sounds you’d hear are echoes of the words, “If only I . . . ”

How I wish I wouldn’t have to make another trip to this land again. And neither do I wish this trip for the writer, the architect, the man with an uncertain future, and for every man and woman whose feet and hearts compel them to follow a dream and pursue a love.

The Simple Life

While some people prefer the night trip for long-distance road travel, I, when alone, like traveling during the day. While comfortably seated by the window, I draw the curtains up the bus window and take in the view. The countryside has always had this calming effect on me. I see not skyscrapers but mountains. Not huge billboards but never-ending fields dotted by trees. Most people outside are not making quick, long strides but less-hurried, relaxed steps. Looking out the window is like watching a movie—The Simple Life.

I like this movie. The plot is uncomplicated, the setting, plain. So what if the stars are not as glamorous-looking as the box-office queens and kings? So what if the stars in this movie have creases on their foreheads so deep they don’t have to frown for the lines to show? Rural folks who couldn’t care less about the movement in the stock market, they’re more concerned about when the next rainfall for their crops would come.

Why this affinity with the rustic?
Maybe because I once was part of this movie.

Contrary to what most people probably think, I’ve not always been a Manila city girl. Spending most of my childhood years somewhere in the north, the event for me was not going to the amusement park, or going to the mall but to the beach (it’s just a shame I didn’t learn how to swim even with a chunk of my lifetime—and a third of my body—spent submerged in seawater). Before I met Cinderella in glossy storybooks, I was already friends with Niknok from the newsprint Funny Komiks. (I was also reading comics like Filipino, Aliwan, Wakasan, among many others. This probably started my love for the printed page.)

Now, many years later, and hundreds of kilometers away from the setting of the earlier movie, I play a different role, act in scenes set in the busiest part of the country. But then again, once in a while, I take the chance to enjoy the simple life, albeit as a spectator.

Ahh, The Simple Life. Sometimes I wonder if and when I will get to be a part of this movie again. Not my call. Only the Scriptwriter of my life knows.

An afternoon with Chayen and Robin Padilla

My youngest sister Chayen is back in the house--at least for two days and two nights. With her husband Regie away for a planning in Baguio, she decided to sleep in her old bed and stay in her old room, pre-Mrs. Emperado days.

Part of our mid-morning conversation went like this:

Chayen: Pasok na lang kaya ako sa office? Ang init dito eh.
Beng: Ha? Sabado, pasok ka? Wag na. Punta na lang tayo SM.
Chayen: Wala akong pera eh. Libre mo ko?
Beng: Alam mo, mas makakatulong ka sa kumpanya mo kapag pumasok ka.

Of course, I was joking and she knew it. After my laughter subsided, I suggested we watch a movie. Starwars? No, she had another movie in mind.

La Visa Loca. With no expectations at all about the movie, I was surprisingly entertained by it. An effective satire of the Filipino people and culture, it was thought-provoking. The dialogues were crisp and natural; the plot, believable. Robin Padilla didn’t seem like he was acting; he was Jess, the dutiful-son-cum-driver-cum-aspiring-US-nursing-aide. La Visa Loca, self-tagged as an intelligent comedy, lived up to its assertion. I was laughing so loud in one hilarious scene, Chayen felt embarrassed for me.

But much as I enjoyed watching Robin Padilla, I enjoyed spending time with Chayen even more. The afternoon ended with me becoming a few hundred pesos poorer. But it was but a small investment for etching one priceless memory.