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.

Mama and Papa Dearwums

When I think about my childhood, the first thing I remember is music. Mama and Papa met in a choir, and so a big chunk of my life was spent listening to them singing, making music together. I have about 40 godparents, an entire choir. Literally. That should say something.

Being the eldest, I was the one they ferried around to concerts and tours. I remember going from lap to lap of each choir member, all of them taking turns singing to me. I'd look at them during rehearsals either from underneath the keyboard stand, between Mama's legs, or clinging on to Papa's arm (which probably made conducting a little difficult for him, haha!). I'd fall asleep on Mama's lap to songs and laughter.

They started calling me Katinka during the world tour, and so most people who have known me that long (or who know me deeply), call me that. In fact, for the most part, I prefer being called that, especially in recent years, since it hearkens to days when life was safe and full of beauty.

When I was growing up, we'd have endless conversations about music, books, movies, faith, philosophy, family, tragedy, and everything else in between. Papa taught me how following my heart's passion will always be rewarded if I do it in pursuit of pleasing God.

Mama and I have our own language, and so most of the things we "talk" about aren't really uttered out loud. Our bond is more intuitive; most of the things I've learned from Mama, from graciousness, motherhood, partnerhood, womanhood were all passed through osmosis. I look like Papa (mostly), but people always say I look like Mama because she and I have the same expressions and mannerisms.

As a child, whenever I'd have a nightmare, I'd crawl next to Mama, my body finding the space her body has always made room for, and I'd promptly fall asleep. (I did this until I was in college, I kid you not.) Sometimes, when a nightmare was so bad and I'd be unable to move, I'd call out for Papa, and he'd come into my room until I fell asleep.

My brother Paolo and I used to constantly fight growing up, but when it was bedtime, Papa, tired from a whole day of teaching and a whole night of rehearsals would gather the two of us and tell us stories. We had Heeteehot and Hooteehat, shadow figures on the wall, who did all sorts of magical things. Paolo and I would forget about the day's silly fights and fall asleep ensconced in a world made by Papa's imagination.

Mama, on the other hand, would be the one who soothed us, made sure we were lacking in nothing, especially when Papa would be gone for months at a time for tours. While my friends had TVs in their own rooms, we'd only have one, and we'd watch TV with Mama. All the while, she would allow us to poke fun at her when she became overly emotional. (It really is the funniest thing ever.) My panic attacks started when I was 8, and I remember going to her closet to look for her clothes so that I could smell them. It instantly calmed me down.

When Mama was pregnant with my youngest brother, I was thirteen...and had chicken pox. And so I wasn't able to see Mama nor Jerome until he was already a few weeks old. That was hard. To top it all off, I had to spend my 13th birthday sick in bed. Papa used to bring me big bags of Skittles to comfort me (which explains my affinity for Skittles up to now). Jerome was the cutest baby ever, he was a delight to everyone. Up to now, I am honored that Mama trusted me with all the little things that came with having a baby -- changing diapers, preparing milk, feeding him, etc. By the time Lucia had come along, I knew how to do most of those things already.

Through the years, my parents, being human, had their own fair share of hardships. My parents, for all their attempts to shelter me, never really treated me like a baby (oh, but how I was...and still am!...babied).And so, I was never fully unaware of what was happening. They were always open and honest about what they were going through. Seeing how they are now, then, I am even more blessed at how far they've come.

"Oh, you're the daughter of <insert parent's/parents' name(s)>," has always been a refrain growing up, and so for a period, I rebelled against that, thinking that it was imperative to have an identity apart from them.

I thank God that I never succeeded in that.

When I look back now, I see how much I am a product of their greatnesses, their accomplishments. And their weaknesses, their failures. And all the beauty and grace that come with all of that.

Today, they celebrate 33 years together. I've mostly viewed them as parents, but being where I am right now, in my own version of parenthood, at the wake of my recent separation, I see them as individuals. A man and a woman who have spent lifetimes upon lifetimes together, still hopelessly in love, still funnily bickering, still wholeheartedly broken and whole at the same time.

They nursed me back to health by simply being what they've always been to me, with their unconditional love and support, constantly reminding me of God's presence. I could easily become bitter about relationships and marriage, but I find that impossible, seeing how wonderful their marriage is.

And so, Mamadearwums, Papadearwums, on behalf of Paolo and Jerome, we, Mimitoonghee, Oshobowbow, and Uthemoomee, forgive you (for all the mistakes you think you made), we thank you (for all the mistakes you think you made), and we honor you (for those mistakes you think you made, made you human, allowed us to be more forgiving of our selves for our own mistakes). We ask that you never change, that you continue being an inspiration to us and to everyone who has come into your lives.

Happy anniversary. I'd like to say my brothers, sister-in-law, and I (and Lucia!) love you more than you love each other, but that's an impossibility. We come pretty close though, I assure you. God bless you both always.

Heart Songs

This morning, I had to take care of a few things with Lucia's dad, so I got to be with Lucia for a few hours. As soon as the car door opened and she saw me, she yelled, "Mommy!" And then she pointed at herself and said, "Baby!"

Such joy.

/

I spent most of the afternoon working on another project that was graciously given to me. I was tasked to translate several kundimans (Filipino love songs) for an album that a couple of friends of mine are involved in. These aren't just any songs, mind you. These are time-honored classics, using a language that is all too foreign to me (embarrassingly).

It was difficult and humbling. There are so many nuances to the words that are just near-impossible to capture in English. I found myself reading the lyrics on their own first before going on ahead and translating the whole song. (Okay, Google helped. Somewhat.) I had to feel the cadence of the words, the lyricism of each word as it melted into the next. And then I found that I wasn't translating the words, I was translating its message. Being where I am in my romantic life, well, I could tell you that I had no problems talking about loss, desperation, longing, and every nasty (okay, most were beautiful) little bit that comes with love. (Who me? Bitter. Scoff medicine please.)

Behold, an excerpt from Kung Hindi Man by Nicanor Abelardo:

Irog sandaling dinggin ang aking pagtangis
Irog sandaling tunghan ang humihibik
Kung di man nararapat sa iyong dikit
Isang sulyap mo lamang, Aliw na ng dibdib.

I anticipated a lot of difficulty (which I did have), but I wasn't expecting to finish the whole line up in a day. Maybe it was the conduciveness of the environment (I wrote in the studio of my friend who was sculpting beside me the whole time), or the fact that I fell in love with Tagalog (all the way being deathly afraid of it), either way, I'm done with the initial draft.

I fell in love with a language I hardly speak, and when I do speak it, I butcher it to death. I fell in love with days gone by, when love lasted, when utterances of eternal love were mostly true. I fell in love with images of a country I only see in books, from stories from my Nana. I fell in love with the heart of a people who fall magically, tragically in love.

/

When I was still a teacher, this would often be my prayer:

"Thank you for your gift of language, with which we may convey what we mean. But thank you still for the futility of language, that we may appreciate that meaning far outweighs any language we are capable of speaking."

/

My child, who only uttered two words, but whose love -- so enormous that it took away the sting of not being with her -- is so true. So pure.

The struggle to understand and repackage the heart songs of a people who are in danger of extinction from memory. (Live on, live on, ghosts of our pasts! Live on!)

Not having to speak at all, as my friend and I were both ensconced in our own worlds of art.

Finishing the translation, being enthralled by language, and then realizing its futility.

Falling in love with Love -- it's promises, illusions, foolishnesses, hopes, languages, meanings.

/

...Such that this entry is a bunch of seemingly incoherent paragraphs. But you get what I mean.

I Don't Know What To Do With My Hands

Halfway through the plane ride, I was already crying. I held Lucia close, making sure she couldn't see my face. I kept whispering to her, "Be a good girl, okay? You have fun while I'm away. You eat lots. Laugh a lot." As our plane descended, the cabin lights dimmed so that we could see the lights of Manila more clearly.

When I saw those lights, I started heaving, clenching my fists, shutting my eyes, but the tears kept falling.

As we approached the baggage carousel, I saw the sea of people. Several flights arrived at the same time, and there was a massive crowd. And yet, in the sea of unfamiliar faces, I saw a familiar face (which reminded me how small Manila is, despite how large it is...you know what I mean), someone who is very dear to me. I hugged him, not believing my luck. Then I saw another good friend, I hugged her and we cried. And cried. And cried. I was happy to see her, I was terrified to be back. I was relieved to have seen someone whom I knew loved me without judgment. And I was tired of keeping my emotions in. There was a man who was taking pictures of our mini reunion, but I didn't care. Another friend appeared. Rinse, repeat. If only those people knew how much it meant to me to have seen them. It was almost as if the Lord let me see them, to comfort me. To remind me that even in this place of horrors for me, there are people who love me, whom I love.

Lucia's dad picked us up from the airport, and as I was about to leave them, I held Lucia close, looked at her for one last time, and said goodbye.

In the cab ride to my friend's house (where I will stay for the week, while Lucia is with her dad), I somehow managed to stop crying. But I felt like throwing up the entire time. I saw the dirty streets of Manila, the multitude of people, the many changes in the city's landscape (had I really been gone that long?), and just peoplepeoplepeoplepeoplepeople.

As soon as I arrived at my friend's place, she and I hugged, and we both cried. I heaved so badly, I found it difficult to breathe. All she said was, while stroking my back, "It's all right. You're safe now, you're safe now, you're safe now."

My arms still ache from the whole day of carrying Lucia at the airport. Traveling is so stressful for her, and so I had to keep carrying her, keeping her close. Now that she's gone, I don't know what to do with my hands.

It's only for a week, I know. Still. This is the first time I've been away from her since the basement. God bless Lucia's dad who patiently answers every SMS I send. "There's nothing to worry about," he says.

I don't know what to do with my hands.

I'll be meeting up with old friends, touching base with them, saying goodbye. The last time we left for Iligan, we didn't know that we were going to move there, so I took for granted the whole saying goodbye thing. In a way, it's good that I'm back, so I can do the proper thing, and move on.

My friend is a sculptor, so I watch her create. Right now, she's working on a piece that's based on me. It's a figure of a woman with a pouch, like a kangaroo. She's calling it Ma'amsupial.

...And my child is not with me.

I don't know what to do with my hands. I don't know what to do with my hands. I don't know what to do with my hands.

"Balik kayo agad a!" - Nana

Today, the most amazing thing happened. My little princessita, my little mine-mine-mine-child (she actually says that now, dear God), my little first child/apo/apo-sa-tuhod on both sides, actually shared her toy with a newfound friend in church.

Lucia and the little girl, Sam, were running around the parking lot, squealing with glee, taking turns with the toy, holding hands, speaking some language I don't understand. (Sam would break out into Bisaya and English, Lucia in Taglish [Where did she get that kaya?], and yet they both understood each other perfectly.)

When they had to part ways, she didn't throw a fit, she let out a hearty, "Good bye! See you!" and then we went home. Little things like that make me realize that my little baby is slowly -- but surely (huhuhu!) -- growing up.

She's grown leaps and bounds here, developing at a pace I can only marvel at. For one thing, she's huge now. Like, I seriously cannot carry her for long spells anymore. But she's also so...aware of everything. I wonder if she knows we're leaving. She keeps kissing her toys and little objects she's made hers (little figurines, cups, anything). Sometimes she even tucks them in (with a blanket, a throw pillow, or a paper towel) and says good night to them. She keeps going to her usual haunts around the house, playing pretend. She has actual stories in her mind now, and watching her act them out is pure joy.

Last night, I had to put her on a timeout for the very first time. It was difficult because she's just so darned cute all the time (even when she's annoying). It was heartbreaking. But it was also difficult because...I wanted to laugh because she was being so melodramatic about it. [Again, where did she get that? :P] This being her first time, the timeout lasted a little less than a minute. I wanted her to know what a timeout was and for her to know why she had to be on it. She nodded her head afterwards, kissed me to apologize, and graced me with an uneventful night.

Hopefully, when we get to Manila, her routines will stay in place. But if she's going to be anything like me, she'll be looking for the fresh air, the huge garden, the sound of the waves, Nana and Daddy's voices...it'll be really difficult to leave this place.

But it'll only be for a month (in fact, a little less than a month), and we'll be back. All my anxieties have been leading up to this point, and now, instead of wanting to avoid it, I just wanna get it all over and done with. I'm looking at our bags and we're all but finished packing. Hay. I pray that this trip will be fruitful and will be a continuation of the blessings we have received thus far.

Okay, it's not all that bad. I will get to be with friends again. When we left, we didn't know that we were going to settle here, so I kinda took the whole saying-goodbye thing for granted. Now that we know we'll be living here for a while, I'm determined to meet up with as many friends as possible, to say my goodbyes. And, of course, to give the most painful and lasting goodbye that I have to give.

Goodbye for now, Dalipuga. Next time, I'll be writing from Manila (if I get to write at all while there). Hopefully, I'll still be sane there. Let's all cross our fingers shall we?

See you again soon, Paradise!

Excitement, Anxiety, Anticipation, Gah

It's been a while, I know. I've been having a rather difficult week, but at least it seems as if it'll end productively, at least. (Cross your fingers.) The reality of transitioning into this new phase of my life is proving to be difficult, as expected, of course. Still. Difficult. I guess that's why I've been silent. I'd like to keep this blog free from the vitriol that usually comes out of my mouth when angry. (Oh, but the effort to remain prudent! Kill me now.)

In two days, we will be in Manila and I have a ton of things to do. Sorta. I think. I'm overthinking things again, and I'm getting a little overwhelmed with everything I need to do. I've had to take my anti-anxiety meds again recently (I was able to stop them for about two weeks) because of our impending visit. And everything that comes along with it. Everything.

At least I have work coming my way, something that'll keep me involved. And it's creative work, too, so I'm looking forward to it. I love it when these projects fall onto my lap, just when I need them. Also, I'll have some kind of work waiting for me here for when we come back. Nothing major, just this and that to help manage our stuff here, but at least it'll keep me busy.

I'm really looking forward to seeing my friends again. But I'm glad I won't be spending more than just those few weeks back in Manila. It'll take a while for me to find comfort in living there again.

In the meantime, I shall keep these images in my mind to keep me sane. Dalipuga, my darling, we shall be back soon.

T Minus Seven Days

One more week left in paradise.

We're all busy with this and that, the everyday life of paradise has its own share of errands and To Dos. In the last two months, I've come to find comfort in them. Next week, we fly back to Manila and I have to cram all sorts of activities and important meet ups in a month.

And I can't tell you how much this fills me with...anxiety. Oh, sure, I'm excited to see my friends again. In the past two months, close friends have had to satisfy themselves with quick online messages with my reassurances of my well being. I'm looking forward to actually touching base with them. But I'm also filled with dread, being back at the epicenter of where it all begun to unravel for me is not something that is exciting for me. I hope I've healed enough here to be strong enough for the gravity of Manila.

I think I am.

But I'm coming back to Manila a changed person. I don't know how this New Me will take to Manila.

But I'll be okay. I'll find a way to be okay. I think my friends will make it a point to have some sort of meet up with me every day, just so I won't be alone during the day when Lucia's with her dad.

I just hope everything goes smoothly. I hope everything falls into place. I hope whatever needs to be finalized gets finalized. Because as refreshing as these past two months have been, and inasmuch as I've begun to grow some roots here, I know I can't go on with the rest of my life just yet, unless all this is finalized. I'd really like to start my 2013 already. Hopefully all that needs to be settled gets settled. Amicably.

Guh.

I'm Okay!

I am. Just a little busy, sort of. Prepping myself (psychologically, mostly) for our visit to Manila. Fixing legal papers. Keeping up with Lucia.

I'm also a little verbally constipated. But I'm okay. Mostly. I'll write soon. But I'm okay.

Her (Italicized)

Lucia, her yaya, and I will be coming to Manila on January 21 to visit Lucia's dad and his family. While there, I intend to visit my own friends, reconnect with them, belatedly celebrate the holidays, and perhaps settle some legal matters while I am there. I am excited to see my friends but...

...I'm also afraid of relapsing into my depression. Now that January's well on its way, I've been having mini bouts of anxiety just thinking about our return. The proximity to all my triggers is filling me with dread. I haven't been able to sleep well these past few days, and last night, I had a full blown nightmare (but no, not a tsunami nightmare again).

I'll miss the sound of the sea that constantly surrounds me. The air. The birdsongs. The flowers. But mostly, I am anxious about having Lucia be with her. I dare not bring myself to see nor speak to her, ever again (unless painfully necessary), but I know it will be unavoidable for my daughter to have to interact with her. And as a mother, I just want to protect Lucia from all that which broke my spirit, and it pains me that I cannot do that in this instance. Oh, I know Lucia is made of sterner stuff and that she at least genuinely loves my daughter (in her way), but...oh, how can I explain this without sounding like an awful human being? I can't, so I won't. I just...really am so anxious over that.

But it's just for a month. It's just for a while. And then we can go back to our beloved sea. I just wish...but no. 

Never mind. Don't mind me. I'm just rambling. Just my racing thoughts, nothing more.