On Learning Happiness

 Some years ago, my siblings and I created what we would imagine could be the titles to Mama's life story if it were to be filmed.

1. LIFE SUCKS!

2. Luluha Ako ng Dugo

3. Balang Araw, Mararamdaman Nyo Rin

4. I Have 3 Beautiful Children, 4 Adorable Grandchildren...ay, at Handsome Husband Pala. But Life Sucks Anyway!
5.The Many Angst of D

6. Survivor of Own Torments

7. I Live to Grieve

8. Why Me, Lord?

9. I'm Happy Being Unhappy

10. Disgruntled Granny, Sucking the Life of Unsuspecting Relatives 

     The titles were borne out of our frustration with having to deal with a mother who was to my mind pathologically unhappy. It all sounds really irreverent but humor was one way my siblings and I faced what was a pretty regular situation in our family.  It was the weapon we used to prevent our spirits from being weighed down too much. It took quite an effort (at least, for me) to soar away from the doldrums because unhappiness can be quite contagious. To this day, I wonder why none of us siblings ended up seeing the world in this dim light, or in psychological terms, how we managed to construe the world differently from our mother.

            In a Positive Psychology class I attended, our  discussions on Happiness validated my belief that it is how we view our life events, whether we interpret them as positive or negative, that dictates whether we experience happiness or its opposite. This much I gathered from my interactions with significant people in my life who exemplified the descriptions of people who could be considered happy or unhappy individuals. In the article by Sonja Lyubomirsky, it was stated that there are people who appear to have a “talent for happiness” in that they “see the world around them through rose-colored glasses, make out the silver lining even in misfortune, live in the present, and find joy in the little things from day to day.” Then there are people who, “even in the best of times, seem chronically unhappy, peering at the world through gray-colored spectacles, always complaining, accentuating the negative, dwelling on the downside of both the trivial and the sublime, and generally deriving little pleasure from life”.

            

            After going through the list of differences between happy and unhappy people and possible reasons for these differences, I could clearly see to where certain people in my life belonged and how living in separate subjective worlds affected the way they conducted their lives. Like watching scenes of my interactions with them, I now understood how their perception of their worlds differed in the “cognitive, judgmental, and motivational strategies” they used in making sense of their experiences. An eye-opener for me was the qualification that these operations were “largely automatically and without awareness.”

              It was also at this point that I begun to absolve myself of my almost nil record of success at trying to assuage the misery that these people periodically went through. My attempts to remind them of their blessings against the lower rate of failures and deprivations were largely unsuccessful to bring them to a state of happiness. And this led me to feel frustration, anger, and guilt for my inability to bring them to see a different point of view. Plainly stated, I could now forgive myself for these negative feelings if I could believe that there was really nothing I could do if there was no desire in them to change their perceptions.

            But looking back at our family’s experience, I would not entirely discount how life deprivations may contribute to one’s experience of happiness. I couldn’t say that using the objectivist-bottom up tradition to understand happiness is entirely useless. I still think that if Mama had the advantages of a “comfortable income, robust health, a supportive marriage, and lack of tragedy” in her life, she would have been a happier person. And this is where I guess I understand why Mama was the way she was. From her youth to her old age, deprivations, challenges, and tragedies were constantly thrown her way. Relative to how our lives have been so far, I can say we had it better than what she had.  Who can say how we would interpret life events if we had gone through what she did?

               And so when I read again the "movie titles" in the context of what I know now about happiness, I feel a tinge of regret for being harshly judgmental at that time. Maybe how I look at life differently from her, I owe to Mama. When I go back to the past I realize now that I had forgotten how her joy and celebratory spirit during successes and good times had become an inspiration for me to pursue that kind of life for myself. It was her strength to rise above tragedies that instilled that resolve in me not to drown in sorrow in the face of failures and instead turn to my blessings to lift me up.  Could it be I taught myself to be happy by using humor and gratitude as tools to help me through tough times?  If I did, am I teaching the same lessons to my children now? I hope that when they write about me in my old age, they will say they learned happiness from me.    

Rainy November 1

I am awakened by the strong rain. I remember it is  November 1. And I remember Mama and all the rainy All Saints Day we had to bear when we were young.

It begun in 1971, a few days after we had just buried Lola Ipay, who died on October 25, in Loyola Memorial Park . Before that, we had always gone to the cemeteries in San Pablo and Sta. Cruz to visit our dead. I don't ever remember that it rained during those times and having had to do anything taxing except to locate the grave site of our relatives. So when we had to spend Nov 1 that year in Loyola, we were not prepared for what would transpire.

That first time, it took us hours to get to Marikina from the corner of Katipunan, a ride that would normally take 15 minutes. I was amazed to see the serene memorial park of two weeks before transformed into what looked like picnic grounds with big tents dotting the landscape. That evening signaled the beginning of an annual ritual of 1) setting up the tent days before All Saints Day, 2) starting very early in the day but still enduring hours of travel of bumper-to-bumper traffic, then 3) lugging tables, chairs, food, flowers, and candles to the grave site. Whether rainy (and therefore, muddy) or steaming hot, we had lunch under the tent. We usually stayed until late afternoon or until we just had about enough of what was going on all around us. Surprisingly, teen-aged me longed to stay till it was dark because it seemed there appeared to be more action in the evenings. But that never happened because there was the tiresome task of bringing back all our stuff to the car and then bearing the lengthy trip home.

Mama did all that was needed to be done for this event with a passion. I don't know whether it was out of duty or love for our relatives buried there that she made sure everything was in place. Or was it so that she actually enjoyed being there, chatting with the "neighbors", having the whole family there eating food she prepared. I didn't share her enthusiasm for this family outing but had no choice in the matter, of course!

Things changed when in 1988, I had a legitimate reason to stay home. I had to breastfeed our 6-month old daughter who was too young to join everyone in Loyola. Everyone that year included our 5-year old son who managed to get lost in the crowds of thousands. He was later found exploring the sights on his own. It was that year that I decided that I would no longer go to Loyola on November 1. Instead, my family would pay our respects to our dead on November 2, All Souls Day, when traffic was lighter, crowds were sparse, and the placed looked more like a park than a circus.

Mama continued to go to Loyola on November 1 with my cousins until one year, when she was nearing her 80s, she said she preferred to join us. She had, on that day, passed on the baton of the responsibility of taking charge of the Loyola visits to me. 

Today, Mama and Papa are both buried there now and I sort of understand now why Mama was so devoted to her annual rituals. It was her way of professing of her undying love for those who lay there. I guess the tradition (with my modifications) will go on because they make sure that our ties with our loved ones will always remain. Through heat, through mud, through rain!

 

Gregg Shoes

    The topics of our conversation this morning ran from SM Residences to Shoemart of our yesteryears and then to Gregg shoes. Everyone wore them in elementary and high school. Specifically, boys shoes from Gregg's. And when I say everybody, that included even the maarteng colegialas from our convent school.

     I had to wear them every year until in my sophmore year in high school when  I decided I had had enough of them. How I envied some of my classmates who wore girl shoes. And so I pleaded with my mother to get me those kind when we had the annual trooping to the shoe stores before classes opened in June.

     How proud and happy I was with my black patent mary janes!  Theye made me feel so feminine. But alas, after wearing them out only after 2 months or so, I realized the folly of my desire. What a waste of my parents' hard-earned money, I thought.  I also realized how wise and practical my mom (and other moms of my generation) was for choosing to make us wear Gregg (also Ang Tibay) shoes over flimsy girl shoes. It's a lesson that has stuck in my mind through the years such that I find it very difficult even now to buy whimsical shoes. They always have to be something that I can use often and will last me a while or should in a neutral color that will easily match any outfit.

     But only recently has it dawned upon me that there was something else I should have seen in that experience. That my usually frugal mother let me get my way even if it she probably knew that it was not a practical thing to do must mean something. Maybe it was a reward for the child who never asked for much? Or maybe it was an acknowledgement of her trust in my ability to make mature choices? Or maybe just to teach me a lesson on the whys and wherefores of practical shoe-buying and possible pitfalls you get into when you don't believe what your mother says? I don't know.

     Just now,  I realized that that incident must have shaped my way of dealing with persistent demands from my children to do something I am particularly against. In sheer exasperation, sometimes I give in even if I can already predict the sad ending.They have had their share of mary janes in their lives. But always, I believe these lessons have made them into courageous persons who will not be afraid to venture into the untrodden. If they get lost or fail, they will get up and dust themselves off. And then they will write blog entries extolling the virtues of their mother who allowed them to make mistakes so that they would know why they shouldn't make them again. (Hehehe!)

Do they still sell Gregg shoes?

Glee - One Less Bell To Answer / A House Is Not A Home [Feat. Kristin Chenoweth] (HD)

This is the Glee Cast singing "One Less Bell To Answer / A House Is Not A Home"

3 Reading stories

Story #1: Nancy Drew

      I was addicted to the Nancy Drew stories when I was in Grade school. It was my obsession to read all of the books in this collection. Not being able to afford to buy them, I would just wait for my aunt to give them to me as pasalubong from  the US or I would borrow them from my 2nd cousin, Gelene, who had, it seemed to me then, all the titles listed in the back of every volume.

      Not only did I want to read every Nancy Drew adventure ever published, I also wanted to read them as fast as I could every time I got hold of one. So that when I was in the middle of one and it was lights out time,  I would continue reading under the kulambo using a flashlight.

     DId I get to read all of the Nancy Drew books? Nah, adolescence got in the way. I was introduced to other reading fare. And they became my next obsession. (See Story #3)

Story #2: "Ghost Story"

     My aunt who used to live with us before she moved to the US, had a collection of fiction that she kept on two shelves inside her bedroom. When I inherited the bedroom, I sort of inherited her books too. As I was still in grade school, the titles of her books didn't hold much attraction for me except for one entitled "Ghost Story." I don't remember the story now but what I will never forget is how I scared I was while reading the book. So engaged was I in the story that I actually covered myself with a thick blanket to protect me from the ghosts who might come for me! Oh, did I mention that it was the height of summer then? Brrrrrr!

     Years later, when my aunt died, I also inherited her books on Psychiatry. Again, they are of limited use to me who is more into social rather than clinical psychology. But when I look at them in my office cabinet, I remember my aunt whom I loved so much, and I am assured that it is but right that her books are with me.

Story #3: "Mills and Boon"

     It seemed like everyone in my high school class read these romance books. Some classmates went so far as to read them during class, risking the ire of teachers if it were discovered that behind the opened textbooks were the hard-to-put-down pocket books. And so not wanting to be left out, I joined the fun. Now, those stories led me into the world of poor, naive, lovely heroines initially ignored, but eventually wooed and won by strong, dashing men. I so identified with the ladies that I would be alternately shedding tears or swooning unashamedly while losing sleep (and study hours) over them. Hay, kilig!

     I, of course, knew even at that age that these were just modernized fairy tales. The stuff that never happens in real life! But that didn't stop me from reading every volume I could borrow from a classmate, Chato,  whose mother was a rabid consumer of these tomes. I think I only stopped reading them when it became embarrassing to be still hooked on Mills and Boon books at the ripe, old age of 17. (Much like when I quit bottle-feeding at age 5 because my Kindergarten classmates would have found me such a baby. But that's another story!)

     Yes, I had entered college and it was time for more serious and sophisticated fiction and non-fiction. That would have been in keeping with what the intellectuals in my university would supposedly be reading. Unfortunately, the only things I managed to devote hours to during my college years were the prescribed textbooks and assigned class readings. Alas, only because of my English literature class did I manage to slip in a novel or two.

                                                        ==== O ====

     My obsession with books continue to this today. In shelves at my home, you'll find my collection of fiction books from when I was a child . The non-fiction books occupy shelves in my office. But under my bed is a box and a basket filled with books I have yet to read. Their topics range from the spiritual to the mundane. I have recipe books there along with self-help books and volumes of poetry. Magazines that will help me design and decorate my retirement home abound there too.

      And speaking of retirement... guess what I plan to do then? Why, open and savor all those unread books under my bed, of course!

YouTube - SJCHS Batch 1973

Thanks to the hard work and thoughtfulness of our high school classmate, Evangeline Hernaez-Legasto, we now have a digital copy of our high school yearbook. You're awesome, Ivan!

SJC Chapel Reveries

This is where, as a child, I discovered how it was to be in communion with the Spirit. Entering this place opened a way for me to be close to a Supreme being. I was in awe of Someone so much bigger than me yet the intimacy of the small place seemed to be an embrace from Him who loved me.

Even then, I guess, solitude was something I sought. I found solace in the soft light and the simple beauty of the chapel. I remember now that I would take a few minutes each day to pray like a young girl would. I was so sure that He was always there to listen to me.

The chapel is also where I heard the beautiful singing of the sisters in the late afternoons (Vespers, I think). I would be entranced by the angelic voices wafting from the windows. Those moments would transport me into a state that had me imagining I could be like them. 

And then I grew up!  And would ultimately decide that the sisters' world wasn't for me.

But seeing the chapel again after more than 30 years, it still held me spellbound. Sitting quietly there brought me back to the days when life was pure and simple. Reminding me how good it was when loving God and pleasing him without question was all that mattered.

Pulot at tsaa

    Kanina, nang inuubos ko ang tsaang tinimpla ko at inabot ko ang ilalim na kung saan naipon ang pulot dahil di ko ito lubos na nahalo, di sinasadya kong naalala si Mama. At hindi ito dahil mahilig syang uminom ng tsaa.

    Minsan, tinangka kong alalahanin kung anong mga paboritong ulam at inumin ni Mama noong kam'y bata pa. Wala akong maisip maliban sa mga niluluto nyang mga paborito naming ulam. Ni hindi ko nga maalala kung anong iniinom nya kapag almusal. Hindi naman siguro dahil mga bata pa kami at dahil dito ay walang saysay ang mundo pagkalampas ng mga ilong namin. Si Papa kasi, maliwanang na kape ang pansimula ng kanyang araw at may mga araw na naiisipan nyang uminom ng fresh milk. Dahil ba kaya na wala talaga paborito si Mama? O ipinagkait lamang niya sa kanyang sarili na madalas tikman ang kanyang mga nagugustuhang pagkain at inumin?

     Habang lumalaki kaming magkakapatid, bukambibig ni Mama ang pagtitipid at pag-iipon. Hindi naman ito nakakagulat dahil sa pangangaillangan na pagkasyahin ang maliliit na suweldo nilang mag-asawa sa gastusin ng pamilya. Marami kaming naninirahan sa isang bahay. Maliban sa aming pamilya, kasama namin ang lola ko at ilan pang kamag-anak. Dahil siguro si Mama at Papa lamang ang naninirahan sa Maynila sa kanilang mga kapatid, naging ugali na ng aming mga pinsan na nag-aaral sa Maynila na sa amin manirahan.

    Hindi lang matipid si Mama sa kanyang sarili, pinupuna nya ang mga magagastos na gawi ng ibang miyembro ng pamilya, lalo na si Papa. Lagi nyang sinasabi na kailangang mag-ipon para sa kanilang katandaan. Paano daw kung siya's magkasakit at maospital, kung wala siyang itatago, paano na daw kami? Ayaw daw nyang umasa sa amin sa kanyang katandaan!

    Ang kaisipang ito ay di sinasang-ayunan ni Papa. Galante siya lalo na sa mga taong labas sa aming pamilya. Hindi sya nagdadalawang-isip bumili ng magagastos na gamit! At para siguro mabigyan ng katwiran ang kanyang mga gawi sa paghawak ng pera, sa mga kumpulan namin na di kasama si Mama, madalas nyang pinagtatawanan at pinaparatangan si Mama na kuripot. Kami nama'y nagsasabi na sa sobrang tipid ni Mama at dahil sa pagkakait sa sarili, magkakasakit nga siya. Imbis na gamitin ang pera nya sa pagpapaginhawa, parang hinahanda nya ang kanyang sarili sa kanyang pagdurusa! Sa madaling salita, walang kakampi si Mama sa kanyang paniniwala.

     Hanggang sa umabot na nga sa kanilang katandaan sina Papa at Mama. Sa sunod-sunod na pagkakasakit ni Papa hanggang sa umabot sa kanyang kamatayan, naging matingkad ang usapin kung saan kukunin ang mga panggastos dito. Merong pension at medical priviileges si Papa mula sa Veteran's na tumustos nang bahagya sa kanyang mga gamot at  pagkakaospital. Kaming magkakapatid ay nagbigay ng lahat ng aming makakaya ngunit ang malaking bahagdan ay galing sa perang naipon ni Mama. Pati ang sariling memorial plan ni Mama na kanyang matiyagang binayaran ng intallment ay siyang ipinagamit kay Papa dahil ang sa kanya (na si Mama rin ang nagbayad) ay pinagamit sa kapatid ni Papa nang ito'y namatay.

       Ngayon, sa pagkakaratay ni Mama dahil sa sari-saring sakit, nababanaagan ko ang saysay ng kanyang paniniwala. Ang kanyang naipon at ang apartments na kanilang naipundar  ni Papa ang siyang pinagkukunan ng pambili ng ilan sa kanyang mga pangangailangan at pagpapatakbo ng kanyang tahanan na kung saan naninirahan ang mga pinsan ko na tumutulong sa kanyang pag-aalaga. Hindi lubusang nakabibigat sa aming magkakapatid ang pag-abot sa pangangailang medikal ni Mama dahil hindi lahat sa amin inaasa ang gastusing ito.

       Kung iyong titingnan, siguro'y parang kaawa-awa si Papa dahil sa kanyang mga huing araw, wala na ang karangyaan na ikinasaya nya noong malakas pa sya. Ang sabi nya'y dapat matikman ang iyong mga pinaghirapan habang ikaw ay malakas pa. Hindi nya inisip ang kanyang katandaan at mga huling araw. Kaya't naitatanong ko sa sarili ko, masaya kaya sya noon dahil hindi naman ito taliwas sa iniisip nyang magiging kalagayan ng kanyang buhay pag ito'y nagtapos na!

       Masaya din nga kaya sa Mama sa kanyang mga araw ngayon na tila walang saysay? Nararansan nya ba ang kaginhawahang dala ng pagtupad sa lahat ng kanyang kasalukuyang pangangailan?

     Sino nga kaya kay Mama at Papa ang tama sa kanilang paniniwala?Alin kaya ang masasabi nating tanda ng karununungan? Ang maging masaya at magpakasasa sa kabataan at maghikahos naman sa katandaan? O ang magkait sa sariling kaginhawahan upang ito'y maranasan naman sa katandaan?

     Ako siguro, maglalagay lamang ako ng sapat na pulot sa inuming tsaa kung kailangan. Hahaluin ko nang husto upang lubos kong malasap ang tamis nito. Mag-iiwan pa ako ng pulot sa sisidlan hanggang makakaya. Ipatitikim ko rin ang pulot sa ibang tao. Pag naubos na ito, pagbubutihin ko ang paraan upang magkaroon ulit ng pulot. Pulot na sisiguraduhin kong matitikman rin ng mga anak ko!

Our Christmas Carol

Five years ago, I won first prize for an essay about Christmas family traditions in a contest sponsored by the Phil. Daily Inquirer. Today, amidst all the frenetic pace of activities which characterize the Christmas season for me and my family, I suddenly had the urge to again share the message of what I had written then. Maybe, I needed to be reminded what this season is all about.









“Rudolp the red nose reindeer,
Had a bery shiny nose
Olop, the oder reindeer
Use to lap and call him names…”

The holidays in my childhood used to be signaled by such Christmas carols sung by the neighborhood kids outside our door. Whenever I would hear the first notes, it was as if a light inside me would be switched on. It was a time of anticipation of greater things to come!

But as my world became a little less innocent, I began to hear their off-key strains of song. The musical notes would, in my cynical, imaginative mind, transform into peso signs! Giving spare change to the urchins was becoming a mindless activity. It was something which said “You’re a nuisance and here’s something to get rid of you.” The coins also seemed to say, “Your singing is not worth it!” So kids would just rush through a poorly performed song and after a phrase or two, would break into “Namamasko po!” Night after night you were punished by discordant singing and you got back at them with the measly coins.

Then I became a mother! Suddenly, I wanted to bring back and preserve for my children the traditions I enjoyed as a child. But how could I recover something that seemed to have been lost? How could I bring back the songs sung from the children’s hearts?

Thus began one of our “new” family traditions. The year it was born, instead of spare change, my children and I gave stubs to the neighborhood children who sang at our door. These, they could redeem for gift bags come Christmas Eve. Each caroler could only get one gift bag so any extra stubs they might have earned could be shared with their siblings or friends.

Every year my children, now 20 and 15, help in decorating and packing the bags. When the carolers come, it is their task to give the stubs and explain what they are for. Come Christmas, the gifts are given with reminders about the reasons for celebrating and a request for prayers.

The neighborhood kids seem to like it as they come back year after year. I don’t know, but the singing sounds better too. Could it be the gift bags? Or is it because we go out and listen to their songs when they come by our door? Is Christmas back at our doorsteps?

On being 51 to her 85

                                                 

     When Mama was 51, I was 17. I was midway through my freshman year in college. Where was she, what was she doing at the stage of her life? Did she have the same concerns about her children which I am going through at present? Did she have doubts about decisions she had made. Was she as uncertain of the future then as I am now?

     I remember being at the crossroads. Feisty and independent yet full of insecurities. Discovering exciting things yet also looking back to the comforts of familiarity. Did I cause her much anxiety? Was she proud of what I was trying to do at that age?

     I also remember that those were the most trying of times. Were her fears more for Papa than for us at that time? (Martial law=incarceration!!!) How did she cope with this crisis? How did we survive?

      It would have been nice to ask her these questions. It would have been enlightening to hear her answers. But her illness prevents her from telling me about the mother she heroically tried to be all these years. Nonetheless, it is great that she continues to teach me life's lessons at age 85!

 (Photo by Gari Buenavista - http://pananaw.multiply.com)

Filipiniana

Our first family portrait for our annual Christmas card taken in our new home

Mama's 80th birthday

These are the slides from the power point presentation shown during her surprise birthday party at Fairchild Cafe.

Memories of my neighborhood in the 60s & 70s

You are of my generation and a certified Quezon City resident if you remember:

1. The Ysmael Steel robot on Espana Extension (now E. Rodriguez Ave.) which seemed to be 100 ft. tall. A joke went this way when I was in high school - "Gusto mo ng summer job? Malaki ang suweldo pero madali ang trabaho. Araw-araw, ipapasyal mo lang yong robot ng Ysmael Steel!" (Oh well, it was funny then!)

2. The Malt Shoppe on Timog Avenue. That was soft-serve vanilla ice cream in a blue paper bowl. You had a choice of different syrups and toppings. My favorite was caramel syrup with nuts!

3. The creek you could cross from the street behind our house to get to Sampaloc Ave. (now Tomas Morato Ave.) Once my yaya picked me up from school and we used this way as a shortcut to go home. I slipped and fell, getting all slimy and wet. Bistado ang yaya! Nagtitipid pala. We walked home when we should taken a ride home.

4. The original tiangge on Morato Avenue. It started out as a flea market selling antiques. The front of the Morato building was transformed into a flea market on Sundays. There were lots of interesting stuff which I couldn't afford to buy but I looked, anyway. Then the range of goods expanded and the parking lot wasn't enough. So some people moved to a vacant lot somewhere in front of the original site. Soon the whole length of Morato would be filled with stalls selling what have you. (One Sunday we even rented a stall to sell blankets. I think we sold one). But after a while, Manoling Morato, the man behind the concept realized he had created a monster (as in monster human and vehicle traffic jams!) and stopped his tiangge in the original site. It would last a few more months until a building was built on the vacant lot. It died but without spawning into various forms and in different locations in the metropolis.

5. Timog Ave. and Sampaloc Ave. without the restaurants, bars, and shops. These streets were pleasant, tree-lined residential areas housing genteel people in large, sprawling bungalows.

6. Vermont's Modiste Supply on the way to Kamuning market. It was a treat looking at the multi-colored threads and buttons, the notions, the odds and ends which made H.E. life more fun than it really was.

7. The original Max's Restaurant on Scout Tuazon St. When all they served was fried chicken. When you could take-out fried balun-balunan (gizzard) and atay (liver) in little paper bags. Yummy! Everyone knew where it was because when people asked directions to my house and I said "malapit sa Max, they never got lost.

Please add your memories to this list!

All Souls Day

Our words immortalized in Ling's work in granite.

We remember our dead today. We look back at the last days but we try to forget all that which caused us doubt, confusion, and pain. We recall how we smiled at the foibles of old age. The scent of tears, we smell when we glimpse once again the last attempts at living.

We forget. We weep. We forgive. And we love forever.





(See http://tibok.multiply.com for Ling's other works )

Did Freddie Join Us?

Seems irreverent to think of Freddie as a moth... small, brown, seemingly inconsequential. Why not a large, grand Monarch butterfly instead? But they said that would have made it hard for him to get inside Kalye Juan and join in our celebration. Oo nga naman!

And come to think of it, that was how Freddie was. A puny-looking, quiet man hiding the National Artist who used his words to portray his anything-but-grand view of the world!

I think he enjoyed our company that night. I think he was mighty proud of all that we had become. Love you, Freddie!

Photo by Fe Muit

Sampaloc Lake

Our childhood memories of this beautiful lake, cold and rushing through every bit of my being. Once again, a picture of a carefree youth when wild hair would not have mattered. When effortless smiles were easy to come by. Alas, they are no more.

But with the lake behind us, Ling and I, we will always be young!

FAITH IS LIKE SWIMMING

Faith is like swimming. If you struggle, you'll sink. If you rest, you'll float. When you pray don't beg or struggle. Simply believe.

I could have written that. Even when I hadn't read this yet, this is what I would always tell people about how I survived year 2000 and other serious personal crises before that.

I have learned that when I struggle, I end up more confused and bedraggled. It is because I want to be in control of things and they end up controlling me. I just sink deeper because I believe that certain things should be done a certain way and realize my folly after only reaching pit bottom. Parang bang nagsasabi sa akin, "Ang tigas talaga ng ulo mo!If you allow yourself to just let things be or heed that silent voice which tells you that there is a better way, you'll get there faster."

And so, I've become more tolerant of changes. I don't get as frazzled when things fall into place as I imagined they would. That's because I believe God has a better plan and I'd better not get in his way!

And this lesson I learned during the times while swimming by myself, I would pause after some strenuous laps and just float and gaze at the sky. The weightlessness and the sight was stupendous and a gift after a really bad day!