Posting, post-Lent

In spite of myself, I found my fingers leafing through my CDs and going for my copy of The Madz's "Acclamation", that well-loved compilation of religious hymns ("I Will Sing Forever", "Anima Christi", and "Panalangin sa Pagiging Bukas-Palad" are my favorites), pushing the play button, walking into the porch, sitting on my tiny stool, and falling into reflection at the beautiful strains of the choir's impeccably-blended voices. I was grateful for the quiet that only an early morning can bestow, the mild sunlight, the pause that the world takes come Holy Week.

Even as I have learned, over the years, that religion is in one's heart, or that respect for all kinds of faiths is the right thing to cultivate, or that prayer is best done heartfelt and not through routine and custom, I still found myself pulled in by the impressions of muteness that had embraced my side of the world, saw my much, much younger self lost in a sea of people, staring down at a dusty road peopled by people's shod feet, trailing the heels of a life-sized figure of a Mary Magdalene decked in a deep-blue, bejeweled cassock, the scent of burning candles saturating the air, the drone of prayers and conversation filtered by a warm summer breeze, that younger self walking, walking, feeling the ache in her feet, but trudging on despite the dust in her new sandals, because Mama said to keep walking, and besides, friends (who had decided they would rather be St. Peter's disciples because he was first to go) waited somewhere along the fringes of the church, where there was promise of five-peso hotcakes and softdrinks-in-plastic later, endless chatter on the way home, where Dad and Mom waited, a cup of hot tablea chocolate on the table.

Oh, but how far back it was I had gone. I had not meant to. And I didn't mean to, now, thinking of that peaceful morning when I was pensive and quiet. I didn't mean to look that far back, not with the distance cleaving those two worlds. But I long to cross the chasm. If only time weren't so locked in. I would have jumped, head-on, if jumping meant going back.

What do you know, My father has the makings of a blogger.

A couple of weeks ago, my dad posted this on his Facebook:

The Son Also Rises (With apologies to Hemingway)

After waking up in the morning the father, still with ruffled hair and his maintenance medicine awaiting, immediately pounds the keys of his laptop for his FB...

...while the son, awkward for lack of skill, prepares their breakfast.

The title totally cracked me up. My father has a quirky sense of humor.

=D

Thank God For Mothers

This week promises to be a real grind, as Kim's got the measles and I won't be able to take time off from work so I'll be jetting (I wish!) between the office and Makati Med, and this I'll have to do everyday, until the doctor decides that the little guy is fit to be discharged.

A blessing comes in the form of my mom, who'll be coming here all the way from Bicol, so the little one will have someone watching over him while I'm at work. This has me musing about the cycle of life that my mom usually speaks about: one day, it'll be my turn to do what she's doing, when my kids have kids of their own and grandma Shan'll be on call to watch over their little ones when Mom/Dad can't.

Can't wait for Kimpot to get well. He looks so wawa with those rashes and the discomfort of being sick.

Hang in there, little brother.

We are behind you every step of the way.

My dad

is really something else.

We were texting just this afternoon and I was telling him about my unusually busy (not that it's ever been not busy, just that it's been especially busy) and colorful week at work and he told me that he had just dismissed the foreman of the team of builders working on the new house because said foreman was reporting to work inebriated (which is, come to think of it, ground for termination). My dad is now acting as foreman. I have no idea what it is that a foreman does. But, there.

In my mind, I was, like, sheesh, Daddy, is there anything you can't do?

See, my dad is sort of a jack-of-all-trades, an all-around kind of guy, cosmopolitan, if you will, doing a little bit of this and that and everything else.

I remember being a first or second-grader and seeing the plan my dad had drawn of the house he was having built (which was ours). Awed, I asked him, "Daddy, did you draw this? You're goooood!" Even as a child, I was already a doting fan.

A few years back, when Friendster was still the "in" thing, I remember writing in my profile: "My dad is the one man whom I measure all other men against."

The loot: Erstwhile stage actor, Fisheries grad, one-time teacher, competent banker, talented singer/musician (he sings and plays the keyboards in his rock band and the church choir and he plays the guitar, too), architect/engineer, contractor, real estate broker, interior designer, Ping-pong champ, dancer, Art aficionado, guidance counselor, loving husband to my mom, wonderful, wonderful father to his three proud, adoring kids, and my steadfast saving grace.

Whew.

I told him, "Daddy, you are one tough act to follow."

And he is. He really is.

I don't think any other kind of worry can equal that of a mother's for her sick child.

Thank you, God, for making Kim well.

It's Twilight, That's Why

"And if, by chance, that special place that you've been dreaming of leads you to a lonely place, find your strength in love." -from "The Greatest Love Of All" written by Michael Masser and Linda Creed-

I was raised in fairy tales. From what I could remember, the people around me had always done their best to protect me. I grew up thinking the world a good place and this, perhaps, was what made me fodder for the wolves.

And when I went out on my own, I found out that people and places and things weren't at all as good as I was taught they were.

And so I broke. Into pieces. And I wished that I'd been shown the blacks and the grays as much as the pinks and the whites. I cried and mourned for the self that I saw, scattered in fragments across my eyes. I realized: They were wrong. Love was not all.

But it came to pass that what gathered me back into wholeness was the love that I knew I always had, the love I realized I had never lost, the love that the people who loved me had to show me was there, all along, so that I would find the strength to keep on wanting to be whole.

In the end, it was the belief in goodness which I thought had betrayed me that saved my life, after all.

Dad, Mom, Ma, Earl, Otom, Jackie, Kim, M -- Thank you for the love that keeps me going each day.

I'm so senti today. Been crying at the slightest provocation (like hearing "The Greatest Love Of All" after a million years).

It's twilight pa.
Hay.

Happy Birthday, Mommy

“Youth fades, love droops, the leaves of friendship fall; a mother's secret hope outlives them all.”
-Oliver Wendell Holmes

Christmas Eve

The mass was to start at 10 pm and we were at the Naga Metropolitan Cathedral by 9:30 but apparently, we weren't early enough. We were lucky to get just 2 seats, directly behind the choir. Their singing was magnificent, by the way. I heard they'd bagged championship trophies in two international chorale competitions. I forgot to get their group's name, though, pity.

Kim slept for 3 quarters of the mass so by the time it ended, I had stiff neck and aching limbs as he was sitting--nay, make that sprawled up in my arms and lap. It didn't help that it was extremely warm inside the church and that Archbisop Legazpi's homily was 5 pages long (kiddin', am not entirely sure how many pages there were of it).

Some pictures after the mass:


Christmas is for children-- even the grown ones.
;p

The Kim and I.

Obviously, Kim liked Mommy-La's gift.

This is a stolen shot. Jackie, becoming increasingly camera-shy, escaped from the general hubbub where Uncle Otom was taking a video of the goings-on and went to a corner to open her gifts.

Daddy-Lo and Kim (who is in no way camera-shy).

Happy New Year, all!
;p

I refuse to let this day pass without wishing the world a merry Christmas.

For 8 days now, I have been silently (at times, loudly) berating myself for being stupid enough to forget my cam and phone cables. I've taken loads and loads of pictures, each set with a corresponding blog entry in mind. And then I'd be cursing (myself) under my breath each time I log in and realize, oh yeah, I. can't. upload. the. pictures.

Anyway. I will upload them. I will, I will, I will, soon, soon, soon.

But that is obviously something that will not take the "merry" away from my Christmas. Each holiday season I spend with my family will always be a gift that I'll be opening everyday for the rest of the year, the memories enough to see me through til the next one. Thank God for Family, thank God for the love they bring.

I will leave Naga with a suitcase full of happiness.

I'll be unpacking everyday and know that I won't run out of something to keep me strong, reasons to look forward to tomorrow and the next day, and so on.

I pray that your holidays be filled with love and smiles.

From this little corner of the earth, merry Christmas to the rest of the world.

Happy Birthday, Daddy!

"One father is more than a hundred schoolmasters."
- George Herbert

Happy birthday to the man who's never, in my entire life, ever let me down.

I wish you good health and happiness always!

Home for Christmas

This is my second night here in Naga. It's wonderful to be home, there's such a warm, fuzzy feeling to it. Everything else seems far, far away and once in a while, we do need to be far away from things, to be safe from the anxieties that stalk us, to be out of sight when reality rears its ugly head much more often than we would like it to.



Home should be a haven and that is exactly what my parents' house is, for me.



I feel like a lady going out to lunch with girlfriends. One way, they say, that women can keep their sanity.

My brother as hero

A couple of weeks ago, a flash flood, on the heels of a typhoon, hit Camarines Norte. My brother, Earl, rushed to the scene and spearheaded a rescue operation for the victims. He is DSWD Camarines Norte's Project Development Officer II and I am mighty proud of him for having done such a good job.

Earl is the one wearing the tangerine hooded thingie.

Good looks and compassion rolled into one. lol

Dontcha worry, there's more, dear.

Sign of the times: the Christmas blues

And what do you know, the holidays are around the corner, once more.

This will be my fourth Christmas with HSBC. The big tree, with its silver and blue trimmings, is up again, and is a beautiful sight to behold; the papier mache Santa Claus once more standing beside it, smiling like some benevolent father. Pity I couldn't take a picture of it--our company is so big on security that snapping away in any part of the office premises is in no way allowed. Well, I could get sneaky and... oh, but I'm a good girl. Hope Santa checks off my very long Christmas wish list.



The wind's got a pretty chilly bite to it--was it like this last year, and the year before? I never could remember. I'm down with a bad cold--have been so the past few days. It seems that Christmas is the season to get sick. Lauded to be a time for merry-making, it is, ironically, also the part of the year where some--if not most--people find themselves at their saddest.

Don't the blinding display of lights and the bright, cheery colors blot out the ugliness, the squalor surrounding us? Do the Christmas carols remind us so strongly of childhood and the fact that we are now adults trying our best to fend for ourselves as best we can?

Yesterday, a colleague of mine was looking particularly glum and I, unable to stand people around me being sad, approached him. "Christmas blues?" He nodded. "Thanks for giving a name to it," he said. And I was, like, oops, maybe that wasn't it, maybe I had brought on more gloom. Oh, well, anyway, during the conversation that followed, I inadvertently jumbled up one of my sentences, which brought on a wide grin from him. It felt nice to have made someone brighten up, considering how cynical people of my generation have become; the contagious holiday blues being one sure sign. If only I could play Santa and spread cheer to those who most need it. If only I weren't so prone to gloom myself. lol

Oh, but I'm looking forward to my nine-day-long Christmas Leave! I'm packing up the kids for a visit to Naga and I know--I just know--that this Christmas will be just as grand as the one we had last year.

I can't wait to go home.

Picture from this site.

The Internet was down for close to four days, or so I thought. As it turned out, one of the cables was unplugged. I felt so stupid. I am such a whiz.

*************************************************************************************

On a birthday note, I'd like to greet my very handsome and ultra-smart baby brother, Otom, a happy birthday. He turned seventeen last Friday.




clip art from this site.

Suddenly Homesick

My dad called me earlier to remind me that it was fiesta at home. I was shocked to realize that I had completely forgotten all about it.

I must have been that busy with work and that caught up with my issues.

Oh, but I want so badly to go home.

When I said "fiesta at home," I meant the Peñafrancia festival of Bicolandia.

From THE INTERNATIONAL STUDENT TRAVEL CONFEDERATION:
Peñafrancia Fiesta
A triumphant, water-borne procession carrying a statue of the Virgin is the highlight of Naga City's biggest annual celebration, the Peñafrancia Fiesta. An image of the Blessed Virgin of Peñafrancia travels back to her Basilica on the Bicol River from the Metropolitan Cathedral. The procession is a phenomenal spectacle - the statue bobbing on the decorated boat is surrounded by her devotees and cheered by hundreds of locals. The week preceding the celebration features parades, a sports festival, exhibitions, a regatta and a beauty pageant.


For pictures, click here and here.
For the festival's history, click here.
To find out just how famous this festival is, click here.

It's been ages since I was home for the festivities and I must say that I miss it sorely. Talking to my dad this morning made me feel homesick all of a sudden, wishing badly that I could be back in Naga if only for a few days, re-living my childhood and High School days, when my most serious predicament would be the anxiety that every Math exam brings.

But, hey, I'm digressing. There are no exams during Peñafrancia.

What I will be missing are: the processions and the parades, the food, the food, the food (Daddy said my brother was grilling pork ribs as we were talking), the joyous frenzy shared by the Bicolanos, the expressions of devotion to the Virgin of Peñafrancia, the fairs.

Most of all, I shall miss the sense of belonging and the comforts of home, because every Peñafrancia festival is a reunion between friends and family, a reaffirmation of one's roots, a reminder that one is loved and protected.

Happy Fiesta to my fellow Bicolanos.

My week

I haven't written in a week, so here's an overview:

Monday was exclusive for Jackie and Kim. My department was having a party that same night and my boss and colleagues were texting me to join them, but quality time with the kids came first. We had a grand time, to boot.

Tuesday was boring. So boring, in fact, that I've forgotten what had transpired, or if anything did.

Wednesday's highlight was pep squad practice, which was held in the actual venue where we were to perform this coming Saturday--yikes, it's that soon!

Thursday was a normal, stressful day. This sentence gets me thinking: if stress has become normal, then there must be something wrong.

Friday was spent rushing work deadlines in time for the following week (which promises other deadlier deadlines).

Saturday was...yesterday. And I have four new bruises (a gigantic one on the right knee, a medium-sized one on the left and two small ones on each elbow) to show for the 6-hour pep squad practice that we had.

These bruises are courtesy of the egg rolls, the head stands, the kneeling, and the like. In two days' time, they will turn blue. Next, they'd be purple. My limbs, too, are aching like crazy and a climb up the stairs is proving much harder than it's supposed to be.

But, hey, who's complaining? (If it seemed like I was, I apologize.)We've made so much progress and I think we're more than ready for the performance, which is coming in, um, less than a week's time (pressure, pressure).

And besides, there's something so liberating about dancing and being lifted (we're talking full lifts here, not the cutesy pyramids of high school yore) and being expected to balance yourself and being told not to look down, because looking down increases the gravity and there's nothing but the floor to catch you if you fall. Kidding. Our lifters are very much able and, as one of them said, "don't be scared of falling because if you do fall, one of us is sure to catch you--it doesn't matter how, but we will catch you. And that's a promise."

Today is Sunday.

So, how was your week?
;p

And Jackie is beginning to show signs that she will take after me. In this particular hunt for school shoes, she asked me to buy her pambahay slippers because the ones she had weren't pink and she had to have pink ones. It took her half an hour to decide which pair to buy!

Earl

When my brother and I were small, we'd do what most kids do: fight like cats and dogs. And, like how it is with small children, we'd make up after a teeny short while and go back to playing as if nothing happened. Before that, though, I'd be my usual sumbungera self and tell on my brother to our Dad with a bratty "Daddy, si Earl!"

Earl, though, would do nothing of the sort--a sure sign of guy-ness, even at a young age. I would always be the one crying when we fought. And he would give in once he sees the tears streaming down.

Earl had really nice hair when he was a kid. It was fine and straight and done in a bunot cut, which made him look like a cute little pixie. Add the round eyes, small nose and heart-shaped lips, and the pixie look is complete. He was a cute child, period. Yup, cuter then me. Plus, he was sociable, friendly and diligent, while I was sulky, withdrawn and a señorita.

Portents of things to come, you might say.

Fast forward to today:

Earl (who's two years younger than me) has become my Kuya. He plays the role to the hilt especially with our youngest brother, Otom, and he's doing a wonderful job. He's very mature for his age and has proven himself dependable and level-headed, a complete contrast to my fickle-minded, idealistic self. His scolding (done with lambing, of course), I realize, is just what I need whenever I find myself in the dumps and choose to wallow in my tears instead of dusting myself up and facing whatever it is I have to face. He would talk some sense into my head and then I'd feel better, stronger.

The last time we talked, I found myself feeling immensely better, and laughing at the fact that my brother and I have had a reversal of roles.

The respect would always be there, of course, and the love. The presence of these two have kept us bonded over the years and over the distances. Our parents brought us up in a way that family ties would always come first, not because it is an obligation, but because it is something that is second nature to us. Love each other, our Mom would always say. And don't ever fight over such a shallow thing as money, she would add.

Today is my brother's birthday. He is twenty-six years old (gosh, can you believe that?). I can hardly believe it myself. He used to be six, even sixteen, for goodness' sake.

Time flies awfully fast.

Jackie knows Laura I. Wilder's family tree. She's read LITTLE WOMEN and is currently devouring L. M. Montgomery's ANNE series. She is 8 years old.