Monday, May 13, 2013
What I Did on Election Day
What I did on election day
By Paulynn P. Sicam
I voted early, with no hassles. The polling place is a public school five minutes’ walk from my house. I was back home in 20 minutes. On my way home, I met my kasambahay and her husband who were going to cast their own votes. When they got back after over an hour, they said they were not able to vote. They searched every voters’ list in every precinct in our barangay but they didn’t find their names
.
That didn’t sit well with me since we registered at the same time and voted together in the same precinct in 2010. So how could it be that I could vote and they couldn’t? Her husband had given up and gone to work but Eva and I went back to the polling place in the afternoon where the person at the PPCRV desk suggested that we go to the Comelec office in City Hall to get a waiver so she could vote.
So at 3:30 in the afternoon of election day, Eva and I took a jeep to Maysilo Circle in Mandaluyong to get a waiver from the local Comelec office. The Comelec office in Mandaluyong is a non-descript hole in the wall of what looks like a condemned building in the circle. There were some 18 employees in pink t-shirts, some occupying desks overflowing with folders, two working before computers, with several others looking over their shoulders. The rest were just sitting around staring blankly. An officer-in-charge sat behind a desk right in front of the front door looking officious. As soon as we told him what we were there for, he yelled at the staff to attend to us then made a quick getaway.
The person manning one computer looked for Eva’s name and found her file promptly. But, he said, it showed that Eva had “transferred out” of the district and was therefore purged from the voter’s list. The computer spat out the same information about her husband Jonathan. But, we protested, we haven’t moved out of our address where we have been staying for 14 years. So, I asked if the computer could say where Eva and Jonathan had transfer out. The computer didn’t say and no one could explain their delisting to us.
So, I asked if they could give us a waiver saying there’d been a mistake, so she could go back to her precinct and vote. The Comelec personnel looked at each other, at the ceiling and the floor, anywhere but at me. Sorry, they could not issue a waiver because she had been delisted and even if they could, there was no one who could sign it. The City Election Officer was at the gym, they said, and she could not be disturbed.
Was she exercising? I asked. No, she was at the Mandaluyong gym for the canvassing. So, couldn’t anyone go find her and tell her that a crowd of people wanting waivers to be able to vote had gathered at the office? No, she was not to be disturbed. And I was told, I couldn’t go there to talk to her because the gym was being prepared for the canvass of votes and was off limits to anyone without an ID.
This was when I took to my soapbox, albeit an imaginary one. Pacing the floor in that crowded office, I lectured the Comelec personnel on the sacredness of the right to vote, free elections being a pillar of our democracy, and the duty of every Filipino, especially those who are mandate to manage the election process, to respect every person’s desire to choose their own officials and representatives. I was so eloquent in both Tagalog and English, I surprised even myself.
At this point, I realized that I was only in my pambahay shorts, a faded t-shirt and slippers. But it must have been my silver hair and my occasional lapses into English that made everyone stop what they were doing, and with downcast eyes, listen to this citizen’s harangue. “There are 18 of you in this office, and not a single one can help us?” I felt sorry for this unempowered lot but I rubbed it in.
After waiting fruitlessly for another half hour or so, I decided to explore the circle’s maze-like corridors and hallways and look for the gym. Eva and I found our way to the gym which was easy enough to enter. A door was open and no one stopped us. To some officious looking people on the stage, I asked, “Where can I find Atty Julie Villar, the election officer of Manadaluyong?” “I am she,” volunteered a perky brown-haired woman. “How can I help you?”
When we told her what we needed, she quickly wrote an affidavit in long hand saying what we’d been telling the people at the office all afternoon, for Eva to sign. After Eva signed it, Atty. Villar admonished her, “If I find out later that you lied about this, I will have you arrested.” Then she added, “But I know you are telling the truth.”
We were back at the polling place at 6 pm and Eva was able to cast her vote.
The thing is, the Comelec crew in Mandaluyong was totally unempowered. Like much of the bureaucracy, they had no authority to respond beyond “It can’t be done”. So they sat there helpless, or walked around zombie-like, trying to look busy amid the growing growling crowd of disgusted disenfranchised voters. When I told this to Atty. Villar, I got a glimpse of the bureaucrat’s mind: “Of course,” she responded, “they are not lawyers,” adding that only she had the authority to act on our complaints. But of course she wasn’t at her desk to attend to us and she didn’t authorize anyone to act on her behalf.
We could have given up in the morning, after Eva found out their names were not in the voters’ list. The PPCRV person told me a total of 72 people in that polling place complained of being disenfranchised, but as far as I know, only Eva and one other bothered to challenge it before the Comelec. Eva was primed to fulfil her democratic duty. And me? I wanted to see how far a citizen’s protest would go on election day. While we got what we wanted, many others just walked away, disappointed that there was no one to speak to the Comelec on their behalf.
And that’s what we did on election day.
Comelec, fail.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
My visits with Mafe
23 July 2011
It's uncanny, how my visits with Mafe have been so well-timed. When I flew in for a weekend in May to use an air ticket that was about to expire, I was the only guest. Mafe was ailing. She had had a bad night and she didn't want to eat.
When I came in, she greeted me with a smile and asked what I was doing in Davao. Did I have a meeting to attend? I said no, I came to see her. Her face crumpled as if to cry, and she just said, "Kayo talagang mga pamangkin ko..."
She lay in her bed, weak from hunger, but refusing to take anything in except Coke and some lugaw. I sat beside her bed and asked if she was depressed. She thought about it and said, maybe. But when I asked her if she was the kind of woman who would just wither away because her husband has died, she said defiantly, of course not. She had a life to live.
We had lunch in her room as we watched the video of the mass and eulogies for Tito Chito in Manila two weeks earlier. I said I didn't realize how much he had done until the heard the eulogies that finally connected the dots in my memory of the stories he used to tell me about martial law, the military, the RAM, Cory Aquino and governance. Mafe said she too didn't really know what he was doing and the eulogies were new to her as well.
She got up soon after and we moved to Tito Chito's room where his yellow ceramic urn was displayed amid candles and flowers. On his bed was the Legion of Honor Award he received posthumously from President Noynoy Aquino for his exemplary service to country. WE talked about Tito Chito a lot.
Mafe ordered Halo Halo and sandwiches from Foping's and we chatted there with Gina, Ann Marie and Pia. George passed by show her the new tombstones he had made for Lolo and Lola's graves in Eden.
Then Mafe said it as time to go down to the living room, as Mike would be around soon. I held her hand as we went down the stairs. We then went straight for the couch where she lay down propped on pillows. I sat by her feet, massaging her legs which looked remarkably like my Mom's, as we talked like women, about our lives, loves, joys, heartaches, disappointments and dreams. Mafe shared her feelings openly, not mincing words, not leaving out painful details, but managing to be philosophical and smile all the way. She was in fact, matter-of-fact, not angry, bitter or cynical.
She was at peace with herself. And now that a part of her life was over, she looked forward to living the rest of her life in peace, doing what she loved most in the way she wanted.
We sat there for several hours, thick as thieves, talking in whispers about the trauma of past events, much of which we had already shared before, but she seemed to need to spill it out one more time, as some form of catharsis. Then she said, it was time to walk. Mike was coming and he would ask her if she had walked. I held her hand as we took the walkway between home base and Mike's house, chatting away as we walked, slowly, deliberately. When we got to the end of the walkway, she said she was tired and we sat down to rest. Then we walked again, this time a shorter distance. She said she was tired and rested at a round table, in the shadow of large blown up photos of Tito Chito displayed in the Bulwagan. Our story-telling went on until she stood up to go back go her couch where she again laid down.
At dinner, she sat with us at the big table but she did not touch her food and after a few minutes, she went back to the couch. She needed to rest. But we continued to talk. I left her at around nine pm, promising to see her again the following morning.
I went back at 9 AM after having breakfast with Gina, Mike and Gauss in the other house. Mike told me that my visit seemed to have done Mafe a lot of good. Whatever it was we talked about, it made her more energetic than she had been in a while. Mafe and I talked until 11 when she called everyone to lunch, because I had to leave the house by 12 to catch my flight home.
It was such a satisfying visit, so private and intimate. But when I left, I had a sinking feeling that it would not happen again. I was truly blessed because two days later, she was hospitalized for water in her lungs. And it's been downhill since then.
I went back in June with my siblings when Mike sounded the call that Mafe's health had taken a turn for the worse. She was having difficulty breathing on her own. She was intubated and in a makeshift ICU and all we could do was blow her kisses from behind a glass door. It was painful seeing her looking so uncomfortable and helpless, but she was still fiesty, resisting the infernal tube down her throat, and finally getting her demand met to have it removed in favor of a tracheotomy.
I had planned to see her in July but Lory dissuaded me saying that Mike and family needed the space to be with Mafe and to grief over their impending loss. So I dropped my plan until Gina called to say Mike said I should come.
I arrived on a Wednesday evening, saw Mafe from behind the glass door of her sterile sick room in home base, and broke down. This was not going to be easy. Visits with her were being regulated and I did not expect to be with her longer than five minutes a day. But again, I was blessed. After some visitors left on Thursday afternoon and the last one left on Friday, I was given practically free access to her.
The first time I went in on Thursday afternoon, I forgot to wear a mask. Mafe was restless and I could find nothing to say to her. I held her hand and told her I couldn't keep away and that I loved her. I sang her some old songs then I told the nurses to put on some music, because what is Mafe without music? She seemed to recognize me and she asked for Pia. Pia was still sick, Bebot told her. She'll come back when she is well. When I left the room, I broke down again.
On Friday morning, I went to Home Base bright and early, slipped into Mafe's room and held her hand for around 30 minutes, kissing it and holding it to my cheek. Later that morning, chatting with Mike, he told me about a type-written manuscript that Mafe had given him last year in San Francisco, urging him to read it. He didn't know its provenance but he said he read it on the plane back to Manila and he was quite impressed by it. I recognized the now-yellowed typewritten manuscript. Mafe had given me a set many years back but I barely read it.
It was a transcript of her conversations with Harry, her spirit guide and liaison with God. Sometime in the Seventies, through me, she met a group of women that was into 'psychism', a practice of meditation that I didn't understand, and this document of conversations with Harry, was the result of her practice. I browsed through it and realized that it contained Mafe's core beliefs, the basis of her spirituality. Excited, I asked Mike if I could read it to her. He told me to go ahead.
I showed Mafe the manuscript, asking if she recognized it. Her eyes lit up. I asked if she wanted me to read some of it to her. She raised an eyebrow in assent. Holding her hand, I began to read entries about love, pain, friendship, prayer, sharing God and carrying one's cross. She was agitated and began to stir, wanting to talk. I heard her struggle to say, "Ma...Ma..." I aksed, "Do you want Mike? I'll go get Mike." But she tightened her hold on my hand, indicating that I stay. The she cried, out loud, with a hoarse voice that came from deep in her being, "Have mercy!" And then she said it again, loud and clear, "Have mercy!"
When she calmed down, I asked if I should continue reading and she nodded. I read until she fell asleep. I loosened my hand from her grip and went out to look for Mike. Mike told me I was an instrument, and perhaps I was. Mafe seemed to be thirsting for Harry's guidance.
That afternoon, I went in with Pia, who was now pronounced well. I said, "Maf, look who's here. Miss na miss ka na nya kasi wala nang sumisigaw sa kanya." Mafe's eyes lit up and she gave us a half-smile. I sang her another song, 'Anima Cristi', my favorite prayer that I told her I prayed for her.
On Saturday morning, she was having a good day. She was awake and responsive, smiling a lot and winking. I told her about my realization that I had become my mother, her Ate, who seemed to be telling me what to do. I asked if I could sing her another song, this time, from Lory, who asked me to look up the words of 'Stay with me', the theme from The Cardinal, and sing it to her. My voice broke, but she didn't seem to mind.
To break the silence that followed, I told her I had another song for her, 'All of Me', which Pia said, was her favorite. This made her smile. Then I asked her if she wanted me to read more from Harry and she nodded. As I read to her, she fell asleep.
I sat there for a long time, holding her hand, kissing it, and just looking at her face, so peaceful in repose. She looked like a Misa. I saw my Mom in her stately brow. When she woke up, which was often, I chattered away. I told her that many people had texted, sending their love: June Lopez (wide smile), Mila Reyes (nod), Surf Reyes (nod), Willie Cruz (wide smile); Greg (eyes tightly closed); Poch Lozano (nod). Even my ex sends prayers, I added. To this, she gave me a wide conspiratorial grin.
I have not introduced anyone to Mafe who did not end up loving her.
I went back in later with Pia and we reminisced about my childhood when I thought she was a movie star. I wanted to grow up to be like her -- pretty, sexy, a good dresser, and so desirable. She had many admirers who came to visit her at home. Mafe seemed to enjoy our banter, following us with her eyes. I also told her that Gary had been calling Lory, asking about her, sending messages of love and prayers. She held my hand tightly and closed her eyes tight as well.
I told her I was leaving for Manila that afternoon, that I loved her and that I would continue to pray for her and with her. I thanked her for the love and everything she'd done for me -- the caring, the pleasure of her company, the many fun times, the secrets we shared, and when she helped me out in times of trouble. I told her I loved her and no one came close. I left knowing I would not see her alive again.
I have learned that since I left, she has became less communicative, that her system has begun to shut down. I thank God for the privilege of these timely and meaningful private visits with Mafe.
I already miss her, my Mafe, whom I will forever be grateful to for teaching me how to love well, and how to give unconditionally, with all my heart.
It's uncanny, how my visits with Mafe have been so well-timed. When I flew in for a weekend in May to use an air ticket that was about to expire, I was the only guest. Mafe was ailing. She had had a bad night and she didn't want to eat.
When I came in, she greeted me with a smile and asked what I was doing in Davao. Did I have a meeting to attend? I said no, I came to see her. Her face crumpled as if to cry, and she just said, "Kayo talagang mga pamangkin ko..."
She lay in her bed, weak from hunger, but refusing to take anything in except Coke and some lugaw. I sat beside her bed and asked if she was depressed. She thought about it and said, maybe. But when I asked her if she was the kind of woman who would just wither away because her husband has died, she said defiantly, of course not. She had a life to live.
We had lunch in her room as we watched the video of the mass and eulogies for Tito Chito in Manila two weeks earlier. I said I didn't realize how much he had done until the heard the eulogies that finally connected the dots in my memory of the stories he used to tell me about martial law, the military, the RAM, Cory Aquino and governance. Mafe said she too didn't really know what he was doing and the eulogies were new to her as well.
She got up soon after and we moved to Tito Chito's room where his yellow ceramic urn was displayed amid candles and flowers. On his bed was the Legion of Honor Award he received posthumously from President Noynoy Aquino for his exemplary service to country. WE talked about Tito Chito a lot.
Mafe ordered Halo Halo and sandwiches from Foping's and we chatted there with Gina, Ann Marie and Pia. George passed by show her the new tombstones he had made for Lolo and Lola's graves in Eden.
Then Mafe said it as time to go down to the living room, as Mike would be around soon. I held her hand as we went down the stairs. We then went straight for the couch where she lay down propped on pillows. I sat by her feet, massaging her legs which looked remarkably like my Mom's, as we talked like women, about our lives, loves, joys, heartaches, disappointments and dreams. Mafe shared her feelings openly, not mincing words, not leaving out painful details, but managing to be philosophical and smile all the way. She was in fact, matter-of-fact, not angry, bitter or cynical.
She was at peace with herself. And now that a part of her life was over, she looked forward to living the rest of her life in peace, doing what she loved most in the way she wanted.
We sat there for several hours, thick as thieves, talking in whispers about the trauma of past events, much of which we had already shared before, but she seemed to need to spill it out one more time, as some form of catharsis. Then she said, it was time to walk. Mike was coming and he would ask her if she had walked. I held her hand as we took the walkway between home base and Mike's house, chatting away as we walked, slowly, deliberately. When we got to the end of the walkway, she said she was tired and we sat down to rest. Then we walked again, this time a shorter distance. She said she was tired and rested at a round table, in the shadow of large blown up photos of Tito Chito displayed in the Bulwagan. Our story-telling went on until she stood up to go back go her couch where she again laid down.
At dinner, she sat with us at the big table but she did not touch her food and after a few minutes, she went back to the couch. She needed to rest. But we continued to talk. I left her at around nine pm, promising to see her again the following morning.
I went back at 9 AM after having breakfast with Gina, Mike and Gauss in the other house. Mike told me that my visit seemed to have done Mafe a lot of good. Whatever it was we talked about, it made her more energetic than she had been in a while. Mafe and I talked until 11 when she called everyone to lunch, because I had to leave the house by 12 to catch my flight home.
It was such a satisfying visit, so private and intimate. But when I left, I had a sinking feeling that it would not happen again. I was truly blessed because two days later, she was hospitalized for water in her lungs. And it's been downhill since then.
I went back in June with my siblings when Mike sounded the call that Mafe's health had taken a turn for the worse. She was having difficulty breathing on her own. She was intubated and in a makeshift ICU and all we could do was blow her kisses from behind a glass door. It was painful seeing her looking so uncomfortable and helpless, but she was still fiesty, resisting the infernal tube down her throat, and finally getting her demand met to have it removed in favor of a tracheotomy.
I had planned to see her in July but Lory dissuaded me saying that Mike and family needed the space to be with Mafe and to grief over their impending loss. So I dropped my plan until Gina called to say Mike said I should come.
I arrived on a Wednesday evening, saw Mafe from behind the glass door of her sterile sick room in home base, and broke down. This was not going to be easy. Visits with her were being regulated and I did not expect to be with her longer than five minutes a day. But again, I was blessed. After some visitors left on Thursday afternoon and the last one left on Friday, I was given practically free access to her.
The first time I went in on Thursday afternoon, I forgot to wear a mask. Mafe was restless and I could find nothing to say to her. I held her hand and told her I couldn't keep away and that I loved her. I sang her some old songs then I told the nurses to put on some music, because what is Mafe without music? She seemed to recognize me and she asked for Pia. Pia was still sick, Bebot told her. She'll come back when she is well. When I left the room, I broke down again.
On Friday morning, I went to Home Base bright and early, slipped into Mafe's room and held her hand for around 30 minutes, kissing it and holding it to my cheek. Later that morning, chatting with Mike, he told me about a type-written manuscript that Mafe had given him last year in San Francisco, urging him to read it. He didn't know its provenance but he said he read it on the plane back to Manila and he was quite impressed by it. I recognized the now-yellowed typewritten manuscript. Mafe had given me a set many years back but I barely read it.
It was a transcript of her conversations with Harry, her spirit guide and liaison with God. Sometime in the Seventies, through me, she met a group of women that was into 'psychism', a practice of meditation that I didn't understand, and this document of conversations with Harry, was the result of her practice. I browsed through it and realized that it contained Mafe's core beliefs, the basis of her spirituality. Excited, I asked Mike if I could read it to her. He told me to go ahead.
I showed Mafe the manuscript, asking if she recognized it. Her eyes lit up. I asked if she wanted me to read some of it to her. She raised an eyebrow in assent. Holding her hand, I began to read entries about love, pain, friendship, prayer, sharing God and carrying one's cross. She was agitated and began to stir, wanting to talk. I heard her struggle to say, "Ma...Ma..." I aksed, "Do you want Mike? I'll go get Mike." But she tightened her hold on my hand, indicating that I stay. The she cried, out loud, with a hoarse voice that came from deep in her being, "Have mercy!" And then she said it again, loud and clear, "Have mercy!"
When she calmed down, I asked if I should continue reading and she nodded. I read until she fell asleep. I loosened my hand from her grip and went out to look for Mike. Mike told me I was an instrument, and perhaps I was. Mafe seemed to be thirsting for Harry's guidance.
That afternoon, I went in with Pia, who was now pronounced well. I said, "Maf, look who's here. Miss na miss ka na nya kasi wala nang sumisigaw sa kanya." Mafe's eyes lit up and she gave us a half-smile. I sang her another song, 'Anima Cristi', my favorite prayer that I told her I prayed for her.
On Saturday morning, she was having a good day. She was awake and responsive, smiling a lot and winking. I told her about my realization that I had become my mother, her Ate, who seemed to be telling me what to do. I asked if I could sing her another song, this time, from Lory, who asked me to look up the words of 'Stay with me', the theme from The Cardinal, and sing it to her. My voice broke, but she didn't seem to mind.
To break the silence that followed, I told her I had another song for her, 'All of Me', which Pia said, was her favorite. This made her smile. Then I asked her if she wanted me to read more from Harry and she nodded. As I read to her, she fell asleep.
I sat there for a long time, holding her hand, kissing it, and just looking at her face, so peaceful in repose. She looked like a Misa. I saw my Mom in her stately brow. When she woke up, which was often, I chattered away. I told her that many people had texted, sending their love: June Lopez (wide smile), Mila Reyes (nod), Surf Reyes (nod), Willie Cruz (wide smile); Greg (eyes tightly closed); Poch Lozano (nod). Even my ex sends prayers, I added. To this, she gave me a wide conspiratorial grin.
I have not introduced anyone to Mafe who did not end up loving her.
I went back in later with Pia and we reminisced about my childhood when I thought she was a movie star. I wanted to grow up to be like her -- pretty, sexy, a good dresser, and so desirable. She had many admirers who came to visit her at home. Mafe seemed to enjoy our banter, following us with her eyes. I also told her that Gary had been calling Lory, asking about her, sending messages of love and prayers. She held my hand tightly and closed her eyes tight as well.
I told her I was leaving for Manila that afternoon, that I loved her and that I would continue to pray for her and with her. I thanked her for the love and everything she'd done for me -- the caring, the pleasure of her company, the many fun times, the secrets we shared, and when she helped me out in times of trouble. I told her I loved her and no one came close. I left knowing I would not see her alive again.
I have learned that since I left, she has became less communicative, that her system has begun to shut down. I thank God for the privilege of these timely and meaningful private visits with Mafe.
I already miss her, my Mafe, whom I will forever be grateful to for teaching me how to love well, and how to give unconditionally, with all my heart.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
How do I experience prayer?
Written for Pergola, SSC e-newsletter, June 2011 edition
When Mother Irene taught us the Jesus prayer at the seminar in Tagaytay, a number of us could not relate to it. We could not relate to the supplication in “Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me.” I felt that it challenged my entire relationship with the God of Love, that I was entirely comfortable with. My God was a laughing God, a friendly God, who had a sense of humor and could take a joke.
My favorite icon is a painting of the laughing Christ. It was painted by this priest who does really tacky portraits of Jesus as a cyclist, a rock star, a basketball player, and the like. But he also did this one of Christ laughing, His eyes dancing, which I love. It is the portrait of a comfortable presence in my life, my friend, Jesus.
You can take it or leave it, Mother Irene said of the Jesus prayer. It was just another form of prayer she was suggesting.
But days after the seminar, I found myself saying, ‘Jesus, son of God, have mercy on me!’ in many circumstances. When I am sad, angry, bored, harassed, tired, it seems right to say, Jesus, have mercy. When I am on the road in traffic, late for a meeting, or unprepared for a presentation, how appropriate it is to ask, “Jesus, Have mercy on me.’ And when I hear news of an accident, a fire, a death, any loss, how fitting it is to cry put, ‘Lord, Have mercy!’
My relationship with God is such that when I pray, I do not ask for anything specific, outside of enlightenment, discernment, understanding, compassion and strength in the face of adversity. I hesitate to ask for something specific, having been warned to be careful what you ask for. So, I have learned to say, not without trepidation – “Thy will be done”.
And He has always listened. He has answered my prayers again and again. When I am tempted to be resentful, frustrated or angry at Him for not seeming to hear me, I literally cry out for help. And help comes, not always in ways I expect, but it comes. Always.
I am helpless before God’s will so I do not fight it. It is a difficult plan --demanding, expensive, requiring total commitment, and some of my friends say, over and above the call of duty. But He has never left me in the lurch. When the fulfillment of His plan requires something I cannot provide or afford, I cry for help and something comes up to make it happen. He sometimes makes me go through hoops, but this is something I have gotten used to. I’ve learned to say, with a laugh, “Bring it on, Lord. It can’t be more difficult than it already is.”
I have this running conversation with God which, until lately, I did not realize was a form of prayer. In recent months, I have felt exhausted, drained, my soul dry. When I remembered to pray, I would recite the ones I memorized as a child – rote, perfunctory, meaningless. I was bored with my prayer life. I had no passion for my usual causes. I was on auto-pilot, pretending to be interested in my family, my friends, my work, but really just going through the motions. But my ever-faithful God was looking out for me. He made it possible for me to go to Tagaytay for the seminar on “Praying Our Heart’s Desire” with Mother Irene. It was just what this tired old soul needed.
God has always been faithful, even when I am not.
Meiling
16 April 2011
When Mother Irene taught us the Jesus prayer at the seminar in Tagaytay, a number of us could not relate to it. We could not relate to the supplication in “Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me.” I felt that it challenged my entire relationship with the God of Love, that I was entirely comfortable with. My God was a laughing God, a friendly God, who had a sense of humor and could take a joke.
My favorite icon is a painting of the laughing Christ. It was painted by this priest who does really tacky portraits of Jesus as a cyclist, a rock star, a basketball player, and the like. But he also did this one of Christ laughing, His eyes dancing, which I love. It is the portrait of a comfortable presence in my life, my friend, Jesus.
You can take it or leave it, Mother Irene said of the Jesus prayer. It was just another form of prayer she was suggesting.
But days after the seminar, I found myself saying, ‘Jesus, son of God, have mercy on me!’ in many circumstances. When I am sad, angry, bored, harassed, tired, it seems right to say, Jesus, have mercy. When I am on the road in traffic, late for a meeting, or unprepared for a presentation, how appropriate it is to ask, “Jesus, Have mercy on me.’ And when I hear news of an accident, a fire, a death, any loss, how fitting it is to cry put, ‘Lord, Have mercy!’
My relationship with God is such that when I pray, I do not ask for anything specific, outside of enlightenment, discernment, understanding, compassion and strength in the face of adversity. I hesitate to ask for something specific, having been warned to be careful what you ask for. So, I have learned to say, not without trepidation – “Thy will be done”.
And He has always listened. He has answered my prayers again and again. When I am tempted to be resentful, frustrated or angry at Him for not seeming to hear me, I literally cry out for help. And help comes, not always in ways I expect, but it comes. Always.
I am helpless before God’s will so I do not fight it. It is a difficult plan --demanding, expensive, requiring total commitment, and some of my friends say, over and above the call of duty. But He has never left me in the lurch. When the fulfillment of His plan requires something I cannot provide or afford, I cry for help and something comes up to make it happen. He sometimes makes me go through hoops, but this is something I have gotten used to. I’ve learned to say, with a laugh, “Bring it on, Lord. It can’t be more difficult than it already is.”
I have this running conversation with God which, until lately, I did not realize was a form of prayer. In recent months, I have felt exhausted, drained, my soul dry. When I remembered to pray, I would recite the ones I memorized as a child – rote, perfunctory, meaningless. I was bored with my prayer life. I had no passion for my usual causes. I was on auto-pilot, pretending to be interested in my family, my friends, my work, but really just going through the motions. But my ever-faithful God was looking out for me. He made it possible for me to go to Tagaytay for the seminar on “Praying Our Heart’s Desire” with Mother Irene. It was just what this tired old soul needed.
God has always been faithful, even when I am not.
Meiling
16 April 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
Two Amazing Women
21 May 2011
I recently visited with two women who have influenced me greatly. They're not exactly the mothers I would have wanted to have; they're not even surrogate moms to me. They are women who have taught me about life and living it well, and love and giving it freely. These women are not saints. They are people with feet of clay, but their hearts are big and golden, and their tents are as large as their hearts. I know there is always room for me there.
Both are elderly and recently widowed. I hesitated to be in touch so soon after the deaths of their husbands, feeling that they might want some solitude, and knowing they have both not been really well. But when I did go to see them, I asked myself why I stayed away so long.
I met Gilda when I was a young editorial assistant at the Chronicle. She came often to deliver her articles to the desk across the room where Eggie Apostol and Doris Nuyda ruled over the women's section. She was beautiful and funny in a loud way. I observed her from behind my desk, fascinated by this older woman who had so much life in her, she seemed young enough to be my contemporary. I thought she could be a friend, but naaah, she was too high up there. Gilda Cordero Fernando was a famous short story writer, and I was just a recent graduate, an English major, but a nothing sill in journalism.
When my editor started giving me writing assignments, Gilda began to notice me, sending word through Eggie that she thought my last article was good, or writing little notes of encouragement urging me to keep up the good work. Soon, she was inviting me to lunch. What an adventure she was! She had this antique shop in Malate she called Junque where we hung out between long meals peppered with girl talk. She was a persistent interviewer -- she wanted to know me inside out. But she was also a generous sharer. She told me about aspects of her life that I didn't realize existed in the generation before mine. She sought my advise and dispensed hers copiously.
She told me that I must continue to write because, she said, I was good at it.
Gilda would come early in the day to my apartment in Teachers' Village and with a guilty smile and her irresistible charm, seek "permission" from my husband to kidnap me for a day. And the girl talk between two women 17 years apart in age would commence, unending until she brought me home at dinner time. Ed was ecstatic about Gilda's interest in me. He told me that when we got old, he wanted me to be like her. I smiled. If he only knew what women really talked about! But I understood what he meant. He didn't want me to grow old.
Because Gilda is Peter Pan, a woman who refuses to grow old. She has re-invented herself several times, her mind racing ahead of everybody's, creating books, literature, fashion, and lately, art, starting trends that have astounded her audience at every turn. Recently, at 81, she mounted an art exhibit that looked like the work of a woman half her age.
At her husband's wake, she told me that someone I introduced her to decades ago had come the day before and re-introduced himself to her as my friend. She wondered what made a ghost from the very distant past, practically a stranger, had come to see her after all these years. But I understood. Gilda is irresistible. He just had to have another fix.
Mafe is my ninang. She was my mother's half-sister who was 12 years old when I was born. It is said that she claimed me from birth, insisted that she should be made my ninang. When I was around six or seven, she and her widowed mother, my grandfather's second wife, came to live with us. Mom had just bought four matching rattan beds for her four daughters -- a luxury in our family of ten where the smaller kids, including myself, slept mostly on mats on the floor, cuddled up to Inay or Nuna, who smelled faintly of sweet tobacco leaves, or shared the stinky blue bed in our parents' room reserved for when we were sick and needed overnight attention.
When Mafe came, I felt I as in the presence of a goddess. Se was ravishingly beautiful, sophisticated and stylish. She dressed in figure-hugging clothes, wore high heels and red lipstick. I thought she was a movie star -- she looked like Marilyn Monroe -- and my brother Gabby and I looked for her picture in the TEX cards we bought daily at the nearby sari-sari store. We could not understand why our beautiful aunt was not included in the constellation of actors featured in those cards.
She had a slew of admirers who came to visit, or fetched her on dates. Some were invited to join the family for lunch. Mafe had a life and wanted to grow up and be her. But I had a problem with her. She got my bed. When she moved into the girls' room, I had to move out -- back to the mat on the floor, or the stinky blue bed. I remember resenting this, but I don't remember what she keeps laughing about to this day -- that I griped about this a lot and when they got married, Tito Chito told me, 'Now, you can have your bed back.'
Mafe is everyone's favorite aunt. All her nephews and nieces feel that we are her favorite. That's because her loving arms extend as far as they are needed. Her generosity is legend and I, like many others, have been blessed by this. But my relationship with Mafe goes beyond my material needs or hers. We are truly steadfast, trusting friends. Cuddled in her over-sized bed in Foster City, driving around Eden in her golf cart, or having a sumptuous meal in a restaurant, we have shared our life stories, talking, weeping, laughing out loud, teasing, being silly, or seriously giving and seeking advice. We have bonded as women who love, trust and respect each other -- which is for me, a rare gift from another generation.
Mafe is all love. She may be cantankerous and bratty at times, for she is undeniably a spoiled girl, but I don't know anyone else who has her capacity to love.
Seeing them both shortly after they were widowed, I found them to be less self-absorbed than I expected recent widows to be. Gilda, still ravishing at 81, didn't skip a beat, picking up from our last merienda together, she teased, scolded, advised, flattered, charmed, like she has always done. And Mafe jumped right back into our old intimacy, sharing feelings, shedding tears and dissolving into laughter, like we also have.
I have been blessed with the gift of Gilda and Mafe. I have so wanted to be like them but when God created them, she threw away the mold. They are each one-of-a-kind -- amazing, fascinating, wonderful women. I bask in their reflected glory, grateful for the friendship and affection that have enriched my existence.
I recently visited with two women who have influenced me greatly. They're not exactly the mothers I would have wanted to have; they're not even surrogate moms to me. They are women who have taught me about life and living it well, and love and giving it freely. These women are not saints. They are people with feet of clay, but their hearts are big and golden, and their tents are as large as their hearts. I know there is always room for me there.
Both are elderly and recently widowed. I hesitated to be in touch so soon after the deaths of their husbands, feeling that they might want some solitude, and knowing they have both not been really well. But when I did go to see them, I asked myself why I stayed away so long.
I met Gilda when I was a young editorial assistant at the Chronicle. She came often to deliver her articles to the desk across the room where Eggie Apostol and Doris Nuyda ruled over the women's section. She was beautiful and funny in a loud way. I observed her from behind my desk, fascinated by this older woman who had so much life in her, she seemed young enough to be my contemporary. I thought she could be a friend, but naaah, she was too high up there. Gilda Cordero Fernando was a famous short story writer, and I was just a recent graduate, an English major, but a nothing sill in journalism.
When my editor started giving me writing assignments, Gilda began to notice me, sending word through Eggie that she thought my last article was good, or writing little notes of encouragement urging me to keep up the good work. Soon, she was inviting me to lunch. What an adventure she was! She had this antique shop in Malate she called Junque where we hung out between long meals peppered with girl talk. She was a persistent interviewer -- she wanted to know me inside out. But she was also a generous sharer. She told me about aspects of her life that I didn't realize existed in the generation before mine. She sought my advise and dispensed hers copiously.
She told me that I must continue to write because, she said, I was good at it.
Gilda would come early in the day to my apartment in Teachers' Village and with a guilty smile and her irresistible charm, seek "permission" from my husband to kidnap me for a day. And the girl talk between two women 17 years apart in age would commence, unending until she brought me home at dinner time. Ed was ecstatic about Gilda's interest in me. He told me that when we got old, he wanted me to be like her. I smiled. If he only knew what women really talked about! But I understood what he meant. He didn't want me to grow old.
Because Gilda is Peter Pan, a woman who refuses to grow old. She has re-invented herself several times, her mind racing ahead of everybody's, creating books, literature, fashion, and lately, art, starting trends that have astounded her audience at every turn. Recently, at 81, she mounted an art exhibit that looked like the work of a woman half her age.
At her husband's wake, she told me that someone I introduced her to decades ago had come the day before and re-introduced himself to her as my friend. She wondered what made a ghost from the very distant past, practically a stranger, had come to see her after all these years. But I understood. Gilda is irresistible. He just had to have another fix.
Mafe is my ninang. She was my mother's half-sister who was 12 years old when I was born. It is said that she claimed me from birth, insisted that she should be made my ninang. When I was around six or seven, she and her widowed mother, my grandfather's second wife, came to live with us. Mom had just bought four matching rattan beds for her four daughters -- a luxury in our family of ten where the smaller kids, including myself, slept mostly on mats on the floor, cuddled up to Inay or Nuna, who smelled faintly of sweet tobacco leaves, or shared the stinky blue bed in our parents' room reserved for when we were sick and needed overnight attention.
When Mafe came, I felt I as in the presence of a goddess. Se was ravishingly beautiful, sophisticated and stylish. She dressed in figure-hugging clothes, wore high heels and red lipstick. I thought she was a movie star -- she looked like Marilyn Monroe -- and my brother Gabby and I looked for her picture in the TEX cards we bought daily at the nearby sari-sari store. We could not understand why our beautiful aunt was not included in the constellation of actors featured in those cards.
She had a slew of admirers who came to visit, or fetched her on dates. Some were invited to join the family for lunch. Mafe had a life and wanted to grow up and be her. But I had a problem with her. She got my bed. When she moved into the girls' room, I had to move out -- back to the mat on the floor, or the stinky blue bed. I remember resenting this, but I don't remember what she keeps laughing about to this day -- that I griped about this a lot and when they got married, Tito Chito told me, 'Now, you can have your bed back.'
Mafe is everyone's favorite aunt. All her nephews and nieces feel that we are her favorite. That's because her loving arms extend as far as they are needed. Her generosity is legend and I, like many others, have been blessed by this. But my relationship with Mafe goes beyond my material needs or hers. We are truly steadfast, trusting friends. Cuddled in her over-sized bed in Foster City, driving around Eden in her golf cart, or having a sumptuous meal in a restaurant, we have shared our life stories, talking, weeping, laughing out loud, teasing, being silly, or seriously giving and seeking advice. We have bonded as women who love, trust and respect each other -- which is for me, a rare gift from another generation.
Mafe is all love. She may be cantankerous and bratty at times, for she is undeniably a spoiled girl, but I don't know anyone else who has her capacity to love.
Seeing them both shortly after they were widowed, I found them to be less self-absorbed than I expected recent widows to be. Gilda, still ravishing at 81, didn't skip a beat, picking up from our last merienda together, she teased, scolded, advised, flattered, charmed, like she has always done. And Mafe jumped right back into our old intimacy, sharing feelings, shedding tears and dissolving into laughter, like we also have.
I have been blessed with the gift of Gilda and Mafe. I have so wanted to be like them but when God created them, she threw away the mold. They are each one-of-a-kind -- amazing, fascinating, wonderful women. I bask in their reflected glory, grateful for the friendship and affection that have enriched my existence.
Two Amazing Women
I recently spent quality time with two women who have influenced me greatly. They're not exactly the mothers I would have wanted to have; they're not even surrogate moms to me. They are women who have taught me about life and living it well, and love and giving it unconditionally. These women are not saints. They are people with feet of clay, but their hearts are big and golden, and their tents are as large as their hearts. I know that there is always room for me there.
Both are elderly and recently widowed. I hesitated to be in touch so soon after the deaths of their husbands, feeling that they might want some solitude, and knowing they have both not been really well. But when I finally went to see them, I asked myself why I stayed away so long.
I met Gilda when I was a young editorial assistant at the Chronicle. She came often to deliver her articles to the desk across the room where Eggie Apostol and Doris Nuyda ruled over the women's section. She was beautiful and funny in a loud way. I observed her from behind my desk, fascinated by this older woman who had so much life in her, she seemed young enough to be my contemporary. I thought she could be a friend, but naaah, she was too high up there. Gilda Cordero Fernando was a famous short story writer, and I was just a recent graduate, an English major, but a nothing sill in journalism.
When my editor started giving me writing assignments, Gilda began to notice me, sending word through Eggie that she thought my last article was good, or writing little notes of encouragement urging me to keep up the good work. Soon, she was inviting me to lunch. What an adventure she was! She had this antique shop in Malate she called Junque where we hung out between long meals peppered with girl talk. She was a persistent interviewer -- she wanted to know me inside out. But she was also a generous sharer. She told me about aspects of her life that I didn't realize existed in the generation before mine. She sought my advise and dispensed hers copiously.
She told me that I must continue to write because, she said, I was good at it.
Gilda would come early in the day to my apartment in Teachers' Village and with a guilty smile and her irresistible charm, seek "permission" from my husband to kidnap me for a day. And the girl talk between two women 17 years apart in age would commence, unending until she brought me home at dinner time. Ed was ecstatic about Gilda's interest in me. He told me that when we got old, he wanted me to be like her. I smiled. If he only knew what women really talked about! But I understood what he meant. He didn't want me to grow old.
Because Gilda is Peter Pan, a woman who refuses to grow old. She has re-invented herself several times, her mind racing ahead of everybody's, creating books, literature, fashion, and lately, art, starting trends that have astounded her audience at every turn. Recently, at 81, she mounted an art exhibit that looked like the work of a woman half her age.
At her husband's wake, she told me that someone I introduced her to decades ago had come the day before and re-introduced himself to her as my friend. She wondered what made a ghost from the very distant past, practically a stranger, had come to see her after all these years. But I understood. Gilda is irresistible. He just had to have another fix.
Mafe is my ninang. She was my mother's half-sister who was 12 years old when I was born. It is said that she claimed me from birth, insisted that she should be made my ninang. When I was around six or seven, she and her widowed mother, my grandfather's second wife, came to live with us. Mom had just bought four matching rattan beds for her four daughters -- a luxury in our family of ten where the smaller kids, including myself, slept mostly on mats on the floor, cuddled up to Inay or Nuna, who smelled faintly of sweet tobacco leaves, or shared the stinky blue bed in our parents' room reserved for when we were sick and needed overnight attention.
When Mafe came, I felt I as in the presence of a goddess. Se was ravishingly beautiful, sophisticated and stylish. She dressed in figure-hugging clothes, wore high heels and red lipstick. I thought she was a movie star -- she looked like Marilyn Monroe -- and my brother Gabby and I looked for her picture in the TEX cards we bought daily at the nearby sari-sari store. We could not understand why our beautiful aunt was not included in the constellation of actors featured in those cards.
She had a slew of admirers who came to visit, or fetched her on dates. Some were invited to join the family for lunch. Mafe had a life and wanted to grow up and be her. But I had a problem with her. She got my bed. When she moved into the girls' room, I had to move out -- back to the mat on the floor, or the stinky blue bed. I remember resenting this, but I don't remember what she keeps laughing about to this day -- that I griped about this a lot and when they got married, Tito Chito told me, 'Now, yo can have your bed back.'
Mafe is everyone's favorite aunt. All her nephews and nieces feel that we are her favorite. That's because her loving arms extend as far as they are needed. Her generosity is legend and I, like many others, have been blessed by this. But my relationship with Mafe goes beyond my material needs or hers. We are truly steadfast, trusting friends. Cuddled in her over-sized bed in Foster City, driving around Eden in her golf cart, or sharing a sumptuous meal in a restaurant, we have shared our life stories, talking, weeping, laughing out loud, teasing, being silly, or seriously giving and seeking advice. We have bonded as women who love, trust and respect each other -- which is for me, a rare gift from another generation.
Mafe is all love. She may be cantankerous and bratty at times, for she is undeniably a spoiled girl, but I don't know anyone else who has her capacity to love.
Seeing them both shortly after they were widowed, I found them to be less self-absorbed than I expected recent widows to be. Gilda, still ravishing at 81, didn't skip a beat, picking up from our last merienda together, she teased, scolded, advised, flattered, charmed, like she has always done. And Mafe jumped right back into our old intimacy, sharing feelings, shedding tears and dissolving into laughter, like we also have.
I have been blessed with the gift of Gilda and Mafe. I have so wanted to be like them but when God created them, she threw away the mold. They are each one-of-a-kind -- amazing, fascinating, wonderful women. I bask in their reflected glory, grateful for the friendship and affection that have enriched my existence.
Both are elderly and recently widowed. I hesitated to be in touch so soon after the deaths of their husbands, feeling that they might want some solitude, and knowing they have both not been really well. But when I finally went to see them, I asked myself why I stayed away so long.
I met Gilda when I was a young editorial assistant at the Chronicle. She came often to deliver her articles to the desk across the room where Eggie Apostol and Doris Nuyda ruled over the women's section. She was beautiful and funny in a loud way. I observed her from behind my desk, fascinated by this older woman who had so much life in her, she seemed young enough to be my contemporary. I thought she could be a friend, but naaah, she was too high up there. Gilda Cordero Fernando was a famous short story writer, and I was just a recent graduate, an English major, but a nothing sill in journalism.
When my editor started giving me writing assignments, Gilda began to notice me, sending word through Eggie that she thought my last article was good, or writing little notes of encouragement urging me to keep up the good work. Soon, she was inviting me to lunch. What an adventure she was! She had this antique shop in Malate she called Junque where we hung out between long meals peppered with girl talk. She was a persistent interviewer -- she wanted to know me inside out. But she was also a generous sharer. She told me about aspects of her life that I didn't realize existed in the generation before mine. She sought my advise and dispensed hers copiously.
She told me that I must continue to write because, she said, I was good at it.
Gilda would come early in the day to my apartment in Teachers' Village and with a guilty smile and her irresistible charm, seek "permission" from my husband to kidnap me for a day. And the girl talk between two women 17 years apart in age would commence, unending until she brought me home at dinner time. Ed was ecstatic about Gilda's interest in me. He told me that when we got old, he wanted me to be like her. I smiled. If he only knew what women really talked about! But I understood what he meant. He didn't want me to grow old.
Because Gilda is Peter Pan, a woman who refuses to grow old. She has re-invented herself several times, her mind racing ahead of everybody's, creating books, literature, fashion, and lately, art, starting trends that have astounded her audience at every turn. Recently, at 81, she mounted an art exhibit that looked like the work of a woman half her age.
At her husband's wake, she told me that someone I introduced her to decades ago had come the day before and re-introduced himself to her as my friend. She wondered what made a ghost from the very distant past, practically a stranger, had come to see her after all these years. But I understood. Gilda is irresistible. He just had to have another fix.
Mafe is my ninang. She was my mother's half-sister who was 12 years old when I was born. It is said that she claimed me from birth, insisted that she should be made my ninang. When I was around six or seven, she and her widowed mother, my grandfather's second wife, came to live with us. Mom had just bought four matching rattan beds for her four daughters -- a luxury in our family of ten where the smaller kids, including myself, slept mostly on mats on the floor, cuddled up to Inay or Nuna, who smelled faintly of sweet tobacco leaves, or shared the stinky blue bed in our parents' room reserved for when we were sick and needed overnight attention.
When Mafe came, I felt I as in the presence of a goddess. Se was ravishingly beautiful, sophisticated and stylish. She dressed in figure-hugging clothes, wore high heels and red lipstick. I thought she was a movie star -- she looked like Marilyn Monroe -- and my brother Gabby and I looked for her picture in the TEX cards we bought daily at the nearby sari-sari store. We could not understand why our beautiful aunt was not included in the constellation of actors featured in those cards.
She had a slew of admirers who came to visit, or fetched her on dates. Some were invited to join the family for lunch. Mafe had a life and wanted to grow up and be her. But I had a problem with her. She got my bed. When she moved into the girls' room, I had to move out -- back to the mat on the floor, or the stinky blue bed. I remember resenting this, but I don't remember what she keeps laughing about to this day -- that I griped about this a lot and when they got married, Tito Chito told me, 'Now, yo can have your bed back.'
Mafe is everyone's favorite aunt. All her nephews and nieces feel that we are her favorite. That's because her loving arms extend as far as they are needed. Her generosity is legend and I, like many others, have been blessed by this. But my relationship with Mafe goes beyond my material needs or hers. We are truly steadfast, trusting friends. Cuddled in her over-sized bed in Foster City, driving around Eden in her golf cart, or sharing a sumptuous meal in a restaurant, we have shared our life stories, talking, weeping, laughing out loud, teasing, being silly, or seriously giving and seeking advice. We have bonded as women who love, trust and respect each other -- which is for me, a rare gift from another generation.
Mafe is all love. She may be cantankerous and bratty at times, for she is undeniably a spoiled girl, but I don't know anyone else who has her capacity to love.
Seeing them both shortly after they were widowed, I found them to be less self-absorbed than I expected recent widows to be. Gilda, still ravishing at 81, didn't skip a beat, picking up from our last merienda together, she teased, scolded, advised, flattered, charmed, like she has always done. And Mafe jumped right back into our old intimacy, sharing feelings, shedding tears and dissolving into laughter, like we also have.
I have been blessed with the gift of Gilda and Mafe. I have so wanted to be like them but when God created them, she threw away the mold. They are each one-of-a-kind -- amazing, fascinating, wonderful women. I bask in their reflected glory, grateful for the friendship and affection that have enriched my existence.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
27 March 2011
Pathetic.
I spend hours grazing through facebook, lurking in other people's pages and entries, looking...for what? I don't know. There are causes galore in Facebook and I do resonate with some of them. But i can't seem to develop enough interest in them to get angry or sign a statement, or even share them with others. I'm in a funk, a pretty deep one.
Facebook is a drug. It brings you nowhere but it provides some kind of relief, in this case, from the nothingness of a day of no work, no friends, no funds. It is a virtual barkada or even workplace that doesn't even know I exist.
I look for people to chat with but no one really interests me. Or I'm afraid I would be bothering them -- everyone seems so busy, so preoccupied with their own activities and I just sit here looking busy, but really, just hanging out, hoping the angst that's eating me up would go away.
It will be a long summer. I hope something comes up soon. I have several pots on the fire but they haven't bubbled up yet, if they ever do. I need to be occupied. I need to focus on something. I need to earn.
Universe, help. Dad, please do something. I need some good news that will tide this family over. I know it will come. God has never let me down. The jobs do come in and I make the necessary money to keep things going at home. I just have to patient, visualize the solutions, and believe.
I spend hours grazing through facebook, lurking in other people's pages and entries, looking...for what? I don't know. There are causes galore in Facebook and I do resonate with some of them. But i can't seem to develop enough interest in them to get angry or sign a statement, or even share them with others. I'm in a funk, a pretty deep one.
Facebook is a drug. It brings you nowhere but it provides some kind of relief, in this case, from the nothingness of a day of no work, no friends, no funds. It is a virtual barkada or even workplace that doesn't even know I exist.
I look for people to chat with but no one really interests me. Or I'm afraid I would be bothering them -- everyone seems so busy, so preoccupied with their own activities and I just sit here looking busy, but really, just hanging out, hoping the angst that's eating me up would go away.
It will be a long summer. I hope something comes up soon. I have several pots on the fire but they haven't bubbled up yet, if they ever do. I need to be occupied. I need to focus on something. I need to earn.
Universe, help. Dad, please do something. I need some good news that will tide this family over. I know it will come. God has never let me down. The jobs do come in and I make the necessary money to keep things going at home. I just have to patient, visualize the solutions, and believe.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
dumbing down -- 6 march 2010
i have had problems with the spoken word lately. in the middle of a spoken sentence, i have often had to stop to find the right word. and often, i have had to resort to tagalog to express what i mean. i suspect this has had to do with the fact that i've been editing other people's work for too long. i have had to acquire their language, the cadence of their sentences, the idiosyncracies of their expression, in order to edit them faithfully, while preserving the integrity of their manuscript. while this is legitimate professional work, it has had the effect of dumbing me down, so to speak.
i haven't even had the energy to write my own stuff, or to read a book. at the end of the day, my eyes are bleary from editing other people's work, and outside of it, i cannot focus on the printed word for too long. so i've been watching TV sitcoms to relax and fall asleep to.
talk of dumbing down.
last friday, i was invited to a birthday dinner in dasmarinas village. it was karina bolasco's birthday party that she was co-celebrating with linda panlilio. apparently, linda has been running a kind of salon at her place where the literati are welcome and where they feel right at home. not being a literary writer, i had no idea this existed. so when i got the invite saying karina and linda invite you, i had to ask, who is linda?
when i walked into linda's parlor with no idea what to expect, i felt a moment of panic seeing a roomful of people, half of who were new to me. and as the rest of the guests streamed in, i realized i was at a party of literary writers -- poets, novelists with literary awards casually tucked in their back pockets. how many of them had i read? embarrassingly, only one. i hoped that i wouldn't be asked, or that there would be no discussions about the merits of anyone's work!
but the company was warm and accepting, and fun. the conversation was thankfully mundane. i didn't stand out like a sore thumb or wilt like an abandoned plant in a corner. there was enough interest in me, the new person in what seemed like a tight group. feasting on bleu cheese and salami and sangria and wine, they wanted to know about my brother jim, his latest projects, his tussle on tweeter with Gringo. such fan-like concerns from a supposedly erudite group!
i felt right at home. And to my surprise, words -- the right ones -- simply floated seamlessly out of my mouth. i wasn't trying to be smart or erudite, i thought i was just being myself, but that night, i probably found a part of myself that i hadn't been in touch with for a while -- my long-untapped thinking, creative self. it was delightful hearing the verbs, nouns and adjectives tumbling out of my mouth like musical notes. for once in a long long while, i wasn't grasping helplessly for words. It was like breathing pure, clean air.
later in the evening, some of us gathered around a grand piano where the pianist who seemed to know every song ever written, made it easy for even non-singers to reach every note. here i felt i had a slight edge over most of the talent in the room.
i must remember to thank karina for including me in her exclusive guest list. knowing her, i think she must have a plan in her head to rescue me from the dreariness of editing mode and bring me back to the thrill of creativity as I recover my own voice. i have a long ways to go. i still have my editing job that i think i'm good at. but i now know how much i need to nurture that part of me that has been repressed for so long.
now that hard part begins.
i haven't even had the energy to write my own stuff, or to read a book. at the end of the day, my eyes are bleary from editing other people's work, and outside of it, i cannot focus on the printed word for too long. so i've been watching TV sitcoms to relax and fall asleep to.
talk of dumbing down.
last friday, i was invited to a birthday dinner in dasmarinas village. it was karina bolasco's birthday party that she was co-celebrating with linda panlilio. apparently, linda has been running a kind of salon at her place where the literati are welcome and where they feel right at home. not being a literary writer, i had no idea this existed. so when i got the invite saying karina and linda invite you, i had to ask, who is linda?
when i walked into linda's parlor with no idea what to expect, i felt a moment of panic seeing a roomful of people, half of who were new to me. and as the rest of the guests streamed in, i realized i was at a party of literary writers -- poets, novelists with literary awards casually tucked in their back pockets. how many of them had i read? embarrassingly, only one. i hoped that i wouldn't be asked, or that there would be no discussions about the merits of anyone's work!
but the company was warm and accepting, and fun. the conversation was thankfully mundane. i didn't stand out like a sore thumb or wilt like an abandoned plant in a corner. there was enough interest in me, the new person in what seemed like a tight group. feasting on bleu cheese and salami and sangria and wine, they wanted to know about my brother jim, his latest projects, his tussle on tweeter with Gringo. such fan-like concerns from a supposedly erudite group!
i felt right at home. And to my surprise, words -- the right ones -- simply floated seamlessly out of my mouth. i wasn't trying to be smart or erudite, i thought i was just being myself, but that night, i probably found a part of myself that i hadn't been in touch with for a while -- my long-untapped thinking, creative self. it was delightful hearing the verbs, nouns and adjectives tumbling out of my mouth like musical notes. for once in a long long while, i wasn't grasping helplessly for words. It was like breathing pure, clean air.
later in the evening, some of us gathered around a grand piano where the pianist who seemed to know every song ever written, made it easy for even non-singers to reach every note. here i felt i had a slight edge over most of the talent in the room.
i must remember to thank karina for including me in her exclusive guest list. knowing her, i think she must have a plan in her head to rescue me from the dreariness of editing mode and bring me back to the thrill of creativity as I recover my own voice. i have a long ways to go. i still have my editing job that i think i'm good at. but i now know how much i need to nurture that part of me that has been repressed for so long.
now that hard part begins.
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