B_r_a_v_e_s_o_u_l

One’s simple prayer for two.

Tears can’t help but fall now and Lord God, I pray, grant me fortitude to weather this melancholy deep within.

Lord God, I can only watch as they …my two fleeting companions… carefully, gradually leave my well beaten path to walk their own ways, to blaze their own trails, in pursuit of their individual destinies.

No words seem to come, as I desperately utter a prayer for each. No words, absolutely no phrases nor utterances at all. Merely thoughts, merely memories, and merely waning smiles remain. I can sense their exuberance, their joy, their passion for new things yet to come, and I can only respond by crouching in my feeble nest of bittersweet endings, and hopeful beginnings. 

I am overly joyful for them, indeed unspeakably exultant for both, knowing they are far more equipped now, hoping they are far more ahead now, in the race for the prize which is none other than excellence and grounded, proper attitude, in every thing they do, in every small or great thing they may ever choose to pursue….with the clear knowledge that the only valuable reward is not worldly gain but the realization of the fullest potential of their worth.

I’d like to say I did my best Lord, that I run the mile for them, but then again, I can only pause and say I am not really sure now if I did run the much needed EXTRA mile for them. I know only time will tell, but I am confident Oh Lord, that only you will dwell, on such a prayer as simple as “run with them now, run with them for me from now oh Lord, for I can no longer run the race for… and with them.”

And as I keep to my bended knees tonight, may I just thank you for the blessing and the privilege of having been granted such obliging and supportive companions, albeit momentary, as I struggle and keep to my own race… to perfect my purposes… to carry out your desires and your intentions for me, each and every day, right here where you have so graciously planted me. Amen.

A Summer Girl's Tale

Beneath this quintessential vanity and this apparently shallow frivolity... rests a lark utterly grounded unto thee...

 

"Unbounding Me"

Generation Unbound. Prometheus Unbound. A people unbound. These random words bound with the word “unbound” may, for most people, be as I have initially thought them to be – empty random words. But then again, for some, I know they speak of a multitude… of thoughts, of feelings, of dealings and of believing in something worth unbounding.

I speak in riddles I know and by now, I would have lost a considerable number of onlookers. But that is the point. This is not about getting my views across. This is about unleashing this roaring voice within me, this thumping emotion wanting to set itself free. Never mind if it falls on deaf ears. It is no different from “speaking the gospel to ears unwilling to hear.”

There is much talk about “Generation Unbound” these days. And it scares me. It scares me that, as I have heard on that timid all saints day afternoon, I might not find myself at the thick of its unbounding.

The literature reads: “The plan was more ancient than galactic dust. It was birthed in the age before the universe was born. Even before time began. All the darkness in eras past could not tempt its premature unveiling. Because it’s purpose and time were appointed. But now the time has come … the moment has begun. The Generation with the favor of God has risen. Behold. Generation Unbound. It’s happening.”

It is indeed happening. I am witnessing people living up to it, young minds speaking up and getting heard, little voices singing loud and playing music they have never heard  before. Young men with their dreams of books and a learning pub and sacrificing to see it born. It is taking shape right before my very eyes. New Rizals (of which I’d like to write about too) living off “batya’s” in Europe, much like Rizal’s “batya” filled with ice-cold water on his cold study nights several generations ago.

It is about a movement unseen, one that figures only in the hearts of those who hear, unraveling a purpose, but only for those who dare.

It is all too magnificent, all too vivid…. but where am I in the midst of all these?

I paused long and hard. Kept to my knees and to my folded hands, wanting to understand, longing to know, yearning to be called to give meaning to it too. I knocked and I waited, demanding for an answer… only to discover I had held it all along, I have had it on the palm of my hands long ago but I simply refused to see.

How could I have been so naïve? How could I have been so complacent, unworried, unmoving, unresponsive, to the point of being stubborn? Why didn’t I take it to heart when I was much younger, to make a bigger difference, to mark a larger battlefield?

Oh indeed, I am disappointed … but not altogether disarmed. I have found the answer haven’t i? And I’ve still got, on my very same palms, the advantage of time, and definitely of opportunity. I shall not wait, I shall not waiver. I shall strive to keep to the movement, knowing there are trees to be planted, though I may no longer live to enjoy the comforts of their broad and leafy boughs.

I should have been, but that doesn’t mean, I could no longer be, the wind beneath the vanguards’ wings. Eight years summed up was a long time to learn, but eight years can be the same inspiration to unlearn, relearn and to finally …truly learn.

I know I can keep to my role for yet another 8, for I have found my joy, in committing to do unselfishly greater “mores”… that others may be propelled a little further, that others may soar a little more higher.

I speak of the people I serve and how I am aware that they rely on me for certain things only my selfish or unselfish “I” can deliver. In the past, I knew this power I wielded. Yet I was unwilling to yield, thinking I was not to merit anyways. It was all about me and my footing in this race with men.

But now, confident and unbound, I am all too eager to assent, knowing that in my unbounding comes a sense of “fulfilling.” Never mind if I stay in the shadows. The light of my lamp is enough to keep me snug and warm on those cold dragging nights. It is no longer about running with and against men to earn a sense of recognition, or to acquire more knowledge I alone can wield. It is about rising up to the call, knowing I am relied upon, squinting to run a mile more under the scorch of the midday sun, knowing I hold the baton, bending only for an audience of one.

Oh yes, another eight years where I am will no longer be much cause for wallowing, for I too, have finally recognized the prospects of paying things forward, that others may take their cue and pay it even “farther forward.”

I speak of the people who support me, who look up to me and rely on me for direction and purpose in their everyday work. After all, I am no supervisor where I have no squad to commission.

How little I thought of ‘me” in the past, blinded from the reality that I have been-and continue to be- mentored by the stalwarts of my industry. Now, it should no longer be about where this mentoring has catapulted me, but what abundance this has burried inside of me, which I can either choose to fetter or choose let loose. There is much to share because much has been given. And I am humbled.

Oh, my One is nonetheless amazing, much less, amusing. He has cast me in such an inimitable role where I can have the profits of both reaping it upward and paying it forward. There is nothing more ideal, nothing more right, more appropriate than where I am right now. It is not the least behind, nor is it the least ahead. Oh, it is just in time, and with a heart that is just ripe for the calling of` “Generation Unbound.”

=================================================================

An Afterthought….  “Unbounding my friend”

I was about to post this piece when a good friend from my SG circle called to ask if we can meet. Aware that she’s leaving for the US this Saturday, I dropped, without hesitation, everything I was doing and ran to our meeting place. Mosaic Lounge was still close ( at 12:00 noon on a Monday), so we decided to have lunch and coffee somewhere.

We cried and we hugged and we shared stories, realizing this might be our last chance to enjoy such fellowship. Last Monday, much to her chagrin, she was granted a US Visa to work as pre-school teacher in Maryland. She wasn’t the least boastful. In fact, when we met, she had a very heavy heart, burdened about leaving behind her family, her work, her church and her country. She prayed for it not to materialize, she prayed for the embassy not to grant her a Visa if this was not meant to be. But she got one, and she was all too sad about leaving, bittersweet about the whole thing.

I was crying almost the entire time, trying to grasp how strong the unbound movement was spreading like an airborne epidemic. Her US Embassy experience was a truly unbounding story indeed. She told me about how the woman consul was so kind to her, easing her nervousness at the start of her interview. But it was not to last as the consul all too soon got irritated about a question she failed to answer.

“So how much will annual salary be?,” the consul asked.

She was dumbfounded. She honestly did not know. She cautiously threw a figure in the air, and realized it infuriated the consul even more. The consul checked the computer records and rattled off the exact figure, commenting about her wanton ways of not bothering to know important details.

Didn’t she know the cost of living in the is much higher than in the Philippines? Didn’t she realize she has to know how much she needs to fend for her needs? Wasn’t that what this visa application was all about? To earn dollars?

And so she said simply said sorry, for neglecting such a detail, for not bothering to remember what her employer mentioned over a previous phone interview, plainly mentioning it wasn’t about the money…. unable to express, of course, the deep seated impetus inside of her. It wasn’t about the money, it was about living up to the job her sister found for her. It wasn’t about how much she will get in return, it was about how qualified she must have been to even be granted an employer’s recommendation.

But just as she felt energy being drained off her, she saw the consul was once again about to “erupt.”

“So, what will your job be in Maryland?"

“A teacher,a pre-school teacher.”

“Of children what age?”

“From 3 to 7.” (As if she was too dumb not to know).

“And so what is your degree?”

“I am a psychology graduate,” she uttered with much confidence.

“How dare you dream of becoming a teacher in my land when you didn’t even finish education?”

She was totally drained.

“I finished psychology, but my professional experience and my education units have earned me a professional teaching license.”

“But what do your documents reflect?” glared the consul.

She handed her documents nervously, remembering her employer made a huge mistake about that same item. “I’m sorry, but my US documents say I finished education. I have already pointed that out to my employer.”

“See, you mis-represented yourself. They probably hired you knowing you finished education. How can a psychology graduate teach pre-school children?”

“It is not about my degree, ma’am but my passion and my qualifications for the job. I know my heart is in teaching, and so I had been one the moment I finished school. I took up education units so I can earn this much deserved professional license,” she mumbled, as she shoved her professional license down the counter hole.

“It isn’t my degree but my experience and my willingness that makes me a teacher,” she concluded with less than an ounce, if it can be quantified that way, of energy left within her. And with that, she got one more glaring look from the consul before she was instructed to proceed to the cashier’s booth to pay for her passport’s courier service.

Her world was spinning. She was angry. She wanted to shout to the whole world, the US more importantly, that not all Filipinos go there for the dollars. She wanted to scream her heart out, to say she wasn’t heading there (and pardon my language) to “suck-off green money.” It wasn’t about that at all. It was definitely not.

We were both crying when she finished the story. Clearly, -  judging by the consul’s line of questioning – The One has exalted her on two significant values : her motivation … and her purpose for leaving.

It was much clearer to both of us by now. I too was heavy about her leaving. I honestly didn’t want her to leave. I couldn’t imagine SG sessions without her. Crying and hugging still, we said our goodbyes, but not without her thanking The One for an albeit brief, but eye-opening fellowship, between two good friends who will have to be separated for the time being.

I clearly, distinctly remember her parting words to me… “You’ve helped lift my burden, Frances.Now, I know, there are 3 people leaving for the US this Saturday. There is Elsa, the teacher, Elsa the instrument of The One, and Elsa the Filipino. I shall be the best Filipino teacher that school will ever know. I don’t how I will and I don’t know how I can,but I know I should, that I may raise His name and the name of the Filipino.”

And so my friend has been unbound. And so I have, once more, in a span of days, been myself, unbound.

After all...

I’ve had my highs and I’ve had my lows. I’ve had defeats but I’ve also had victories and battles won- those that only I and my One will ever know.

I’ve had days when nothing seemed right… but I simply chose to keep right on.

But the more I think of it, the more it dawns on me that I’ve had more days, when lost as I had always felt I was, and feeble as I had always conceded myself to be, I found “me”, at the descent of each night, retiring to a sense of balance, of calmness and security. Those were days I struggled to keep to my knees though absolutely no words came...though emptiness preceded me.

It was no different from taking a train ride to a destination unplanned, more so unconsidered, but keeping to the ride anyhow, knowing the train is definitely headed somewhere and the trainman is in control.

I have nothing much to show on the outside - no title to boot, no swanky position to stamp on my name cards, no fancy car and stuff to say I have “indeed” arrived. Leave me alongside my colleagues and I’d start looking deprived by time, still wielding a rank I’ve had for the past 8 years, 8 long years of my life. Eight years with no movement has definitely been frustrating and downright unflattering, especially if 7 out of 8, have been nothing but tumultuous rides and unshifting tides.

But last night, I found myself counting victories and uncovering more triumphs than I could consider. My heart was racing fast as my One took me through a journey, back through 8 laborious years, and showed me how I had been reaping conquests, after all, more than what I thought to be defeats… and how I had been harvesting, all along, what I have failed to recognize as diamonds in the dust. They kept on coming, this avalanche of gold, that I had to close my eyes and shut my ears, and beg for all these to stop.

The joy was too much for me to handle, too exhilarating for me to contain within the confines of my undeserving heart. It was ruining and not sustaining me at all. I started exalting myself over my neighbors, and began reveling in conceit knowing my victories were of a different and rare kind.

But I honestly cannot contain my joy. Out of the abundance of my heart, a wellspring of victories is waiting to flow. And much as I’d love to keep this within, I’d much rather see this gushing stream spill out and find its way back to its source. Maybe I can keep some to myself, but just enough to leave me perched on my knees, and sufficient to tide me through my moments of tenacity. I have, after all, a lot more victories to reap.

Victory, after all, is not a flag raised, high above the battlefields, for everyone to see. Victory is, after all, the serenity that calms each battle-ridden heart at the end of each day and the equanimity that resonates through each new day afterwards.

As I inscribe these thoughts onto my journal, a song keeps playing in my mind. For all I know, I may have summoned it from somewhere and bound it close to my heart, knowing I need it, admitting I am still too raw, still too shallow to hold such affluence. And so I re-phrased it to my liking to assume what (I have conceded to be) my feeble self can… for the time being… fathom and embrace…

in my One alone will I glory though i could pride myself in battles won
for i've been blessed beyond measure and by His strength alone i overcome
oh i could stop and count successes like diamonds in my hands
but those trophies could not equal to the grace by which i stand…

in my One alone i place my trust
and find my glory in the power of the cross,

in every victory let it be said of me,
my source of strength, my source of hope is in my One alone

in my one alone will i triumph for only by His grace i am redeemed
and only His tender mercy could reach beyond my weakness to my need
and now i seek no greater honor than just to know Him more
and to count my gains but losses to the glory of my One.

in my One alone I place my trust
and find my glory in the power of the cross,
in every victory let it be said of me
my source of strength, my source of hope is in my One.. and my One, alone.

And so I withdraw into the night, ready for the morrow where there await more battles to be won and more victories to be shared between me and my One.

Crossroads

 

I am so caught at a crossroads. A new, strangely unfamiliar world, where convictions matter most and ambitions matter naught, beckons oh so feverishly in my heart. In this world, only a few are called, and fewer still are ultimately chosen. They are an exceptional kind, a “chosen generation,” profound in their knowledge (which they’d rather call “wisdom”), prudent on our reserves (which I’d readily call “chattels,”), yet abounding with tranquil delight (which we all know as “fulfillment.”)

In this world, as opposed to my world, a task is a calling and project is a burden that compels you to move mountains even while crouched so low or down on your very knees. In this world, there is much freedom and responsibility, not a set of rules, to pursue directions. In this world, only the called, not the driven, make the final cut.

In my current world, a task is a goading to realize commitments and deliver targets. It needs a “driven person” to push barriers for that all important need to broaden markets and produce profits. In my world, resources, all kinds of them, abound; and so are the rewards for what we’ve all come to want as “sweet success.” In this strange new world, a “called person” pushes frontiers to conquer even the thickest of thickets, with nary a resource but one ageless tome, and no tangible rewards lest you call one more fish cast unto the fisherman’s net a worthy recompense for a heart’s humble toil.

This world beckons, summoning me (or maybe not – yet - ) to seek something profound, something deep, not something extensive like knowledge or know-how, or expertise perhaps. It lures me to pursue burdens greater than my own feeble ones and no longer aspirations to gather as much as I was once determined to have.

I sit patiently now, mustering every ounce of strength to stay still …while waiting on my One. It continues to take much of my fortitude and patience I must say, but I trust that in waiting, there is a reaping that is most gratifying….                                                                                                                                                                      

Of Closets Old and New

Closets, in my not so distant past, were nothing but compartments. They were 3 mere walls and a door, built within the confines of yet a larger enclosure of 3 more walls and yes, another door. They were to me basic fixtures in a room much like pockets are necessary accoutrements to a trusty pair of jeans.

Well, I knew then how they aren't ordinary aesthetic elements - how they are built to serve a purpose - a purpose that was for me as basic as storing stuff, down from dirty linens, to starched, immaculately ironed and neatly stacked white shirts.

Yes, embarassing at it was, I did use my "closets" to hide my "dirty linens" ...to keep my "soiled garbs" ...to hold my "tattered garments." I figured they could aptly stash my "defects" away... far and definitely safe from the prying eyes of those lions and gazelles.

Closets were brooding. Closets were taboo. Closets came to symbolize suppressed hurts, useless faults, pointless moments of anger.... meaningless bits of bitterness and resentment ... all until the day I rose above my mediocrity and started to understand closets for what they're really worth - as objects holding much more purpose and reason than hiding things... and nothings... behind closed doors.

I had been avoiding my closets for most of my life. I had been ignoring them, moving about my room, my world - not minding whether they stood meekly at a corner or held an imposing presence against the vastness of a wall. I had learned to set them aside, and at one point, mastered the art of making them vanish at whim.

Today, I step into my closets everyday. In fact, I try to step into as much of my closets as I can within a day, a God-given day.

My closets have evolved into wide open breathing spaces.

My closets have come to typify grounding moments with my One.

My closets have become proverbial pockets of rest where I, in my brokeness and unworthiness, find indescribable solitude ...abounding peace ...ineffable splendour.

My closets have - inexplicably - given me undeserved wings ... helping me rise above life's "superfluous things." And it took only one seemingly unrelated article on "simplicity" to unlock all these... these once rusty, unappreciated fixtures in my life...

=========================================================================

Simplicity by Scott Lyons

Dreams, jobs, busyness, and stuff—we fill our lives with all these things. Some are necessary. Some are not. But as we fill up our lives with more things, life becomes increasingly complex. Life becomes about something it was never meant to be about. And it begins to choke us.

Even so, we continue to complicate things, to compile all that is not life. For every necessary thing in our lives, we add ten superfluous things: ambitions, anxieties, and possessions. Still, simplicity calls to us from quiet forests, purling streams, and rippling ponds; from snow-filled lanes, starry nights, and hushed city streets: Simplify. Get rid of the extras.

Simplicity demands that our televisions, pleasures, cars, and homes remain peripheral. Simplicity demands that our dreams be of obscurity rather than celebrity. Simplicity demands that we relinquish control of our possessions, following Jesus in all things. Simplicity, at its core, is a way of thinking, a way of viewing the world in which we live. It is a state of heart that spills over into our lives. Simplicity calls us, but are we too busy to listen?

Make it your goal to live a quiet life, minding your own business and working with your hands, just as we instructed you before. Then people who are not Christians will respect the way you live, and you will not need to depend on others. (1 Thessalonians 4:11-12)

We can practice simplicity even in the midst of the increasing complexity of life. We can learn to have only one king, only one master.Our lives can overwhelm our life! But there is a levee that withstands the flood: a closet door. Simplicity starts in our closets. We step into them. We close the doors. We breathe. We pray. We pray until we’ve prayed. We don’t stop until the waters have receded and we can see the foundation again. The closet is an opportunity to step out of the ebb and flow of life and to re-center. The closet is a mini-Sabbath within each day.

And the peace of Christ will reign in our hearts.

The discipline of simplicity is worth practicing even for peace alone. To have the necessary separate itself from the superfluous is a blessing in and of itself. But there is yet more to be gained through simplicity. People will see our lives and respect them. In other words, our simplicity will be preaching the Kingdom of God to ears willing to hear. And we will be financially cared for by the work of our own hands.

Perhaps it is time for us to consider whether our lives are too full of essentials to simplify—or simply too full. As all the levees in our lives are breached and buckle, we know that there is safety. There is quietness and confidence behind a (closet's) closed door. There is peace and proclamation that result from a life lived in simplicity.

===================================================================================

I strongly believe that honest prayers, springing from a heart's noble desires, can produce results. Mine did. My prayers (seeking for direction) have brought me to countless rooms with several doors waiting to burst open... leading into closets defying both reason and space.

My fervent prayers now are for more lions and gazelles to step into grounding closets of their own... if only to keep the fort of "One-ness" intact, if only to recognise the levee that is none other ... WHO is none other... than our "ONE."

In a rat race ... no more

 

Every morning in Africa, when the sun comes up, a gazelle awakens and knows it must run faster than the lion, or it will perish. Every morning in Africa, when the sun comes up, a lion awakens and knows it must run faster than the gazelle, or it will go hungry. It doesn't make any difference if you are a gazelle or a lion. Every morning in Africa, when the sun comes up, you had better be running...

...and so i was. I was running, dashing even, panting, throat-dry and completetely parched from tyring to outrun my soul, from stretching my litheness beyond its limits.... and for what? For what was all these exhaustion? For what was all these stumbling and these regaining of gaits? It was all for that ever enticing... yet ever so elusive... senseless finish line.

Oh yes, it was entirely senseless, purposeful I thought until i realized i was chasing down nothing but temporary heights... nothing but empty and oh so nicely packaged delights.

Oh yes, I had been running for as long as I can recall, as soon as I was set free to chart the world in my own terms. And chart I did, diligently at first until I had been charting and navigating for years I told myself I was tired, and torn, and broken, and betrayed ... unable to chart any longer what turned out be a unchartable expanse all along.

It was then when I came to listen to and rely on that inner voice, that which came so faintly at first, but continues to evolve into an inexplicably audible experience I cannot seem to get enough of.

I call that voice the whisper of my ONE, calling oh so incessantly until i succumbed and flourished, until i shut it out one time and almost "perished", and until I allowed it once again to consume me like I had never heard the sound of another in my life.

And so today, that voice has carried me from unchartable territories to boundless borders, it has carried me far above the mornings of Africa, where I watched and cringed as lions and gazelles, much like me, would wake and pick up where they left off the day before.

Still a lot more of us are trapped in this rat of a race. Still a lot more of us continue to fail in this race. If I can, one day, articulate this voice,these whispers from my One which led to a resolve to quit the rotten race, I will.

I wish I could do so now....but I haven't stilled my heart that much, enough to make the silence of my soul speak for itself. Though I continue to stir, I can feel that overwhelming morning of quietness about to consume me...in the fullness of my brokenness.

My Other Self

i haven't seen you much but i have heard things came undone,

and i could see it on your eyes...

someone else has pulled the plug and you were left to analyze.

we made you feel lesser and whispered low,

when only your frailty had been exposed...

...i watched you piece together the dignity that had been crushed,

as you smiled and stood up again.

i sat in silence as you thanked God for brokenness,

and wondered what i would have done.

we questioned your thinking and marveled how

you had found strength in your weakest hour.

because we are all damaged goods,

fragile property....we break reluctantly,

we hurt when we fall... like damaged goods,

aching we find... there's a need for the divine,

but that's the good ... in damaged goods,

oh that's what's good in damaged goods.

damaged goods, erin o'donnell

i had been talking much to my-self lately -- that self that had broken loose and come undone. oh there were countless moments she was inconsolable and i was caught unprepared, not knowing how to comfort her in her moments of woe.

with this song, i came to realize how i was, after all, the weaker one, and she - my other self - was the graceful one ... turning to God in her darkest hours ...accepting her faults ...facing her fears ...conceding to her debility.

by admitting...openly... her obvious frailty and her compounded weaknesses, for recognizing...wholeheartedly...her badly broken entity, she has allowed herself to rest in the solace of an aching child humbled before the greatness of an all-consuming One.

today, i am learning how to come to terms with my other self .... accepting her as the stronger, wiser one ... yielding to her search for meaning and purpose, abandoning myself to her pursuit of a silenced heart and a quieted soul, relinquishing my own selfish and mindless pursuits of temporary heights.

as such, this blog will soon evolve... taking on a new life, from a self-seeking story...into an unfolding chronicle.. of how a badly damaged fragile property, desperately aching for the divine, is taking strides towards a simple pursuit ...a higher purpose.

some stories will have to go, for they speak of weakness more than greatness, and they speak of shallow truths and needless pursuits.

i cannot promise a story of grandness, however, for i have chosen to start my own story of simplicity, of allowing myself to interrupt life in its interruptions and not let life's interrruptions interrupt my search for God's simple, life-saving truth.

until today, i ask myself...why did it take this long for me to understand that it was never about me and my glory ... but HIS, alone?

In his eyes....

 

Oh, I had such an amazing discovery today. It was heartwarming, as it was humbling, when I discovered how beautiful and exuberant the world is in my little enzo's curious eyes. He has such an amazingly candid  view of people and of anything animate and inanimate about him....so unlike the gloomy, almost despondent view from behind my very own lens.

While I capture moments as they are, my enzo captures his with honest fervor, tilting his lens here...and then a little there... if only to give an otherwise mundane moment a refreshing, simply delightful twist.

At Starbucks this afternoon, he politely asked for my digital camera. He warmed up oh so easily, hugging the teeny weeny gadget like he has been a pro all his 7 young years. He only had to learn the "zooming-in-and-out-trick," and then he was snapping away, wryly aiming at his dad, myself, the guard,my coffee....and much to my amusement, himself!

Haha, he is my little boy after all! He takes after me on a lot of things (hopefully, i pray, not my despondency when he grows up), like pouting and keeping mum at some corner when hurt, chattering incorrigibly when excited, passionately argumentative when provoked, and  just recently, carefully perfecting self-portraits when caught in possession of anything with a shutter and a viewfinder!

In his eyes today,  I found my much needed bright beginning.  As he proudly ... and cheerfully.... shared his random little conquests, he taught me something embarassingly plain and simple ... "Here mama, keep only those that are beautiful."

My enzo's right ... One just has to go back to basics - to accept that while we intend to take only beautiful snapshots, there will always be not so beautiful ones... those that can easily be thrown away...that is, if we want them thrown away. We can choose to keep our ugly moments ... the same way we keep the beautiful ones... or we can, without much complication, choose to discard the unacceptable ones in favor of the really good ones.

For my little enzo, the choice was indeed plain and simple ... and much to my surprise ..a remarkably very unceremoniously e-a-s-y one to make.

Non-Entity

on a still silent night, you'll hear my soul

...stirring ...whispering

...yearning ...searching

...muffled

...silenced

...reduced to tacit throbs

...and colourless prisms,

...reflecting no_thing ... embracing no_thingness,

...devoid of thoughts ... wallowing in thoughtlessness.

will the world for once

allow me this

...the bliss

in

bliss...

...the joy

of

joy..

... of non-existence...

... of numbed resistance....

... oh such staunch resolve for a troubled ego.

until today,

this limpid cypher

is a (wanton) nymph no more....

His art of deceit...and my inimitable escape...

Was I (heartlessly) deceived? Maybe, maybe not...I do not know. In fact, I refuse to know! I simply refuse to uncover the truth. I couldn't care less. Ignorance is bliss, I say, though my friends insist complacency is sheer stupidity.

Well, I’d rather be a delighted fool….complacent with her ignorance…than a miserable soul, bawling over inanities, nursing an ego unjustly wronged.

I could have done something to get to the bottom of the stinking fish, but its stench was foul enough to send me back to my world of decent souls, naughty and impish though most of my friends may be. Basta, bahala siya. Problema na niya yon, dba? And absolutely….definitely not mine! It’s not even worth my while.

I would never trade my sanity for mere a mere material possession. Maybe he can, but I can’t!

So, instead of re-acquainting myself with this entity called “deceit,” I go about my usual form of escape…..hanging out at Powerbooks, Fully Booked and Hobbes and Landes .... and tailing my best friend as he goes about scouring the shelves of Music One.

That is when I found for myself yet another tarot deck… The Da Vinci Enigma Tarot. I was like a squirt, jumping up and down, heart walloping wild, when I found the box lying dusty and unnoticed at Fully Booked. Oh, it was such a fabulously wicked find well in tune with the Da Vinci Code Fame, and by coincidence, put together by the same author of my other favorite deck, The Celtic Wisdom Tarot.

But don’t get me wrong. As I always say….. I am into Tarot, but definitely not for divination….or what we call “hula.” Nope, that’s not my thing. That’s precisely why I do not go for traditional tarot decks. Instead, I opt for themed decks that weave charismatic, compelling stories around the cards. My all time favorite remains the Osho Zen Tarot, which draws upon the wisdom of Zen in tapping the language of one’s inner self.

At Powerbooks, I finally got “The Zahir,” Paolo Coelho’s latest masterpiece. I had been craving for the hardbound copy for the longest time but was too busy working, partying…and hurting. What luck therefore when I learned it was marked down, substantially, from its intro price. Call it an ignorant fool’s luck, but I was indeed, I believe, being rewarded justly by the heavens.

At Hobbes and Lands I decided against finally acquiring the Bop It Extreme. I tried it once and I was obsessed. Or maybe not….or not that yet….because I still had the will to say “not this time girl, not this time (in the certainty that someday some good friend will hand it as a gift….hahaha!).

At Music One, my best friend announced he was buying me any CD I fancied so it took me a while to choose from among The BeeGees Love Collection (in a really dainty flowery package), the 2006 Grammy Nominations and the BossaNova with 2 CDs of chilled Brazilian Soul in a sultry orange box.

After much deliberation (with my inner self…haha!), I wound up with the BossaNova. This choice convinced me that I probably need to pause for a while now, to savour the soft slow music of the soul and to do just what I had been neglecting in favor of trivial pursuits – resoul.

It helped a lot that night, therefore, when eagerly pouring through The Da Vinci Enigma Tarot, that almost everything was hinting towards my need for introspection.

’Everyone’s soul is an enigma waiting to be read. Destiny is not a fixed or fated pathway, but an unfolding blueprint that we each have to discover as we experience life. There is a treasury of gifts within each of us that helps us read the enigma of our unique code. The way we use these gifts and weave them together help determine our ultimate pathway through life. By knowing ourselves, by looking more intently at the reasons why we were born, we discover our unique soul’s signature, becoming more harmoniously aligned with the universe.”

As such, my experience of deceit has gone to the backseat. I have to admit it left me annoyed for days but I have finally decided to leave it behind and completely walk away from all traces of it….unscathed….I fervently hope.

It's criminal

I don't want another heartbreak

I don't need another turn to cry, no

I don't want to learn the hard way

Baby, hello, oh no, goodbye

But you got me like a rocket

Shooting straight accross the sky

It's the way you love me

It's a feeling like this

It's centrifugal motion
It's perpetual bliss
It's that pivotal moment
It’s impossible
This kiss, this kiss (Unstoppable)
This kiss, this kiss

Cinderella said to Snow White
How does love get so off course,oh
All I wanted was a white knight
With a good heart, soft touch, fast horse
Ride me off into the sunset
Baby, I’m forever yours

It’s the way you love me
It’s a feeling like this
It’s centrifugal motion
It’s perpetual bliss

It’s that pivotal moment
It’s unthinkable
This kiss, this kiss (Unsinkable)
This kiss, this kiss

You can kiss me in the moonlight
On the rooftop under the sky, oh
You can kiss me with the windows open
While the rain comes pouring inside
Kiss me in sweet slow motion
Let’s let every thing slide
You got me floating, you got me flying

It’s the way you love me
It’s a feeling like this
It’s centrifugal motion
It’s perpetual bliss
It’s that pivotal moment
It’s subliminal
This kiss, this kiss (It’s Criminal)
This kiss, this kiss

It's the way you love me baby (the way you love me baby)

It's the way you love me darling

It's the way you love me

It's a feeling like this

It's centrifugal motion

It's perpetual bliss

It’s that pivotal moment
It’s subliminal
This kiss, this kiss (It’s Criminal)
This kiss, this kiss

"This Kiss" (Faith Hill) is oh so criminal it has been playing non-stop in my pod - or at least that's how I programmed it to be, with its own playlist loaded with 4 tracks, set to both "shuffle" and "repeat" - harharhar!

Heard my friend belting it out one night and that instant, I was hooked. Not that I was singing it for someone (oh heavens....how I wish) but it just felt so right- the lyrics, the beat and the magic of it all.

It's all about me wanting to be swept off my feet (yet, again.....) but not falling achingly hard afterwards.

It's the stupid & stubborn-hopeless romantic-damsel-in-distress-gone-cynical child in me simply wanting for a white knight, with a good heart, soft touch, fast horse..... oh if such a myth even exists.......... Oh well, i dunno, i guess, it must only be....This Kiss!

....my blurts..... =)

Accidentally meeting Rex

My best pal, Binx, proudly goes about with a naughty smirk these days after our brief, albeit positively charged, encounter with "THE" Rex Navarette Sunday night. In fact, I can hear her this very moment (or more like "imagine" her...as she's in Baguio and I'm in chaotic Makati) boasting about "THE" Rex carrying her luggage up the tricky stairs of Cava at Somerset Olympia....("It's unfair, I'm six years old, this is 50 pounds....harharhar!)

You see, we were lugging around a suitcase and two big plastic bags of "pasalubongs" when two proudly pinoy-looking guys bumped into us at the lobby of Olympia. Fortunately for us, one of them turned out to be a long lost Ford officemate...my good friend John M.

Rude as I always am, I went about chattering until I realized I had to introduce Binx to John and his, "omigosh....REX NAVARETTE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! is your friend??????

"Ey, my two good friends, umm, that's Robert and Gil ....well,me too..... are great "fans" of yours...omigosh....badly brown....oh my....maritess and the superfriends.....omigosh.... i can't believe it.....it is THE Rex Naverette."

So, embarassed as he was with the "starstruck me," he and John offered to carry our load up the stairs. I wanted so badly to go run and call Gil but goodbyes were already dispensed and we needed to go towards the back of the building while they needed to head the opposite way...or so we thought until we found ourselves face to face again by the back entrance of Olympia.

At this point, I went running to the parked Ranger and started shreiking to the top of my voice. "Giiiilllllll, Rex..... Rex...... Rex....... Rex Navarette......with John....you know.....John from Ford????.....!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

This, of course, sent Gil dashing for his life towards us just in time to shake John's hand and Rex's for that matter.

The rest, I guess, is history. The only reason I wanted this story a part of my virtual space is because I never realized i can get pretty "shrieky" and not dumbfounded when startstruck....hmmm, unless you count that time Jericho Rosales visited us at the BMW Pavilion during the 1 Series launch... which was rather.....hhmmm, I'd rather not start.... =)

Farewell Richie....

Yesterday, we went through the difficult process of burying a dear friend. Richie was the jolliest among the group. She was light-heartedly jovial and with such an infectiously bubbly personality, it was almost always impossible not to spot her amongst even the largest of crowds. She was always the persevering one, that friend who was forever attempting to get the group together, no matter if it meant 14 years to the day we neatly stashed our togas away, no matter if it was to be on the last night of her week-long wake.

As I write this post, my heart cries out with guilt more than grief. You don’t grieve the passing of an ebullient friend, instead you bask in the myriad of wonderfully bright memories she had neatly spun unto your life. You remember her meaningful smiles, her cheery disposition, her enjoyable narratives, her hearty laughs…and then you start feeling regret for the many times you failed to do the same for her. I am painfully overwhelmed by this regret and sadly consumed by guilt.

I am probably the worst epitome of a friend, or so I conceded when asked to say my piece the night of her necrological rites. Nervously clutching the microphone, I voiced out how I never went out of the way to check on her, the same she would not miss any of our birthdays, the same way she would call to cheerfully announce a university reunion is underway. She had often reached out, each time as chirpy as a morning bird. I, on the other hand, had often remained stolid, each time only as thankful for the news but always as impassive as a lazy bear.

It was a difficult process indeed, saying goodbye and witnessing the last of her physical presence taking its final resting place. It was a rite totally alien to me, and all throughout the process I was hoping it could also be a symbolic ritual to permanently sealing away deep remorse for the many things left unsaid and for a multitude of actions left unrealized.

It was hard seeing you go Richie, it was tough and equally painful bidding adieu because I knew I never lived up to your notion of a friend. But you have set an example, an illustrious one at that. You have set the bar high for us but I am confident we too can nurture our group’s friendship and camaraderie just the way you would have eagerly continued to do so.

Walk on my friend, and this time, bask in the glory of God’s everlasting amity. We love you dearly and you will always remain in our hearts...our one and only Richie!

For Maria Teresa Muñoz, July 8, 1970 to July 9, 2005.

20 Minutes

To my surpise, I arrive much too early for my interview. Realizing I am more than 20 minutes prompt, I start fumbling for reasons to the seemingly glorious reinvention in my sense of time.

I figure it can only be either of two things. One, I am damn too serious about this opportunity; or two, I am simply bargaining for more time in my new BCBG skirt suit and my ϋber fashionable Enzo Angiolinis.

I would have savored the spare time to pick up where I left off with Iyanla Vanzant, but an almost too condescending woman, with a far more polished pomp than I can ever muster, walks up to me and announces (in unanppealing staccato voice) that the director is ready to see me now.

"I presume you already know the protocol...."

That dragging your expensive pumps has become fashionable these days?

"...that we only give you 20 minutes to say your piece. Satisfied or not, I will have to politely..."

Well you should!

"...thank you for your time and show you the door. It's pretty simple..."

How you make your applicants feel like they're pawns and not individuals?

"...how the company feels an efficient Marketing Manager can market herself in less than 15 minutes, the first 5 minutes, of course, being a simple exchange of standard pleasantries," she concludes as we reach the door of the most techno-modern office I have ever seen in my entire working life.

I take my seat across the director's table, and Ms. Condescending takes hers across mine, a leather planner and an expensive pen on hand.

I start with my pleasantries, carefully stating my name as if I were taking oath in some big, jam-packed auditorium.

I hesitate for a second, then I regain my composure and say, "I understand you need a 20-minute Marketing Manager, Mr. Fuller. I would have loved to take up your 20 minutes but then again I figured my career is all about long-term decisions and laborious debates, about what not to pursue and what not to bother with, about what to even discuss and what to simply dispense with."

"I regret having wasted almost 3 minutes of your time today, but if I may be excused, I'd like to spend the next 20 minutes talking to my agent please. Thank you."

I carefully rise from my seat and head straight for the door. As a last hoorah, I add pageantry to my gait and casually look back to see a hand with a pen suspended in mid-air and a pair of eyes transfixed on my Angiolinis.

Two hours later, in the coffee shop of a five star hotel, I pick up my agent's call on my mobile.

"See me in my office in 20 minutes. I just stepped out of the Bantam Press headquarters.  I have your offer on hand."

"Alright, spare me the protocol and spill the beans."

"Marketing Manager for Commercial Publications. Asking price of more than double your current package under negotiation but all other concessions are in."

"Hmmm...living, learning, light, luminosity. Opportunity, oneness, openness. Vastness, versatility, virtue, victory. Enlightenment, eternity, endurance, endeavor," UNTIL TODAY, Iyanla Vanzant's illustrious work, transports me back to the waiting lounge. Checking my watch, I see I have five more minutes to my 10:00 am interview.

FICTION / FB

Tomes of Late

While I'm at it (the topic of books, I mean), I might as well talk about what has kept me looking forward to July's rainy days and long stormy nights. I have yet to complete my "re-reads" but I have already primed my imagination for those historical thrillers and monumental sagas waiting to jump out of my dusty, all purpose shelf.

1) THE HISTORIAN (by Elizabeth Kostova) - "If your pulse flutters at the thought of castle ruins and descents into crypts by moonlight, you will savor every creepy page of Elizabeth Kostova's long but beautifully structured thriller The Historian." Such goes the Amazon review and already, I can't wait to curl up in my tattered, albeit cozy, sofa for some pulse-racing pages down primeval row.

2) THE ILLUSTRATED DA VINCI CODE (by Dan Brown) - Alright, I'm a late bloomer! It's just that I refuse to ride the hype so I waited this long( at least for the drama to subside) before diving into this century's most controversial masterpiece. Besides denouements are almost always better than pinnacles. At least I get to beat the movie release & saved up enough "moolah" to get me more than a flimsy paperback.

  3) ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF SOLITUDE (by Gabriel Garcia Marquez) - Again, I procastinated here. I was, for the longest time, engrossed in the romance of yesteryears, reveling in such works as A.S. Byatt's Possession, G.G. Marquez' Cholera & Frederick Forsyth's Phantom, so that soon after, I opted for lighter, modern day chic-lit. Now, I'm all set for epic sagas yet again.

4) THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING (by Milan Kundera) - Yes, I dawdle and I linger and I dilly-dally.  I've had this book for quite sometime now but I was actually saving it to cap some really heavy reading I saw coming. True enough, reviews say it's light yet engrossing - just the mid-scale melodrama you need to keep your heart thumping without necessarily diminishing your momentum for excellent prose.

Hmmm, sometimes I begin to wonder if tropical depressions are indeed synonymous to literary passions.

2005.06.03 (reposted)

Re-reads

Am, at the moment, revisiting two invaluable reads - Paolo Coelho's "By the River Piedra I Sat Down & Wept" and Gabriel Garcia Marquez' "Love in the Time of Cholera."

Both books are to me classic novels of love - and of life - lived by those who love with the entirety of their lives. As I am a self-proclaimed hopeless romantic, I take shelter in the magic of distant worlds and of spirited souls groping about in search of their soul's companion. It is in such humble tales that I find refuge, especially when faced with the need to keep up with the surreal demands of a conflicting society.

While I choose to move in and out of my routines with nary a thought of disrupting other busy bees, there are those who simply take it upon themselves to challenge your monotony with unreasonable interruptions. For them, to see you agitated is a mere pleasure - so much so that sometimes, I am led to believe that there are those whose hapiness are spurred only by others' misfortunes.

When such incidents abound, I shut the world out and clam up in my shell like I were a wounded beaver in a dug-up hole. But more than the beav