Study!

Dear Batch 2013,

Get off your lazy asses and study.

And if we ever spent more than 5 minutes together, you will know that I say that with much love. And seriousness.

I know most of you have colleges already (and if you don't, you soon will, don't worry) and for most (if not all) you've all but clocked out already. Sentimentality has taken over your drive to push yourselves one last time, and what the hell, tomorrow's a holiday, so you have time, right?

So, okay, play that video game, watch that YouTube video of people shaking ridiculously, agonize over what she meant when said ____, plan what to pack when you go to Boracay. Go ahead.

But make sure you find time to get off your lazy asses and study.

If there's anything you kids taught me, it's to stick it out, just a bit more, even when it becomes difficult. Especially because it's become difficult. You stick it out and give it your best because, dash it all, it will be worth it.

I mean, that's why I stayed long enough, just to finish the year with you guys. YOU guys helped me do that. So now go and help yourselves do that, too.

So go on. Procrastinate one last time, but pick up a book, a notebook, hell, pretend-group-study with your friends. Because konti na lang. How you, as a batch, handle these last few days, will define who you all are.

And in my book, your definition is awesome(sauce). You hear?

So get off your lazy asses and study.

(I love you.)

Embracing the Unknown

I first fell in love with Narnia when I was about 14. We had a house guest from England who stayed with us for quite a while. When he left, he gave me and my brother books as parting gifts. He gave my brother The Brothers Lionheart (which still remains to be one of his most favorite book of all time—and yes, it's pretty awesome), and me, The Lion, Witch, and the Wardrobe. After reading that book, I devoured all the other books in the series and have read them hundreds of times since.

Most people know how big a Narnia geek I am. In fact, I'd venture to say that that's the biggest kind of geek I am. There's just something about those books that evolve along with me, each time I read them.

I've talked about this before, and when I brought it up then, it was really more in the context of encouraging my kids to move forward to create a bigger and better world as they graduate from high school. But when I looked back on that story, on that image specifically, something else began to click.

//

Anyone who has followed this blog closely will know about the horror that was 2012 for me. More than the events that took place, I see the real misery of that year being borne from the fact that it was so...dark. I hardly knew what was going on and I was mostly sedated, unable to move away from the darkness of continuous sleep.

(Note: If you don't know the characters or the back story of Narnia, the next part might be a little confusing for you. Perfect! Go read the books now! Hehe.)

The Last Battle is the final book in the Chronicles of Narnia. Unlike the other books, this one is much darker. For one thing, Narnia is a changed place. It has been 2500 years since it was created, a lot of animals no longer speak, and the worst of it all, Aslan has not appeared in ages, leading most Narnians to doubt his existence. In his absence, all sorts of stories come to life.

An ape named Shift and a donkey named Puzzle chance upon some lion skin and Shift, being the "smarter" of the two, tells Puzzle (the "dumber" of the two) to wear the lion skin. Shift tells Puzzle to pretend to be Aslan, and through this pretend-Aslan, Shift ends up getting everything he ever wanted. As his desires expand and deepen, Shift's manipulation widens its territory. To increase their profit, Shift goes into an agreement with the Calormene, the people of the neighboring kingdom. Shift basically sells the Narnians into slavery, and he does so because he makes the Narnians believe that "Aslan" told them to do so. The lie becomes even more complicated when Shift tells the people that Aslan and Tash, the violent god of the Calormene, were one and the same. From being "Aslan", Puzzle then becomes "Tashlan."

After much conflict, the "friends of Narnia" (Digory Kirke, Polly Plummer, Peter Pevensie, Edmund Pevensie, Eustace Scrubb, Lucy Pevensie, and Jill Pole—people from our world) finally appear. But by that time, the situation is already dire.

And then finally, the real Aslan comes. But by the time Aslan arrives, many had already begun to doubt his existence. Aslan then erects a doorway and asks the people to go through. Those who believe in Tash and subscribe to what they think is Tash's doctrine of hate and violence, get scooped up by Tash in the darkness beyond the doorway, never to return. Those who believe in Aslan are brought to this vast emptiness. This darkness.

But instead of fear, this darkness brings something else. In the darkness, the people feel safe. The people are then encouraged to go "further up and further in". In the darkness, they take feeble steps to go deeper into the darkness, just because of the promise behind Aslan's missive. And with each brave step up and in, this new place—New Narnia—expands. Soon enough, they begin to see what they were helping create: rolling hills, fresh flowing water, great trees, beautiful sunlight; all because they trusted Aslan to go "further up and further in" into the darkness.

Meanwhile, one of the Calormene is still outside, on the other side of the doorway. Despite the horrific cries that he heard from his countrymen, he bravely steps inside. And he gets into the New Narnia. He didn't stop believing in Tash, he didn't suddenly begin believing in Aslan, but he is able to get in. Why? Because Aslan saw his heart, that what he did in the name of the god that he knew, he did in truth, he did for good. That young man believed in the existence of Good, and though he worshiped a god who had a different name, he still did what was Good. And Aslan saw that.

This is the illustration that came along with that narrative.

Everything about that chapter in the book speaks to me. Trusting in the darkness. Trusting that my God and his promises are greater than the darkness. Taking feeble, fearful steps into the darkness, and knowing that the more I trust that Voice in the darkness, the further in I allow myself to go into that darkness (and thus, the bigger my New Narnia will be). That people of different faiths can come together and not be separated by the names we call our God.

When I told my friend, a freelance tattoo artist, about this story, about the picture that came along with it, he immediately told me he wanted to work on putting that image on me. And who was I to refuse? :)

So aside from having the privilege of having an incredible artist give me this tattoo, aside from him completely getting the story (and all its many aspects), I was also blessed to have been able to spend 2 1/2 hours with a really good friend of more than a decade. He and I were talking about the many ups and downs we've had in the years we've known each other, and looked at where we are now. We talked about Kierkegaard's "leap of faith", while holding on to the "objective uncertainty" (part of my back piece, now that it's complete), how we've both become kinder to ourselves, to the world around us, and how we're more conscious of our roles in the bigger scheme of things.

I'm very blessed that these tattoos of mine have been "gifts", a physical manifestation of how my friends sympathize with me, empathize with me. Whenever I tell my story, their impulse is to capture my re-emergence with an image, and their art stays with me.

Left shoulder, center, then right shoulder, now completed.

On the right shoulder. This picture doesn't do  the art work justice. There are so many
fine details that just speak of my friend's genius. 

But I also think I'll be done with tattoos for a while (you can heave a sigh of relief now, Mama). It's a way for me to end this chapter of my life; much like how chapters in books end with an illustration. This Manila trip has been so cathartic on so many levels, and these tattoos were part of my process of healing.

When I return to Iligan it will be the start of a new chapter. Maybe of a new book, altogether. :)

Thank you to all my friends who were generous with their offers to tattoo me, who listened to my story, and who still continue to love me despite my brokenness. I love you, all. And I shall miss you dearly.

Happy Hurt

And on my last week here in Manila, I find myself booked solid. The trip is winding down, and most of my goodbyes have been said or will be said in the days to come. I can't really say goodbye to everyone I want, but it is what it is. I console myself with the belief that I'll return soon enough.

Yesterday, my friend brought me to a museum, nay, to an experience. It was one of the best, if not the best, museum experiences I've ever had. Words, music, these have always been part of my life, and I've always been involved in them in one way or another. But this sort of art -- sculptures, paintings, installation pieces -- these are the kinds of art that dwarf me.

I was like a kid in a candy store, oohing and aahing at every chance. Here were some of the amazing things we saw.

I regret not having been able to get the names of the artists. I was just so mesmerized by the pieces themselves, and I felt like I had to consume everything in one go. It had been ages since the last time I went to an art museum, and my head was spinning. I was just so overjoyed at everything -- from the pieces to the architecture to the weather (beeeeeyoootiful), to the smiles from complete strangers who were also walking around in awe.

Most thrilling of all was seeing my friend's pieces as part of the gallery in the museum. It was almost surreal. I mean, I've known her since we were 13 years old, so it's an unimaginable kind of joy to see her pursue her passion and have such a rewarding experience. I mean, just look. They're incredible.

The artist and my friend, Steph Lopez. She's extremely
camera shy. Good grief.

And then today, I received a private message from a former co-teacher. She told me how she hoped that I would return someday. I had the heartbreaking task of telling her that that simply will not happen anymore. That beautiful (and painful) era had finally come to a close.

...and when I wrote those words, I realized...I meant them.

Without my knowing it, I had finally made genuine peace with my departure. Naively or not, I believe that it ended just when it should have; in less than favorable circumstances, but it happened.

And you know what? I'm okay. In fact, I'm better than okay. I'm in a really good place now.

It still hurts when I think about how much of myself I gave to that school and how it all came to a grinding halt, but I own that pain now. I own it so much, I get to dictate how that pain will fuel me. The pain tells me that those years were good to me. That pain tells me that I am leaving behind friends, not just colleagues. That pain tells me that my students shall always be with me, wherever I go. That pain tells me, that I still have a heart that beats, that inasmuch as it can feel pain, it is also capable (and ready) to feel joy again. And I have no resentment, no ill-will. Just gratitude.

I am alive, am I not? And so gratitude abounds.

Funny how happiness also hurts. Funny thing, pain. Someone told me that pain was just a pulse, and he was right. It is a pulse that is indiscriminate and infinite. And I gladly accede to the enormity of its silent, steady, meaning-changing, minuscule beating.

But oh, how it hurts. And oh, how it heals.

Before leaving Iligan, I told my doctor how scared I was because I was finally feeling happy. "I almost feel guilty for being this happy. I'm so scared of happiness. I think I've forgotten how to do happy."

And she said, "You don't do happy. You are happy. Never feel guilty for being happy.  Look at the year you just went through. You earned that happiness. You deserve that happiness."

In a week, I shall be gone again, and Manila will once more leave me in tears. But oh, how tears cleanse. And dare I say? It shall be happy tears this time.

Snippets

“Memory believes before knowing remembers. Believes longer than recollects, longer than knowing even wonders.” ― William Faulkner, Light In August

My day is moving on the currency of snippets.

Which is why I shall never be poor.

I had a dream about an event that never happened, and in it, a person with whom "kindness" has never been associated (by me). And yet, in spite of the Dream Me looking at him askance (for I only knew too well that this person was hurtful and, at times, violent), I knew that the Dream Him was kind.

I remembered long, solitary, late night walks to my car after grad class, the paths covered in snow, the world silent. As my tiny feet made footsteps on the cobbled path, hundreds of other footsteps re-emerged; covered by new snow, but unforgotten by the ground. I would wonder who made those steps and why, and no matter how hard I tried, my strides would always fall short of them, my feet would always be too small. Back there, I was always small compared to most, (okay, more so than here), and I felt infantile, futile, and a bit traitorous for being so far away from where I was born. And yet now, when I think "Home", I think "There."

It was a blisteringly hot summer when I returned to Manila, and I was mostly in bed with a bad case of jetlag. I'd wake up with the blinding light prying my eyelids open, a thin film of sweat enveloping me. I'd drift back to sleep, wake up in the dark, and the sheets would be wet. I felt the stickiness of being foreign in my own land, the cling of another world choosing to remain unwashed from me. My clothes still smelled of America, but the rest of the world didn't.

When my baby brother was about 5 he had a bad dream. His room was in the second floor, but I heard him call out in the darkness. "Ate?" said his silent yell. I rushed up the stairs and asked him what was wrong. He said he had a bad dream. I think I sang to him to soothe him, and then when I was about to leave, he asked if we could pray first. His prayer: "God, thank you for waking me up from my dream. And please give Ate some Jollibee, because she was a good Ate tonight. Amen."

My friends and I, on the balcony of some small hotel in Antipolo, looking up at the stars. I don't even remember why we were there as, clearly, the rooftop restaurant was closed. From the lobby down below, Beauty and Madness played and we joked who among us was Beauty, who was Madness. We were young and free and stifled by the constrictions of our youth. And we were Mad. And we were Beautiful. And now we live continents apart. Still Mad. Still Beautiful. (Them more than I.)

Tasting chocolate truffles for the first time.

Late night conversations when the silence of sleep was drowned by the throbbing heartbeats ringing inside my ears. Saying and keeping secrets, not for the first time, yet feeling like it was; like going down from the arc made by the swing, the sensation of falling quickly replaced by the anticipation of going back up again. The pendulum of childhood.

Crying into my pillow so that Lucia wouldn't wake up, but she wakes anyway, and half asleep, she crawls onto my chest, and my subsiding heaving rocks her back to sleep.

Laughing, and really meaning it, for the first time since I crawled into my hole of sadness. Finally seeing the first rays of light.

The pain of 36 hours of labor, the look of concern as the doctor realized that something had gone wrong, the horror in realizing that I had to get a C-section, the disgust at waking up for a split second, seeing my blood everywhere, waking up in muted pain...and then smiling. Because I knew that at last, at last, at last, Lucia had come.

Tasting San Miguel Beer again, after bottles and bottles and bottles of Miller Light. Nothing compares, I tell you. Not a thing.

Venturing out to the sea on my own. The fear and victory of it.

And so on and so forth. For it is only 3:15 pm, folks. More snippets to come.

The day is moving on the current of snippets, behold the things that wash to the shore.

Credo

I believe in Poetry.

I believe in Music.

And I believe that sometimes, there is no line that separates the two.

I believe in Humor.

I believe in Truth.

I believe in Surprise.

And that there is nothing more surprising than the truth, which is why what is funny is often true.*

I believe in Laughter.

I believe in Sadness.

I believe in Tears.

And so laughter leads to tears leads to sadness leads to tears leads to...happiness.

I believe in the Course of Things.

I believe in the Non-Accidents.

And so, accidentally, I am on the course towards Greater Things.

I believe in Kisses.

I believe in Hand Holding.

And so there is an eternity in a kiss, held together by hands (that kiss).

I believe in Dancing.

I believe in Stillness.

I believe in the graceful dance that comes from being still.

I believe in Weaknesses.

I believe in Forgiveness.

I believe in the strength of the weak, and the strength of the weak to still forgive...those who are stronger.

I believe in Secrets.

I believe in Memories.

I believe in Promises.

I believe in the power of memories to forget secrets, the power of promises to remember, the power of secrets to promise.

I believe in Beauty.

I believe in Ugliness.

And the ability of ugly to be beautiful, and beautiful to be ugly.

I believe in My Daughter's Smile.

I believe in God.

And God's existence in my daughter's smile.

I believe in Futility.

I believe in Possibility.

I believe in Dreaming.

For neither shall affect my capacity, my choice, to keep believing.

I believe because I can.

I believe because I should.

I believe because of the absurdity of believing.

I believe because it is absurd.

Unicorns, dragons, windmills, crimson hot air balloons that magically appear in cloudy skies.

Leprechauns, angels, demons, fairies, nymphs, and wind spirits.

God's redemption.

God's salvation.

God's constancy.

God's mystery.

Tattoo is a gift from a friend (for it really was a true gift), after hearing my story.

Because I can.

Because I should.

And so I will.

* Paraphrased from Bill Watterson, creator of Calvin and Hobbes.

The End of an Era

I've finally written my last entry in my old journal.

I've been an avid journal writer since goodness knows when. My Nana gave me my first ever journal, and I haven't looked back. I have volumes upon volumes of journals that chronicle the banal travails of my teenage years (is there anything more disgusting than teenage angst?) and then the onset of adulthood. My journals also hold the poems and short stories that will never be published for reasons only I will know. (Self-Doubt will be a good place to start.)

This particular journal, however, is different. I started writing on it in 2010, on the month I came back from the US, after grad school. It has been witness to my struggles of re-incorporating myself into the Philippine culture, getting back to teaching, looking for our own place to live in, lamenting over not getting pregnant, rejoicing in finding out I was finally pregnant (March 11, 2010 -- best day ever), coasting through pregnancy highs and lows, and then...silence.

For almost two years, I did not write anything in that journal. Somehow, motherhood and teaching and everything else became too demanding. I still blogged, so at least I have some record of that period, but I kind of regret not being able to write all that time.

The first entry after that period of silence was when I felt my depression deepening, when the panic attacks started. And then the rest is a tumultuous account of the awfulness that was 2012. The doctors allowed me to write in that journal during my stay in the basement, and so, needless to say, the entries are...interesting. (Although Devastating would be a good place to start.)

Before letting a journal go to pasture, I usually read its contents from start to finish, in one sitting. This time, I couldn't do it in one sitting. I found too many red flags, instances wherein I should've known things were going to be...bad.

And yet. All that was bad had to happen so that I could be where I am now. Not good, but better. Which is the most I could hope for at this point.

New journal. New...actually...Old Name. New Life. Enough News and Olds to make it...well, the jury's still out on that one. I hesitate to pick an adjective just yet. (But Terrifying would be a good place to start.)

It's the end of a particularly bad era, but then, that crappy era was my crappy era. And so it's still a little hard to let go. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5...there. I've let go. (Not.)

Looking forward to making new memories though. And va-va-voom, it's my first red Moleskine. :) Good omen, I hope.

Here's to Whatever! (Said the girl who is afraid of The Unknown.) Chin-chin.