So now officially my life sucks. The only past, present, and future things I can talk about is grammar-related. I AM MISERABLE. I am the sort of person I never imagined I would be. Where did everything start to go wrong???
***
There's this woman, and she had the courage to "leave" her children and focus on herself. I admire her for her guts and her honesty. In truth, I want to be like her...I want to be her. I wish to return to the person I was before I became a mother. Motherhood clearly isn't for me. Whoever said motherhood is the greatest job was obviously not a mother. This woman I refer to, she said, "I knew it (being a mom) would swallow me up. I didn't want to sacrifice myself for someone else." THIS is what my heart has been screaming to say all along! These are my words, unspoken, embedded deep, deep in my soul. I desperately want to be unbound and set free, not tied down to this obligation of rearing an ungrateful, disrespectful, and arrogant child. I suppose I would have still resented being a mom even if he were cooperative, sensitive, and appreciative, but I would not have felt as wretched.
***
I pinch myself to prove I am alive, but my spirit's dead. It has died along with my dreams and wishful thoughts of a quiet simple life full of joyful memories. The shoebox of happiness I thought would be filled to the brim by now is empty. 

Of yarns, birds, and paper blooms

While sipping my morning java and looking out the screen door, I suddenly realized I don’t have yarn.

I have sequins, and beads, and pearl stamens, which I have yet to find use for other than adorn the bottom of my trash bin; tissue paper (I don’t mean the toilet kind, silly!), special paper, origami paper, tracing paper, and sticker paper; pink glitter, silver glitter, gold glitter, and tattoo pens which glitter. But no yarn.

I’m not saying my life is miserable just because I don’t have yarn. Frankly, all those other things I mentioned (and believe me I have so much more hidden in drawers and unused vanity pouches here and there) make my hands pretty busy when the urge to do something creative consumes me, like last night when I was up till 11 making tissue paper blooms despite the fact I had planned to go to bed at 8. But it occurs to me now that it would be nice to have a stash of yarn in the house with which to make pom-poms whenever making pom-poms seems the best thing to do.

I have got to get me some yarn.

***

Three hummingbirds visit my yard every day. How do I know they’re hummingbirds? Well, I don’t know if they really are hummingbirds, but their beaks are curved like hummingbirds’ so I figure, they must be. It doesn’t really matter. Birds come in many shapes, colors, and sizes; “mine” just happen to be yellow and black, and petite. What matters most is the joy that fills me up whenever I see them. They always bring tiny bursts of charm and cheer to my garden and me.

***

How I wish every day were quiet Sunday mornings like this with a hint of rain and a promise of no worries; just dogs napping at my feet and visions of delicate paper flowers suspended from the ceiling, swaying ever so slightly in tune with my breath.

Not yet, Papa, please

I answer the call and thought I knew why she, my mother, was calling.

"No reply yet from the bank, Ma. I've been trying to..."

She cuts me short to inform me in a voice that sounded low and dreadful like distant thunder that she was bringing my father to the nearest district hospital because he had suddenly suffered what could be a stroke. I am stunned. My mother keeps talking, this time more obviously distraught, and she doesn't sense that I've "disconnected" myself from the call and that my mind is instead racing to understand or make sense of it all. I do pick up bits and pieces, but I can barely string them together to a cohesive whole. I'm furiously trying to snatch words that escape my oral grasp, but I catch nothing so I say nothing; my tears replace my fluency.

Going back to basics

(Written December 25-26, 2010)

All it took was two and a half hours in a bus, and my son and I were back to basics. Of course, living simply for us means more than just bringing one set of fresh clothes and a toothbrush and backpacking it. No, it actually means weeks of preparation and careful planning so that we don’t forget anything behind. I think we represent a lot of citified folks for whom the “basics” mean, for instance, relinquishing the Internet connection and getting by without SMS for a few days (and only for). In fact, my son has, in the past hour, expressed pining for the World Wide Web twice already, and I suspect his yearning will intensify as we near tomorrow, the day of our return to the complex.

***

But I don’t quite share his enthusiasm about returning to the city. The only things, really, that make me happy thinking about it are my two dogs. If not for them, I wouldn’t want to go back yet; the basics are cutting it for me just fine, thank you.

***

My yearly hosting of parlor games for the underprivileged kids at my parents’ hometown is probably the biggest thing that gives me perspective in life. Despite my mother’s constant retelling of how life is for a lot of our country kin, it’s still hard for me to imagine just how badly off they are until I see it for myself.

***

I speak to little Jenny Boy, who’s coughing and nursing a high fever. To distract him from the thought of a sponge bath, which I’ve decided to give him to try to reduce his temperature, I initiate small talk. I ask him when his fever started and why, and he answers in a wispy voice so sad I imagine him taking a slow balloon ride to nothingness that he contracted fever shortly after taking a really cold bath two days ago. I tell him that there is no need for him to take a bath if it’s too cold, and that he should tell his mother this next time she insists. I add that when he’s sick he should sip hot soup and take lots of rest. He responds matter-of-factly and in the same mournful tone that his mother cannot afford soup. Nor the rubbing alcohol which he sees me mixing in with the warm water for his bath. Will it sting? he inquires with trepidation. I assure him it won’t, and he’s convinced right away. I make a mental note to leave the alcohol for him. When he sees me uncapping the Vick’s vaporub jar, he grimaces. I promise him it’s not going to hurt. I’m just going to spread a small amount on your back, I explain. It should help you breathe a little better. He squirms as soon as he feels the sticky ointment on his skin but is too polite to complain or resist. I pat his back gently a few times with my cupped hand and comfort him as best I could by telling him that he will be better soon. When I finish giving him the sponge bath, I take his tiny hand and lead him out the room with a final admonition to just stay in the sidelines today and not join the games. He nods unwillingly. It’s going to be a tough day for this five-year old.

***

When I was Jenny Boy’s age, I never had to worry about hot soup. There was always hot noodle soup and crackers for when I was sick. Sometimes I got a bit luckier and had 7-Up or Mirinda to complete the care package. I can only imagine how dreadful it must be for him and other kids like him when they’re sick and there’s nothing to warm their stomachs up nor medicine to bring their fever down. Worse is the realization so early in their childhood that they cannot afford these essentials! That must be devastating.

***

A girl of about 12 years of age joins the festivities. She strikes me as joyless, someone who would probably still find despair in the midst of mirth. I don’t know why I think that of her. Perhaps it is because there seems to be no twinkle in her eyes nor lilt in her steps. Her neck is smudged with soot and when I call her attention to this, she doesn’t appear embarrassed in any way. Instead she offers a very curt explanation. I have to get coal for the house, she says. The thick lines of soot shading her flesh give me pause. She wears her necklace of grime for the same reason I wear my pearl earrings: just because.

***

The children have fun playing. My voice is hoarse from shouting out the instructions. It’s nearly impossible to be heard above the noise of simultaneous chatter, but I don’t mind it so much. The mothers are as excited as their kids, which I find amusing. Who was it that said all remarkable people are children inside? I prove this to be true today, and yet I try to recall without success the last time I laughed my insides out without quiet foreboding that my laughter will be replaced with tears. It’s been a while. For a long time now, I’ve feared having too much fun lest I face the consequences of my thoughtlessness. I know that sounds rubbish, but when you believe something to be true from experience, it’s hard to detach yourself from that belief.

***

The adults play a game of “Straw my Bottle”. Rosie can’t explain the mechanics effectively because she wants in on the fun, too. I break the crowd apart, admonish the kids to stand back or sit down, and demonstrate how the game is played. Once underway, everyone breaks into hysterics. Mamang Daday even pees in her underpants because she just can’t stop from laughing! I find out about this much later when she approaches me to tell me how much fun she’s having. She’s in her 60’s; an ageing grandmother who finds comfort in that daily bottle of vino or rum.

***

I promise the winners of each game a solo picture which I will take myself and develop instantly. Bringing my portable photo printer is a small sacrifice to pay for their invaluable smiles. I tweak the old adage “A picture is worth a thousand words” to “A picture is worth a thousand smiles” because that is exactly what I see on their faces when I announce this extra prize. Later, I ask the families to group themselves so I can take a family “portrait”. I know they are grateful for this opportunity. It is rare for people living here to afford a trip to the town center, much less have their photo taken at a studio. They all go home feeling like they’ve won so much more than what it actually cost me to share these gifts.

***

The day’s end finds me reflecting on my own blessings. This year mama and I say we’re happy to have pulled off another Christmas production especially since it seems it was harder to pull off this year than last. I imagine what my US-based brother would say if he saw that we only had the Filipino staples on the table in contrast to, perhaps, their fancier spread. Why, even my youngest brother, a “foodie”, would probably have to hide a smirk after surveying the dinner table’s paltry offerings for Noche Buena: an already-carved out ball of Fiesta ham, a no-frills spaghetti Bolognese, and a “watered-down” fruit salad with buko pandan flavored gulaman as extender. Back to the basics, indeed, because this was what we had each Christmas when I was a child. But if the basics mean going back to familiar sights and smells, being with family, and a chance to share my blessings to those who truly need a break, then the basics are the best. I think about this as I try to fish out the half-cherry and green grapes from my bowl of fruit salad for later eating, which is a compulsion for me, a habit I took on as a kid. Somewhere in here, too, is a serving of happiness, and I don't have to wait too long to find it. I'm almost done eating. 

Regret?...not so much

Last night I had the urge to blog about something serious, something very revealing and very private. But I couldn’t get past the first paragraph. It’s one thing to admit I have demons that control me and quite another thing to put them out there for even friends to read.

***

Earlier I was chatting with Ms. J about, well, life. And love. And relationships. And passion. And cheating. And regrets. I was surprised that she asked if I had ever cheated on a boyfriend, but more surprised at my response to her follow-up query: Were you sorry you did it? because I said NO. Wow! That was quite a whiplash, I tell you. Isn’t this something a normal person would and should regret? So why don’t I? It’s not like my boyfriend then deserved it because I firmly believe no one deserves such shoddy treatment. Plus it is my opinion that chicanery in any form is wrong.

I’ve long realized that what I did was contemptible. I’m not about to sugarcoat it and say it was pretty innocuous or that, since I managed to keep it secret from my beau, it didn’t hurt anyone, least of all my second boyfriend. (For a moment there I thought of referring to him as my lover but that would lend a salacious air to the affair, which would make me squirm.) In my mind to this day, it was just something that happened, period. Call it a lapse of judgment or temporary insanity, whatever. I just don’t regret it. I think that unseen forces in our universe connived to make it happen to introduce me to lessons I would later learn vicariously through some of my friends’ marital miseries: that cheating is neutral ground, and that there’s a lot more at stake if you do it while already married (and have children).

I don't blog...but I might

I’ve never been a big fan of blogging. I must come from some old-school where they teach you that any display of ego is just unacceptable, that you must be selfless (and conversely, “otherful”) if you want to earn a spot in heaven. Blogging to me is the ironic response to all the hoopla on privacy, so while others enact laws to protect individual privacy, bloggers continually shred the privacy curtain to pieces with an announcement and an invitation to read. In the end, however, I would tell you this: I’m just deathly scared of how others would perceive me based on my thoughts and ideas (which, by the way, veer on evil) and my seeming lack of mastery on the use of this language we call English. Petrified,  too, that the morality police would swoop down on me and, in one quick flourish, handcuff my hands (whose fingers now show signs of carpal tunnel) in order to prevent them from churning out pseudo-intellectual,  grammatically-incorrect and offensive material ever again. If you egg me, I would also tell you that I don’t blog because I am ashamed of the person I am, for reasons that will be revealed IF I continue blogging. Because I AM blogging now and surprised that I’m enjoying it. Maybe this holds promise. Maybe…and this is more likely…it’s just a passing fancy, one that I would tire of sooner than you can ask, “What’s next?” If I am to carry on, I must be able to overcome my fear of myself. And, boy, that won’t be an easy hurdle. My paranoia has grown to epic proportions; I have reason to believe I sabotage my own life. (For one thing I notice I haven’t separated my blog into paragraphs–why would anyone bother to read one continuous rant with no pauses in between? I run out of breath just thinking about it!) Another–more prosaic–reason why I think this attempt to blog would not last long nor succeed is this: Nothing in my life is worth your time to read. My life is trite, pedestrian, and unimaginative as unleavened bread (you’ll get no rise from me that’s for sure! hahaha)…
On the other hand, I’m known to surprise even myself for nuggets of wisdom I manage to contrive from my experiences; for humorous takes on otherwise insipid subjects; and for suspending an audience’s disbelief long enough to be heard.
Which brings me to this: In my life, I strive to do good. I say that all the time. Sadly, because I am human, I am constantly caught in a tug-of-war between good and evil and where, of late, the evil wins over the good. It’s nothing to be proud of. But for admitting that, I believe I have become a better person. So hang out with me, will ya, and see how I tip the balance.


(written August 30, 2008)