Sad

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

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

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*

*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

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

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

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

*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

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

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

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

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

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

And so I heed the warning.

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

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

I hope it’s not serious.

Seriously.

advice to self

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

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

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

"Dandalan"

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

“Anong gusto mong drink?” I ask Pong.

“Dandalan.”

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

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

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

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

------

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

not your ordinary cowboy movie

"I feel lost."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You have to go find it for yourself."

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

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

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

Life Goes On

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet life goes on.

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

Now brewing

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

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

------

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

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

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

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"

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!

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

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?”