It IS hard when you finally decide to make some changes in your life, no? I remember years ago, a friend told me about this thing our late Dean of College said in their class: if you do something right, everything will start falling into place. Well, it seems at first that things are falling into place, but of course, the universe is not going to be there all the time. There's the initial boost, and then it feels gone. You're on your own.
About two months ago, a few of my friends (including my sister) decided --- almost at the same time --- that they wanted to quit their jobs. The reason is simple: it's dead-end, they don't want to do it for the rest of their lives, they're unhappy. Incidentally, I was going through the same thing: I did not want to do the meat source of my income anymore. I want to do what I have been doing sporadically. And yes, I have been getting significant support. So do my friends, my sister.
But now, it seems that time is running out. We are still "in the process", and yes, funds are running low. It's like we are now on this verge of going back to what we were before. We're nearing this point of surrender. It feels that the time we spent trying to make these changes, risking a lot of things --- have gone to waste.
I like to think that life works in mysterious, wondrous ways. I mean, we got into this ordeal with good intentions. It's not a joke. It's not like we got lazy and we wanted to rebel. We're looking for something significant. Of course, spiritual texts will point out that if it's not too hard, then maybe it's not that worth it. If it easily gets to you, it will be easily taken away from you; work needs to come in, in different ways and form.
Right now I can see small changes. I hope my sister is experiencing this too. We're hanging on. Everything will change, and that's not because it is according to plan; they will because it's all part of the particles that make this universe possible.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
When Eating Required Praying, and Praying was Answered with Loving
When Eating Required Praying, and Praying was Answered with Loving
On Eating
I wrote,
Will eat first, and then pray and love later.
A friend, a filmmaker, made this comment: aren't you supposed to pray first before eating?
See, I don't really pray before I eat although being educated in a Catholic school for about ten years required regular prayers on school days in addition to the regular prayer before meals. You pray when you get to school (as the church is focal point of the entire parish/academic complex), you pray after singing the national anthem and reciting the national pledge, you pray before the class starts (and I am talking about praying every class), you pray before and after recess, you pray the Angelus, you pray the Three O'Clock Prayer, you pray after the whole day class, you pray before leaving school. Ten years. Imagine. And don't forget the required mass attendance.
I guess I just prayed too much that living, whether as a good, bad, so-so, or un-Christian/Catholic, is almost a prayer.
This is not to say I am against praying. I pray though it is not part of the standard regimen. Sometimes before I meet friends at M Cafe I drop by the Greenbelt chapel to --- well, probably not pray, but maybe it is praying. I like going to the chapel, just to sit. Talk to someone in my head. Why not? The Greenbelt chapel has been a staple in my life as my aunt would usually bring me there on a Saturday after a movie and some treat, during the time the chapel was still surrounded by a pond and that the Greenbelt aviary was my favorite place to run and explore.
Praying and me --- we have a relationship, and it's not really complicated. Seriously.
The thing is, I ate a lot in the past year. I ate a lot, and I ate more than I could chew, I even ate the stuff I didn't like, I experimented with what I ate, and I even ate those that would somehow poison me.
Of course, I didn't mean those in a literal sense. But these translated into something literal: I gained weight. In less than a year, I gained ten pounds. This is not to say I am fat now, but I am fat based on my standards, my standard being for the first time in my life, I weigh more than 120 pounds. In 2007 I could be no more than 110 pounds.
Maybe it's age?
But of course I am not talking just about poundage and weightage. I gained a lot that I feel so heavy and unfit. But you know how gravity works; you're so heavy sometimes it makes you float.
On Eating and Praying
Early this year I attended a workshop called The Awakening Experience. It was a good workshop held by Lightworkers. I am a "lightworker"; I like to put those in quotation marks because I haven't been committed to being a lightworker, though being a lightworker is basically what you are. Let's say, I haven't been active in attending the gatherings. Lightworkers are an incredible bunch, and don't let this fool you but they're not really the goody-two-shoes nerdy types. They're regular people with a greater sense of purpose. They believe in God or god, they believe in the force, they believe in the Light. And no, our gatherings are far from those that require putting your hands up and do that "praise the Lord" thing. You can do it, but that's not what it is about. Faith is a personal thing, but it can be shared. Like happiness.
The thing is, maybe I am the kind who does not share faith. Because it's personal for me. But I can share! Because love is to share, and the greatest religion of all is love. Nothing more.
Anyway, in the Awakening Experience, one of the speakers (I can't remember which --- was it Lia?) mentioned about this snowflake experiment. I really can't remember the details, but basically the experiment was these researchers sent "love" to the snowflake. Through concentration. And then the snowflake became beautiful, or it didn't melt. Or something (haha).
I was actually reminded of the Noetics (thanks to a Dan Brown novel). It's a "science" about the power of thought. So basically, the premise is that you send specific thoughts on to something, and that something responds. So --- when you cook with love, the food will be delicious. If you love with love, and not with hate, the love will be --- I kid. But it's like that.
Which is why, even though I don't normally pray, before I eat (food or not), I look at it because I want to send it good vibes. Hence, the reason I have gained weight. The food has been yummy. Yammy.
On Praying and Loving
To be honest, I don't love my life if you look at it at a daily basis. Like now. I don't love it much. I wish I am living another life. I am home, working alone, and I feel pathetic. I want to go out, but I have to finish something. I want to do something else. Like all stories there are things that you have to do for the money. For several years, I have been trying to figure out how to get out of the rut and combine what you love with income generation. I love to write, and yes, I write for a living. But I am hating it now.
I guess I have to change loves then. Move on. Writing, it's not working. I have to break up with you. Or maybe, I'll find someone like you, but something else. Gets?
Hence, I am on my knees looking for a new love.
But writing is my first love. And I am having an affair with traveling.
I guess this is a compromise and a crossing-over that will work.
I wrote,
Will eat first, and then pray and love later.
A friend, a filmmaker, made this comment: aren't you supposed to pray first before eating?
See, I don't really pray before I eat although being educated in a Catholic school for about ten years required regular prayers on school days in addition to the regular prayer before meals. You pray when you get to school (as the church is focal point of the entire parish/academic complex), you pray after singing the national anthem and reciting the national pledge, you pray before the class starts (and I am talking about praying every class), you pray before and after recess, you pray the Angelus, you pray the Three O'Clock Prayer, you pray after the whole day class, you pray before leaving school. Ten years. Imagine. And don't forget the required mass attendance.
I guess I just prayed too much that living, whether as a good, bad, so-so, or un-Christian/Catholic, is almost a prayer.
This is not to say I am against praying. I pray though it is not part of the standard regimen. Sometimes before I meet friends at M Cafe I drop by the Greenbelt chapel to --- well, probably not pray, but maybe it is praying. I like going to the chapel, just to sit. Talk to someone in my head. Why not? The Greenbelt chapel has been a staple in my life as my aunt would usually bring me there on a Saturday after a movie and some treat, during the time the chapel was still surrounded by a pond and that the Greenbelt aviary was my favorite place to run and explore.
Praying and me --- we have a relationship, and it's not really complicated. Seriously.
The thing is, I ate a lot in the past year. I ate a lot, and I ate more than I could chew, I even ate the stuff I didn't like, I experimented with what I ate, and I even ate those that would somehow poison me.
Of course, I didn't mean those in a literal sense. But these translated into something literal: I gained weight. In less than a year, I gained ten pounds. This is not to say I am fat now, but I am fat based on my standards, my standard being for the first time in my life, I weigh more than 120 pounds. In 2007 I could be no more than 110 pounds.
Maybe it's age?
But of course I am not talking just about poundage and weightage. I gained a lot that I feel so heavy and unfit. But you know how gravity works; you're so heavy sometimes it makes you float.
On Eating and Praying
Early this year I attended a workshop called The Awakening Experience. It was a good workshop held by Lightworkers. I am a "lightworker"; I like to put those in quotation marks because I haven't been committed to being a lightworker, though being a lightworker is basically what you are. Let's say, I haven't been active in attending the gatherings. Lightworkers are an incredible bunch, and don't let this fool you but they're not really the goody-two-shoes nerdy types. They're regular people with a greater sense of purpose. They believe in God or god, they believe in the force, they believe in the Light. And no, our gatherings are far from those that require putting your hands up and do that "praise the Lord" thing. You can do it, but that's not what it is about. Faith is a personal thing, but it can be shared. Like happiness.
The thing is, maybe I am the kind who does not share faith. Because it's personal for me. But I can share! Because love is to share, and the greatest religion of all is love. Nothing more.
Anyway, in the Awakening Experience, one of the speakers (I can't remember which --- was it Lia?) mentioned about this snowflake experiment. I really can't remember the details, but basically the experiment was these researchers sent "love" to the snowflake. Through concentration. And then the snowflake became beautiful, or it didn't melt. Or something (haha).
I was actually reminded of the Noetics (thanks to a Dan Brown novel). It's a "science" about the power of thought. So basically, the premise is that you send specific thoughts on to something, and that something responds. So --- when you cook with love, the food will be delicious. If you love with love, and not with hate, the love will be --- I kid. But it's like that.
Which is why, even though I don't normally pray, before I eat (food or not), I look at it because I want to send it good vibes. Hence, the reason I have gained weight. The food has been yummy. Yammy.
On Praying and Loving
To be honest, I don't love my life if you look at it at a daily basis. Like now. I don't love it much. I wish I am living another life. I am home, working alone, and I feel pathetic. I want to go out, but I have to finish something. I want to do something else. Like all stories there are things that you have to do for the money. For several years, I have been trying to figure out how to get out of the rut and combine what you love with income generation. I love to write, and yes, I write for a living. But I am hating it now.
I guess I have to change loves then. Move on. Writing, it's not working. I have to break up with you. Or maybe, I'll find someone like you, but something else. Gets?
Hence, I am on my knees looking for a new love.
But writing is my first love. And I am having an affair with traveling.
I guess this is a compromise and a crossing-over that will work.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Plans
A couple of weeks ago, I had planned to attend the International Coastal Cleanup event in Anilao. I am not a certified diver, and I could just imagine the divers among us urbanites flocking south of the city, doing a good deed to the environment, and then get drunk later in the evening. It was something that I SHOULD attend although I would most likely end up doing most of the actual coastal cleaning as divers are usually, well, underwater.
However, a few days before the event, I was told that the family was quite planning to go to Tagaytay on Sunday (today); as we are to celebrate my grandmother's seventh death anniversary and my grandfather's "forty days" in a week or so, my aunts wanted to revive the tradition we sort of had when we lost my grandmother: attend mass at the Caleruega chapel and then spend some time at the Pink Sisters convent.
So see, I was faced with a dilemma: coastal cleanup weekend on the beach with urbanites (and as I am technically still "on the market" you throw something at the universe and have it conspire with you, if you know what I mean) or a Sunday driving with the family to Tagaytay for practically a whole day of praying? Very, very tough choice.
Although I did consider the option of spending the Saturday in Anilao, I thought it would be bogus; of course I would love to stay and party. And get drunk. Whatever. But that option got blurry in my head as I spent the entire Friday recovering from a hangover (as Thursday was a night of sangria, some lemony drink and a bottle of red), so yeah, when I woke up Saturday, it was too late to go to Anilao. I had no other choice but to drag myself to the airport, pick up my sister and her friend, and the drive up north to my parents'.
And so I did spend most of my Sunday in a pretty religious, Catholic realm. With tons of driving.
See, my family's not really religious; on the outside we probably look like heathens. Although my siblings and cousins were sent to Catholic schools, my family never really went to church. It was standard-issued, cafeteria Catholicism. But I knew my grandmother prayed, and an aunt liked going to church, and my mother prayed to the Virgin a lot. But I don't remember being forced to pray or go to mass. The men in our the family are not religious at all. I consider myself as more on a spiritual path than religious --- I mean, hell, I was interested in wicca, fascinated with Eastern religion, I subscribe to a regular Kabbalah mailer, and I like to believe that I have some supernatural ancestry (mwahahahaha). At the same time, I've always loved science; I like evidence and logic. But anyway, I am not going to launch into another religion vs science debates --- the POINT is, I am so lucky to have a family that has given me the liberty to choose how to express my faith.
But anyway, this interesting turn in my family's, say, tradition started with the death of my grandmother about seven years ago. For a few months we visited Caleruega and the Pink Sisters. And then afterwards it kinda waned; we went back to the "religion is personal" mode. We didn't do anything exotic, we just went to mass and embraced some praying tradition after the death of a family member. When my grandfather died recently, somehow the need to go back to Tagaytay was felt; other than praying for his soul, what else was there?
Like in my previous post I think it has something to do with feeling orphaned; my grandparents are no longer the head of our young clan. This is about family ties, it is about keeping everyone together in the midst of loss and the inevitable feeling of uncertainty. Sunday was not just about going to church and praying; it's time spent with each other in an environment that magnifies the being. As everyone's praying around me anyways, I placed my prayers as well: I found it surprising that half the time I was praying for my my family. Of course I had the usual litany of prayers (haha), but I really prayed for the people who mean a lot to me, my family and my friends. I realize that the need to pray for them is due to the fact that at the end of the day, their lives are not really in my hands. I do not have any control what will happen to them, and what their decisions are going to be. I just prayed for their happiness and well-being, and I did pray that I did not want to lose them although they're not really "mine".
The homily in this morning's mass in Caleruega emphasized the meaning of plans, and how a person may live each and every day. The priest highlighted the three ways: living your life according to the will of other; according to your own will; and according to your addictions. Evidently, none of them are the perfect means, but the priest pointed out that it is important to find the meaning in the things that happen to you, to the people around you, to the world. It is therefore important to manifest what you want to happen, but you need to see beyond what is manifested. It is inevitable for us to avoid living Number 1 as we have to live with people, Number 2 is too selfish, and Number 3 may be a disease.
In the days leading to this Sunday, let's say my Number 2 was to go to the coastal clean-up; but a Number 1 came up, and I thought of working around to still achieve Number 2. However, Number 3 happened (drunken Thursday and Hangover Friday --- my choice anyways), which led to, well --- conceding to Number 1. And so I found myself praying for most of Sunday.
It was something I didn't really plan, but I think it wasn't so bad. I surprisingly found my focus. I guess I found a sense of quiet today that I can't normally find in my apartment, even though I live in it alone.
However, a few days before the event, I was told that the family was quite planning to go to Tagaytay on Sunday (today); as we are to celebrate my grandmother's seventh death anniversary and my grandfather's "forty days" in a week or so, my aunts wanted to revive the tradition we sort of had when we lost my grandmother: attend mass at the Caleruega chapel and then spend some time at the Pink Sisters convent.
So see, I was faced with a dilemma: coastal cleanup weekend on the beach with urbanites (and as I am technically still "on the market" you throw something at the universe and have it conspire with you, if you know what I mean) or a Sunday driving with the family to Tagaytay for practically a whole day of praying? Very, very tough choice.
Although I did consider the option of spending the Saturday in Anilao, I thought it would be bogus; of course I would love to stay and party. And get drunk. Whatever. But that option got blurry in my head as I spent the entire Friday recovering from a hangover (as Thursday was a night of sangria, some lemony drink and a bottle of red), so yeah, when I woke up Saturday, it was too late to go to Anilao. I had no other choice but to drag myself to the airport, pick up my sister and her friend, and the drive up north to my parents'.
And so I did spend most of my Sunday in a pretty religious, Catholic realm. With tons of driving.
See, my family's not really religious; on the outside we probably look like heathens. Although my siblings and cousins were sent to Catholic schools, my family never really went to church. It was standard-issued, cafeteria Catholicism. But I knew my grandmother prayed, and an aunt liked going to church, and my mother prayed to the Virgin a lot. But I don't remember being forced to pray or go to mass. The men in our the family are not religious at all. I consider myself as more on a spiritual path than religious --- I mean, hell, I was interested in wicca, fascinated with Eastern religion, I subscribe to a regular Kabbalah mailer, and I like to believe that I have some supernatural ancestry (mwahahahaha). At the same time, I've always loved science; I like evidence and logic. But anyway, I am not going to launch into another religion vs science debates --- the POINT is, I am so lucky to have a family that has given me the liberty to choose how to express my faith.
But anyway, this interesting turn in my family's, say, tradition started with the death of my grandmother about seven years ago. For a few months we visited Caleruega and the Pink Sisters. And then afterwards it kinda waned; we went back to the "religion is personal" mode. We didn't do anything exotic, we just went to mass and embraced some praying tradition after the death of a family member. When my grandfather died recently, somehow the need to go back to Tagaytay was felt; other than praying for his soul, what else was there?
Like in my previous post I think it has something to do with feeling orphaned; my grandparents are no longer the head of our young clan. This is about family ties, it is about keeping everyone together in the midst of loss and the inevitable feeling of uncertainty. Sunday was not just about going to church and praying; it's time spent with each other in an environment that magnifies the being. As everyone's praying around me anyways, I placed my prayers as well: I found it surprising that half the time I was praying for my my family. Of course I had the usual litany of prayers (haha), but I really prayed for the people who mean a lot to me, my family and my friends. I realize that the need to pray for them is due to the fact that at the end of the day, their lives are not really in my hands. I do not have any control what will happen to them, and what their decisions are going to be. I just prayed for their happiness and well-being, and I did pray that I did not want to lose them although they're not really "mine".
The homily in this morning's mass in Caleruega emphasized the meaning of plans, and how a person may live each and every day. The priest highlighted the three ways: living your life according to the will of other; according to your own will; and according to your addictions. Evidently, none of them are the perfect means, but the priest pointed out that it is important to find the meaning in the things that happen to you, to the people around you, to the world. It is therefore important to manifest what you want to happen, but you need to see beyond what is manifested. It is inevitable for us to avoid living Number 1 as we have to live with people, Number 2 is too selfish, and Number 3 may be a disease.
In the days leading to this Sunday, let's say my Number 2 was to go to the coastal clean-up; but a Number 1 came up, and I thought of working around to still achieve Number 2. However, Number 3 happened (drunken Thursday and Hangover Friday --- my choice anyways), which led to, well --- conceding to Number 1. And so I found myself praying for most of Sunday.
It was something I didn't really plan, but I think it wasn't so bad. I surprisingly found my focus. I guess I found a sense of quiet today that I can't normally find in my apartment, even though I live in it alone.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Male Bonding
A few minutes ago, I smelled the freshly squeezed calamansi juice that my father was making for his bedtime tea. I looked up from where I was sitting and asked if there were any calamansi left. He told me that there were enough, and implied that if I wanted some I should get off my ass and make a cup for myself.
As I started to slice the fruit I casually asked if he had any small strainer ready; he said no. He said I should fish out the seeds using a teaspoon. I then continued slicing, and then he handed me a teaspoon, interrupting his own masterpiece. He then noted how I was slicing the calamansi; he mentioned something about how to properly do it, which was his way, of course.
I started squeezing and then scooping the seeds out. He handed me a small jar of honey; he told me to use it. As he started dipping an herbal teabag, in and out, bouncing up and down the elixir, he said that I should put in some teabags because it would make the concoction delicious. I went to the thermos for some hot water, and then he called out and said that he had some freshly-boiled water ready; as I am not very much familiar with my parents' kitchen I turned and looked like I was caught in a hazy maze. He pointed at one corner; apparently, he used the coffee pot to boil the water. I then poured some water, put the pot back, and started going through the cupboard for some teabag. He hissed that he already had something ready for me. Like a little girl I took the teabag from him, ripped it open, and started dipping, in and out, bouncing up and down.
As I was clearly finished with the ceremony --- which he was watching as he sipped his tea, standing up --- he told me how I should secure the teabag by wrapping its end around the mug holder.
Although my dad and I fight sometimes as he is a terrible (and sexist) backseat driver and like many men he always insists that he is always right, I found that supposed-annoying instance comforting and thought that I simply missed being a just a child, that I will always be somebody's daughter.
As I started to slice the fruit I casually asked if he had any small strainer ready; he said no. He said I should fish out the seeds using a teaspoon. I then continued slicing, and then he handed me a teaspoon, interrupting his own masterpiece. He then noted how I was slicing the calamansi; he mentioned something about how to properly do it, which was his way, of course.
I started squeezing and then scooping the seeds out. He handed me a small jar of honey; he told me to use it. As he started dipping an herbal teabag, in and out, bouncing up and down the elixir, he said that I should put in some teabags because it would make the concoction delicious. I went to the thermos for some hot water, and then he called out and said that he had some freshly-boiled water ready; as I am not very much familiar with my parents' kitchen I turned and looked like I was caught in a hazy maze. He pointed at one corner; apparently, he used the coffee pot to boil the water. I then poured some water, put the pot back, and started going through the cupboard for some teabag. He hissed that he already had something ready for me. Like a little girl I took the teabag from him, ripped it open, and started dipping, in and out, bouncing up and down.
As I was clearly finished with the ceremony --- which he was watching as he sipped his tea, standing up --- he told me how I should secure the teabag by wrapping its end around the mug holder.
Although my dad and I fight sometimes as he is a terrible (and sexist) backseat driver and like many men he always insists that he is always right, I found that supposed-annoying instance comforting and thought that I simply missed being a just a child, that I will always be somebody's daughter.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Independence
After my grandfather passed away about two weeks ago in which an almost week-long wake followed, I somehow found myself "stuck" at my parents' house. I guess the string of events would generally ease me into this state of quite refusing to go back to my apartment; likely reasons are as follows:
1) After the funeral on Friday I went to a reunion Saturday night, and then by Sunday it was already the pasiyam. I got lazy driving back to Manila when I had the chance, say, by Monday.
2) I was overwhelmed with the fact that I did not work for more than seven days, and those days were not spent on some exotic holiday but in grief and in the freezing funeral home. The state of overwhelm somehow led to, uh, a suspension of disbelief, as how a favorite phrase from college goes.
3) I feared my grandfather would show up in my apartment (whooo).
Anyways, after more than a week of disconnect I finally decided to go back to my humble abode. I have to admit, a significant reason I did not want to go back was that my apartment was a huge mess; I had not cleaned it for at least two weeks due to my absence. It was a good decision to give my parents' househelp additional income by contracting her to do a major clean-up. So right now, I am sitting in an apartment that smells of Pledge, Lysol, and *sniff*sniff* another Pledge product.
Being here, being now, I am then again in this niche of being "independent".
This thought somehow occurred to me: what is my issue with independence? I think I was merely in the double digits when I was already told that I was an independent kid. I was probably ten and I was already independent. I am trying to remember now how I got to be this thing, this state which supposedly-admirable women are supposed to characterize. I had a pretty strong personality as a kid, and I liked to learn on my own (with some constant nudging from my grandmother) --- independence. As early as grade school I was so curious about a lot of things that I learned stuff from my aunt's Mills and Boon collection and (gasp) Anais Nin's Delta of Venus --- independence. No, scratch that, that was not independence, that was going through other people's stuff and accidentally reading erotica.
Hmm.
Somehow I reached the point in which I sensed that being independent was not admirable at all, it was a liability. It made me feel quite isolated. Sure, I do like to do things on my own, that I can and have travelled alone (and I will, still), and at the moment I live alone. Because of these things, I surprisingly amaze people. Yes, I live alone (ooohh), yes I have done Southeast Asia mostly alone (ooohh), and yes I usually feel guilty every time I hear Destiny's Child's "Independent Women" (hah). But are these things being independent, really?
When I moved out I was expecting some form of freedom to the degree of a Sex and the City episode: lunching with the girls, having DVD marathons, throwing a dinner party, etc. Yes, this entire "living alone" thing has highlighted this thing called independence. I pay my bills, I pay the rent, I cook for myself, the works. I laugh on my own whilst watching TMZ, and I get lonely alone too (haha). Independence.
Spending all these days at my parents', playing with my nephew, annoying my sister and my mother, and having someone cook for me and wash my clothes made me think that at the end of the day, that was what I wanted: to be with someone, to be with family. I did think that if what I really wanted was company and family, then why the hell did I move out in the first place?!!
Tricky, huh.
As I drove away from my parents' house, and exited and entered the freeway, I thought of my grandfather; see, he and my grandmother generally raised me. I grew up in their house in Manila. I slept between them when I was a child. My grandmother made sure I did my homework, and my grandfather made sure I would laugh at his jokes and his attempts to entertain me. My grandmother passed away when I was 23, and recently, my grandfather was gone. When I moved out of their house my lolo was almost bedridden. For several months he was starting to fade, he lost his senses, he lost his sight. I could no longer talk to him, and every time I visited it would truly broke my heart to see him.
I think somehow I finally felt that the child in me, that kid who would become me, was now an orphan. And to be honest, those years are my favorite years so far.
I stayed at my parents' because it made me feel like I was somebody's daughter, somebody's sister, and somebody's aunt. I needed to make sense of my independence especially I am in this critical stage of transitioning. I moved out not because I wanted freedom; fortunately I've always had that. I moved out because I wanted to build a relationship with myself. This is not just an experiment; this is the life I am choosing to have, right now. Even though I do want to have my own family, and to be with company and such, at the moment I just want to be somebody to myself. And yes, to quote Bridget Fonda's character in Cameron Crowe's Singles: "Being alone... there is a certain dignity to it".
I think losing my grandfather --- and my grandmother --- has made me realize that I am an adult now, and that it is my time, it is going to be my era, it is now my turn. I am independent not because I moved out, or I have a strong personality, or I can do things alone. I am independent because I am embracing the process of fleshing out who I am from a long line of history, of roots, of relationships, of dependence.
1) After the funeral on Friday I went to a reunion Saturday night, and then by Sunday it was already the pasiyam. I got lazy driving back to Manila when I had the chance, say, by Monday.
2) I was overwhelmed with the fact that I did not work for more than seven days, and those days were not spent on some exotic holiday but in grief and in the freezing funeral home. The state of overwhelm somehow led to, uh, a suspension of disbelief, as how a favorite phrase from college goes.
3) I feared my grandfather would show up in my apartment (whooo).
Anyways, after more than a week of disconnect I finally decided to go back to my humble abode. I have to admit, a significant reason I did not want to go back was that my apartment was a huge mess; I had not cleaned it for at least two weeks due to my absence. It was a good decision to give my parents' househelp additional income by contracting her to do a major clean-up. So right now, I am sitting in an apartment that smells of Pledge, Lysol, and *sniff*sniff* another Pledge product.
Being here, being now, I am then again in this niche of being "independent".
This thought somehow occurred to me: what is my issue with independence? I think I was merely in the double digits when I was already told that I was an independent kid. I was probably ten and I was already independent. I am trying to remember now how I got to be this thing, this state which supposedly-admirable women are supposed to characterize. I had a pretty strong personality as a kid, and I liked to learn on my own (with some constant nudging from my grandmother) --- independence. As early as grade school I was so curious about a lot of things that I learned stuff from my aunt's Mills and Boon collection and (gasp) Anais Nin's Delta of Venus --- independence. No, scratch that, that was not independence, that was going through other people's stuff and accidentally reading erotica.
Hmm.
Somehow I reached the point in which I sensed that being independent was not admirable at all, it was a liability. It made me feel quite isolated. Sure, I do like to do things on my own, that I can and have travelled alone (and I will, still), and at the moment I live alone. Because of these things, I surprisingly amaze people. Yes, I live alone (ooohh), yes I have done Southeast Asia mostly alone (ooohh), and yes I usually feel guilty every time I hear Destiny's Child's "Independent Women" (hah). But are these things being independent, really?
When I moved out I was expecting some form of freedom to the degree of a Sex and the City episode: lunching with the girls, having DVD marathons, throwing a dinner party, etc. Yes, this entire "living alone" thing has highlighted this thing called independence. I pay my bills, I pay the rent, I cook for myself, the works. I laugh on my own whilst watching TMZ, and I get lonely alone too (haha). Independence.
Spending all these days at my parents', playing with my nephew, annoying my sister and my mother, and having someone cook for me and wash my clothes made me think that at the end of the day, that was what I wanted: to be with someone, to be with family. I did think that if what I really wanted was company and family, then why the hell did I move out in the first place?!!
Tricky, huh.
As I drove away from my parents' house, and exited and entered the freeway, I thought of my grandfather; see, he and my grandmother generally raised me. I grew up in their house in Manila. I slept between them when I was a child. My grandmother made sure I did my homework, and my grandfather made sure I would laugh at his jokes and his attempts to entertain me. My grandmother passed away when I was 23, and recently, my grandfather was gone. When I moved out of their house my lolo was almost bedridden. For several months he was starting to fade, he lost his senses, he lost his sight. I could no longer talk to him, and every time I visited it would truly broke my heart to see him.
I think somehow I finally felt that the child in me, that kid who would become me, was now an orphan. And to be honest, those years are my favorite years so far.
I stayed at my parents' because it made me feel like I was somebody's daughter, somebody's sister, and somebody's aunt. I needed to make sense of my independence especially I am in this critical stage of transitioning. I moved out not because I wanted freedom; fortunately I've always had that. I moved out because I wanted to build a relationship with myself. This is not just an experiment; this is the life I am choosing to have, right now. Even though I do want to have my own family, and to be with company and such, at the moment I just want to be somebody to myself. And yes, to quote Bridget Fonda's character in Cameron Crowe's Singles: "Being alone... there is a certain dignity to it".
I think losing my grandfather --- and my grandmother --- has made me realize that I am an adult now, and that it is my time, it is going to be my era, it is now my turn. I am independent not because I moved out, or I have a strong personality, or I can do things alone. I am independent because I am embracing the process of fleshing out who I am from a long line of history, of roots, of relationships, of dependence.
Monday, September 6, 2010
On Crooner-ing Again
It was a good decision that I attended UP Red Cross Youth's 18th anniversary gathering. I was having second thoughts to go as I had buried my beloved grandfather the day before, but as lolo would probably say (though not really in his words, haha), Go lang ng go. Or as how he and my grandmother used to tell me annoyingly every time I bugged them I wanted to get out of the house: Hay, umalis ka na nga. My family didn't frown on my decision to go to a party after a sad event as they, including my lolo, knew that UP RCY was family for me.
I honestly found the entire thing a bit... strange. I used to hang out a lot with these people, and I meant A LOT. UPRCY took up most of my college years. The org was essential in my character building as, I have to admit, UPRCY enabled the adventurous and lakwatsera in me. This is not to say I wasn't those things before I joined the org, but as they say, it's a meeting of kindred spirits. Prior to RCY I was a member of AIESEC (partying) and UP Quill (artsy folks) which I thought would generally represent who I was, but it was in this org, which I initially thought were populated with geeks who practice first aid during their free time, that I experienced some of my very best years.
And of course, it was through UPRCY where I met many of my closest friends, and those I shared certain bonds with that couldn't be easily destroyed by time.
The thing with the gathering last Saturday was that the old generation Crooners were requested to perform. See, UPRCY had this, er, glee club which generally performs during the holidays for fundraising purposes. I own up to naming the group Crooners (I was Project Coordinator of the group for a semester and had to "sell" ourselves), and Crooners practice and performances were always the main highlight of the year. I was among the altos along with... oh, maybe four other girls? I remember Leah and Ayo in our small group, and I think Thessa, Liz and Rica were sopranos. Evy was probably an alto. Anyway, we had the best fun. El, who was among the leaders of the group, would arrange a small spot in an engineering building extension (?) beside the Melchor Hall where we would have our practice until 9PM.
At that time I had no problem singing. I sang a lot. I sang while drawing and drafting my plates for architecture class. I think I even sang whilst solving those annoying engineering science problem sets. I thought I had a pretty decent voice. I sang along with my Tori Amos, Tuck and Patti, and Everything But the Girl cassette tapes (how ancient). See, I had no problem singing.
When the Crooners had a very brief meeting during the event last Saturday, and I was handed the piece we sang a lot outside our Christmas carols ("Minsan Lang Kitang Iibigin"), I was suddenly flooded with fear. I couldn't remember how to sing.
I had been trying, all these years, to sing again. I don't want to be dramatic, but really, I somehow lost my voice. Maybe because I just stopped singing. I don't think cigarettes have to be blamed anyways as I only smoke occasionally and I smoked A LOT back in college. Singing was one of those things I used to do, and oddly enough, I really can't remember when I just stopped. I can't even remember a single song that I can sing in full.
Singing with the Crooners again became a reminder and proof. I can still sing, somehow. Maybe it takes good company to sing with, no? And the good years to get the voice going. The performance was not perfect, and there were only few Crooners who showed up, but we managed and, hell yeah, we sounded good. To be honest, if the teasing stops and becomes a serious discussion of having the group form again for some small gigs (I am talking about fundraising and caroling, mind you), I think I am going to say yes. Why not? It's the good things that need to be revived.
I honestly found the entire thing a bit... strange. I used to hang out a lot with these people, and I meant A LOT. UPRCY took up most of my college years. The org was essential in my character building as, I have to admit, UPRCY enabled the adventurous and lakwatsera in me. This is not to say I wasn't those things before I joined the org, but as they say, it's a meeting of kindred spirits. Prior to RCY I was a member of AIESEC (partying) and UP Quill (artsy folks) which I thought would generally represent who I was, but it was in this org, which I initially thought were populated with geeks who practice first aid during their free time, that I experienced some of my very best years.
And of course, it was through UPRCY where I met many of my closest friends, and those I shared certain bonds with that couldn't be easily destroyed by time.
The thing with the gathering last Saturday was that the old generation Crooners were requested to perform. See, UPRCY had this, er, glee club which generally performs during the holidays for fundraising purposes. I own up to naming the group Crooners (I was Project Coordinator of the group for a semester and had to "sell" ourselves), and Crooners practice and performances were always the main highlight of the year. I was among the altos along with... oh, maybe four other girls? I remember Leah and Ayo in our small group, and I think Thessa, Liz and Rica were sopranos. Evy was probably an alto. Anyway, we had the best fun. El, who was among the leaders of the group, would arrange a small spot in an engineering building extension (?) beside the Melchor Hall where we would have our practice until 9PM.
At that time I had no problem singing. I sang a lot. I sang while drawing and drafting my plates for architecture class. I think I even sang whilst solving those annoying engineering science problem sets. I thought I had a pretty decent voice. I sang along with my Tori Amos, Tuck and Patti, and Everything But the Girl cassette tapes (how ancient). See, I had no problem singing.
When the Crooners had a very brief meeting during the event last Saturday, and I was handed the piece we sang a lot outside our Christmas carols ("Minsan Lang Kitang Iibigin"), I was suddenly flooded with fear. I couldn't remember how to sing.
I had been trying, all these years, to sing again. I don't want to be dramatic, but really, I somehow lost my voice. Maybe because I just stopped singing. I don't think cigarettes have to be blamed anyways as I only smoke occasionally and I smoked A LOT back in college. Singing was one of those things I used to do, and oddly enough, I really can't remember when I just stopped. I can't even remember a single song that I can sing in full.
Singing with the Crooners again became a reminder and proof. I can still sing, somehow. Maybe it takes good company to sing with, no? And the good years to get the voice going. The performance was not perfect, and there were only few Crooners who showed up, but we managed and, hell yeah, we sounded good. To be honest, if the teasing stops and becomes a serious discussion of having the group form again for some small gigs (I am talking about fundraising and caroling, mind you), I think I am going to say yes. Why not? It's the good things that need to be revived.
And then the Bride Slapped the Groom
Note: Wrote this back in 10 July 2008 on Facebook's Slates application.
Years ago, I was an active blogger. Truth be told, some people may think that what I blogged about was total nonsense. There were days I was incredibly cryptic that Haruki Murakami may even end up scratching his head trying to decipher between the hints, and there were those days I sounded like Bridget Jones on paper. Of course there were the days I was angst-ridden, the days I was paranoid, the days I was quoting left, right and center, and days of pure honesty. It was nonsense, but I was vulnerable, very much NOT in a victimized manner.
There were also the years that I actually made friends with those I found online, or those, say, who "friended" me.
I just stopped writing. I don't know. I guess in the past months --- or say last year --- I had this need to keep to myself. Or not to be bothered too much with my online persona (though frankly, such persona can be considered pretty transparent). I probably got sick and tired of myself, blogging almost the same things, which, when you really think about it, further proves we are who we are. However, I probably stopped because I wanted to experiment with this thing I read in some guy's blog a few years ago, that when someone stops blogging, he/she found someone. Or putting it in another context, if someone starts to disappear from your life, he/she found someoneelse. Tee-hee. So yeah, I figured, if I stopped blogging, the someone will come.
The point is, as based on this experiment, I therefore conclude that whether you stop or continue bogging, someone will come, and someone will leave. Eventually and finally, someone will stay. The world keeps turning.
Well, in this entry I want to write about this blog buddy I met years ago via my old blog. She's older than me, but those few years ago, when we were obviously younger, we were giggling like girls, dropping comments about what she dubbed as the Vespa Seduction Plan (because she had a Vespa then and there was someone to seduce) and the creation of a Shag Map. She also checked on me when I met this ... okay, I am NOT going to mention that, haha.
Anyway, since I stopped blogging, I didn't hear any news from her for months. And since I suddenly had this impulse to visit my old blog, I suddenly wanted to know how she's been. And she's married.
Of course I am aware of their love story, which is a blogging kind too (meaning they met via blogs. Dammit, maybe I should start blogging again?). And I knew that he proposed while they were probably drunk in some pub, and they were to wed. And they did. And I just saw some of the wedding photos online in which apparently they pulled some kind of a Britney Spears/Kevin Federline drama where they initially told everyone it was an engagement party since they didn't really have one as they were living in Indonesia (she's a development/aid worker, he's a... I dunno. Researcher? Phd candidate?).
Anyway, it seemed like a lovely wedding. She was wearing this Chinese blouse (as she is) and pants, and he's just wearing this... shirt that nomadic expat guys wear when they're in hot climate (okay, so it's probably widely worn in South Asia by South Asians, haha). It took place in their home country, Australia, in some botanical garden with a lake, and there was a small band, tents, and their friends wore casual wear. One guy was wearing skinny purple pants. The cake was baked by the groom's mother, and it's brown. Some of them were barefoot. They had beer and they played cricket afterwards. It was so informal that she posted a photo where it seemed like she was about to slap her groom.
I like this kind of weddings though unfortunately, I hadn't experienced anything of this set-up. Everything here is so... grand. Even those that take place in the provinces. It's so... formal. Rehearsed. Everything needs to look perfect, as my friend pointed out, weddings only happen once.
But isn't a lifetime that people look forward to, not just that single day?
I guess it really is up to taste. Frankly, my favorite movie weddings took place in Sex and the City --- where Miranda and Steve got married in this small garden in New York which they found whilst walking with the "reception" in this small restaurant, and Carrie and Big in City Hall, and their reception food were pancakes and bacon. Even my friend Liz would tell me that one day, she'd just surprise me and tell me she's already married. No fanfare. Well, maybe afterwards as people here would demand, "You're not even going to hold it in a church?!!!"
The funny thing is, I have this three main set of really dear friends (as probably everyone does) who fall in these stereotypes that evidently also influence my thinking: my high school friends from Catholic school, my friends from UP, and friends I met in various projects and meetings who are mostly artists, actors, filmmakers, writers, environmentalists, backpackers, semi-activists, semi-socialites, etc. Of course, the high school friends are getting married off; one of them is getting married next week, and I am to wear this pink floor-length gown which I am going to pair with purple heels. One of them is getting married next year, one of them is almost as good as married, oh, and yeah, two of them are already married, with one now with a kid. College friends --- we're pretty screwed up, which means we're like the Sex and the City / Bridget Jones women who constantly find ourselves in, say, dysfunctional and questionably romantic situations, and post-college friends ---- a mixture of happily married/engaged/paired off straight and gay couples (in the U.S.), single mothers, and incredible Angelina Jolies still searching for their Brad Pitts. It's a good life.
Maybe among friends getting hitched seems like a race, which I can prove many times over as between conversations and reunions, there is always that guessing game who is going to get married next (and Liz just told me during our long text conversations that I am notgoing to be next in our small group of friends). Not that I am complaining (though in my old blog there are those moments I'd constantly complain about it), but I think it's fun to look at such circumstances. Maybe I am in this race, but I still have questions about the prize, the prize being sharing a great life with the man who is perfect for me.
I just like to think of my friend, her new groom, and their history. There were seduction plans in this one, alright, but the point is, they both worked hard. She's found someone to create a shag map and build a vegetable patch with. Hence, there is the possibility. I also like to think that it is possible that come wedding days, they can be small and simple that when the bride slaps the groom, there is a private joke in it.
Years ago, I was an active blogger. Truth be told, some people may think that what I blogged about was total nonsense. There were days I was incredibly cryptic that Haruki Murakami may even end up scratching his head trying to decipher between the hints, and there were those days I sounded like Bridget Jones on paper. Of course there were the days I was angst-ridden, the days I was paranoid, the days I was quoting left, right and center, and days of pure honesty. It was nonsense, but I was vulnerable, very much NOT in a victimized manner.
There were also the years that I actually made friends with those I found online, or those, say, who "friended" me.
I just stopped writing. I don't know. I guess in the past months --- or say last year --- I had this need to keep to myself. Or not to be bothered too much with my online persona (though frankly, such persona can be considered pretty transparent). I probably got sick and tired of myself, blogging almost the same things, which, when you really think about it, further proves we are who we are. However, I probably stopped because I wanted to experiment with this thing I read in some guy's blog a few years ago, that when someone stops blogging, he/she found someone. Or putting it in another context, if someone starts to disappear from your life, he/she found someoneelse. Tee-hee. So yeah, I figured, if I stopped blogging, the someone will come.
The point is, as based on this experiment, I therefore conclude that whether you stop or continue bogging, someone will come, and someone will leave. Eventually and finally, someone will stay. The world keeps turning.
Well, in this entry I want to write about this blog buddy I met years ago via my old blog. She's older than me, but those few years ago, when we were obviously younger, we were giggling like girls, dropping comments about what she dubbed as the Vespa Seduction Plan (because she had a Vespa then and there was someone to seduce) and the creation of a Shag Map. She also checked on me when I met this ... okay, I am NOT going to mention that, haha.
Anyway, since I stopped blogging, I didn't hear any news from her for months. And since I suddenly had this impulse to visit my old blog, I suddenly wanted to know how she's been. And she's married.
Of course I am aware of their love story, which is a blogging kind too (meaning they met via blogs. Dammit, maybe I should start blogging again?). And I knew that he proposed while they were probably drunk in some pub, and they were to wed. And they did. And I just saw some of the wedding photos online in which apparently they pulled some kind of a Britney Spears/Kevin Federline drama where they initially told everyone it was an engagement party since they didn't really have one as they were living in Indonesia (she's a development/aid worker, he's a... I dunno. Researcher? Phd candidate?).
Anyway, it seemed like a lovely wedding. She was wearing this Chinese blouse (as she is) and pants, and he's just wearing this... shirt that nomadic expat guys wear when they're in hot climate (okay, so it's probably widely worn in South Asia by South Asians, haha). It took place in their home country, Australia, in some botanical garden with a lake, and there was a small band, tents, and their friends wore casual wear. One guy was wearing skinny purple pants. The cake was baked by the groom's mother, and it's brown. Some of them were barefoot. They had beer and they played cricket afterwards. It was so informal that she posted a photo where it seemed like she was about to slap her groom.
I like this kind of weddings though unfortunately, I hadn't experienced anything of this set-up. Everything here is so... grand. Even those that take place in the provinces. It's so... formal. Rehearsed. Everything needs to look perfect, as my friend pointed out, weddings only happen once.
But isn't a lifetime that people look forward to, not just that single day?
I guess it really is up to taste. Frankly, my favorite movie weddings took place in Sex and the City --- where Miranda and Steve got married in this small garden in New York which they found whilst walking with the "reception" in this small restaurant, and Carrie and Big in City Hall, and their reception food were pancakes and bacon. Even my friend Liz would tell me that one day, she'd just surprise me and tell me she's already married. No fanfare. Well, maybe afterwards as people here would demand, "You're not even going to hold it in a church?!!!"
The funny thing is, I have this three main set of really dear friends (as probably everyone does) who fall in these stereotypes that evidently also influence my thinking: my high school friends from Catholic school, my friends from UP, and friends I met in various projects and meetings who are mostly artists, actors, filmmakers, writers, environmentalists, backpackers, semi-activists, semi-socialites, etc. Of course, the high school friends are getting married off; one of them is getting married next week, and I am to wear this pink floor-length gown which I am going to pair with purple heels. One of them is getting married next year, one of them is almost as good as married, oh, and yeah, two of them are already married, with one now with a kid. College friends --- we're pretty screwed up, which means we're like the Sex and the City / Bridget Jones women who constantly find ourselves in, say, dysfunctional and questionably romantic situations, and post-college friends ---- a mixture of happily married/engaged/paired off straight and gay couples (in the U.S.), single mothers, and incredible Angelina Jolies still searching for their Brad Pitts. It's a good life.
Maybe among friends getting hitched seems like a race, which I can prove many times over as between conversations and reunions, there is always that guessing game who is going to get married next (and Liz just told me during our long text conversations that I am notgoing to be next in our small group of friends). Not that I am complaining (though in my old blog there are those moments I'd constantly complain about it), but I think it's fun to look at such circumstances. Maybe I am in this race, but I still have questions about the prize, the prize being sharing a great life with the man who is perfect for me.
I just like to think of my friend, her new groom, and their history. There were seduction plans in this one, alright, but the point is, they both worked hard. She's found someone to create a shag map and build a vegetable patch with. Hence, there is the possibility. I also like to think that it is possible that come wedding days, they can be small and simple that when the bride slaps the groom, there is a private joke in it.
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