Leo Nights

The Power Of One

2008-06-16T17:28:00.001+08:00

One song can spark a moment,
One flower can wake the dream.
One tree can start a forest,
One bird can herald spring.
One smile begins a friendship,
One handclasp lifts a soul.
One star can guide a ship at sea,
One word can frame the goal.
One vote can change a nation,
One sunbeam lights a room.
One candle wipes out darkness,
One laugh will conquer gloom.
One step must start each journey,
One word must start each prayer.
One hope will raise our spirits,
One touch can show you care.
One voice can speak with wisdom,
One heart can know what's true.
One life can make the difference,
You see it's up to YOU!!!
- Anonymous

OFTEN during our lowest moments, we ponder at how insignificant we are in the huge scheme of creation, at how worthless and helpless we feel against the raging tide of hardship and misfortune. Can one so-called life make a difference?

We tell ourselves in periods of philosophical rumination – what am I but a solitary soul, a tiny fragment in a colossal hole, inconsequential and immaterial, passing and fleeting like shadows in the dark?

Indeed, we are, somehow or other. Set amid the vastness of space, we are smaller than a grain of sand. We are lesser than a mote in an eagle’s eye. We come into this world alone, and we go away alone.

But then again, small and alone isn’t really such a lonely place to be. Small and alone, we can do many things. Meaningful things. Priceless things. Momentous things. Things that matter in the greater realm, without which the pieces won’t fit, the picture won’t be complete, the engine won’t move, the music won’t groove.

Because every single being in the universe counts – every single creature has a part to play, every single organism serves a purpose; every single crumb stands for something – a cause, a role, a tag, some value, some meaning. Every single deed happens for a reason; chance or design notwithstanding, instinct or grit aside.

One word can make or break a promise. One promise can fetch a smile. One smile can wipe away a teardrop. One teardrop can soothe a broken heart.

One thing can lead to another. One rainbow can light up a gloomy sky. One love can last forever. One ray of sunshine can do wonders for a slumbering soul.

Not a single bit is useless, rubbish, crap. More so us humans, living and breathing in the likeness and fullness of God.

Every so often, the hackneyed question ‘why am I here’ pummels our consciousness into near dejection and the more confounding conundrum ‘what am I worth’ drives us almost close to the edge. Does anyone care about how I feel, what I’m going through, if I exist at all? The self-putdown can sometimes get to that extreme, admittedly or not, it’s sad.

Yet, one person has the power to do anything and everything that he was meant for, if he believes it and toils at it.

One heroic act can spawn a hero and one hero can make a whole nation proud. One proud nation can spur positive change, if only each person will say to himself that change should start with me.

For in truth, there are no limits to what one pair of hands can do; no boundaries to what one mind can summon; no walls, ceilings and floors to what one burst of inspiration can lead to.

Fairy tales can come true, dreams can get real – soon! Or maybe later – if we treat each morning as the fresh, new day that it is, one day at a time. If we love ourselves, treat us right, remain true to the passion of the moment, yield to the whispers of our soul, and not look at ourselves like the old, worn cliché that we think we have become.

Making It Through The Rain

2008-06-06T18:29:00.002+08:00

Rain is grace; rain is the sky condescending to the earth; without rain, there would be no life. - John Updike

INTO each life some rain must fall, some storms must pass through the dreary night, and laughter must give way to tears for a while.

Into each life some sorrow must creep in, and tribulation comes without warning – like heavy clouds weighing our spirit down, drowning us in a chasm of ambiguity and self-doubt. Darkness casts a long shadow in the ebb and flow of our existence, now and then descending to depths untold while grief unfolds, and our world just stops revolving.

Indeed, life’s cruel turns happen when we least expect them, catching us all too suddenly in a maze of hopelessness and misery, at times too deep and too brutal we don’t really know what hit us, and we can’t extricate ourselves from what we’re in no matter how hard we try.

A loved one passes away, material possessions go up in smoke, a relationship falls apart, a friendship disintegrates, a cherished dream crumbles, fortunes shift so swiftly causing us to lose not only our earthly belongings but our dignity as well, our pride and our self-respect, our sanity even, and our worth as individuals – and we struggle to cope with the dreadful reality confronting us in our face.

Surely as seasons change, upheavals beset us like the plague and our emotions become most vulnerable to the specter of loss, failure, defeat.

We suffer a death in the family and our grief is nearly immeasurable. A parent, a partner, a sibling, a relative, a close friend – their demise leaves an emptiness akin to a huge cavern with no discernible way out, and we desperately cling to memories here and there, weeping over things undone and words that would forever remain unsaid.

We endure the embarrassment of failure, of letting success slip away because of our own making, and we drift aimlessly in space for long stretches of wasted time. Chasing victory in vain can be utterly humiliating, mortifying, self-annihilating; and our beaten ego is beyond mending.

We bear the ignominy of defeat, of losing out in the game of love, life, living; and we are flustered beyond reckoning. Why me? Am I not good enough? Don’t I measure up? Someone else is worthier of one’s affection. Someone else deserves the room with a view. Someone else finished first at the race to the top. Someone else has painted the better, bigger picture. Someone else…

And so we stumble and fall into the mire of abject surrender. We flounder in a state of perpetual agony, of acute denial and senseless self-pity, and all for what? Are we any less of a person if we are only second best? Does that make us of inferior species if the one we love has left us for another? Do we label ourselves a loser if we get crushed in one battle when there are still many wars that lie in wait?

Like rain that nourishes a parched earth, so does suffering strengthen a beleaguered soul.

The weight of all our fears brings us to our knees in meek supplication, and we look up to the heavens for a reprieve, a respite, an unloading. We realize that we can after all seek solace from a Greater Power; that we can reach out, open our heart and cast our burdens upon The One who walks through life with us, if we only make the effort. That we can emerge from it scarred but unbroken, vanquished but unbowed, wiser but not sorry, emotionally toughened and spiritually enriched and physically ready to face the world again, through our own resolve.

Adversity teaches us a thing or two about the stuff we are made of that we didn’t know existed, and our capacity to overcome the odds that we didn’t know we possessed. It allows us to look within ourselves, deep down inside our often superficial selves, and by so doing, recognize where to draw strength and when to draw the line, where to find comfort and when to stop searching for answers, where to give vent and when to say enough is enough, life must go on…

For, indeed, life goes on whether we get back on our feet or stay stuck in our own cradle of nails and thorns. Sooner or later, another storm will pass our way anew and when it happens, are we prepared to steer our ship to safer waters? Do we set sail or do we take cover? Do we drop anchor or do we move on? Do we give in, back down, pull out – or do we hold on, stand firm, push through?

No matter, no one is to blame for the turmoil that we go through every so often in this cycle that we call life. There are no excuses, no alibis. No guarantees they won’t happen again, no reasons why. For as the poet Longfellow famously intoned a long time ago – thy fate is the common fate of all; into each life some rain must fall.

When Love Is Gone

2008-06-03T18:50:00.002+08:00

Ah, when to the heart of man was it ever less than a treason to go with the drift of things to yield with a grace to reason and bow and accept at the end of a love or a season. - Robert Frost

WHAT happens when love dies? When love fades away and leaves the heart torn to shreds? When it runs out of steam and furtively flies out the window?

The world ends. The sun stops shining. The sea stops rushing to shore. Sleep won’t come. The tears won’t dry up. Breathing is difficult. Life sucks. Totally.

When love dies, nothing else matters but the pain we feel inside, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. Our whole being is tattered into a million bits and pieces, like glass shards piercing malleable flesh or sticks and stones breaking brittle bones. And we die a million deaths, as well.

We wrap ourselves in a jarring web of excruciating emotions – anger, despair, self-pity, denial, hatred, jealousy, misery, resentment, bitterness – name it, nothing but the darkest thoughts and feelings inhabit the innermost sanctum of our hopelessly broken existence. We stumble into long spells of weeping and gnashing, and take to the pill or the bottle to make us fall into liberating slumber.

Why did it happen? How could it happen? What went wrong? Where did it all go? Who’s to blame? The questions come like heavy lashes to the psyche, inflicting more soreness to a bleeding gash, heaping more cruelty to a badly battered wound. And the answers never come; they just lay there rooted at the core of our humanity – festering, blistering, burning our fragile egos at the stake.

We sink deeper and deeper into an abyss of our own making. We float in limbo made horrible by our own irrational creation. Logic deserts us, and reason takes a wrong turn. Sanity goes over the edge, and levity becomes a strange word. What if everything spins completely out of control? What if the spirit succumbs, and the only option that dwells in the feeble mind is the painless, spineless way out…

Would it be worth it? Would one person be worth all the aggravation? Why… are they cast in precious, irreplaceable stone? Do they ride on golden chariots and walk the earth in purple robes? So what if they are, if they do?

The trouble with loving someone is that we put them on a pedestal. We make them the be-all of our days and nights that they shouldn’t be. We treat them like the ruler of our lives that they aren’t supposed to be. We take them into our world unconditionally; and when it ends all too suddenly, everything around us crumbles. We fall apart, we drift away, we go astray, we refuse to go on living.

Worse, we blame other people for the madness that we ourselves commit. We point accusing fingers at those whom we perceive to have aggrieved us. We plant the seeds of rancor in our utterly vengeful hearts. We can’t deal with the fact that, if it was a game, we lost it – deservedly or not. And even if others will commiserate with us, they will never be able to fill the enormous void within. Not in a million years.

But then again, maybe it was bound to happen. Maybe it was written in the stars that they were not the right person for us. Maybe someone out there waits somewhere – someone more engaging, still flawed but definitely less aggravating and worthier of our trust. Who knows?

So one fine day, common sense returns and we snap out of it. The rain has stopped. The storm has passed. Look at all the colors now, the sun is out at last. A new song plays in our head. The dark bubble shrouding us has burst. The load is off our chest. We can breathe again.

We forgive, and ask for forgiveness, one way or another. Then we try hard to forget, and to move on. Because love does not keep a record of wrongs. It is patient and kind and is happy with the truth. It does not forever reside in achy, breaky, thorny places. It seeks a new expression in its own unhurried moment; an altogether different level, however one looks at it, this time freer and more meaningful. A tad less vexing and tiresome, a bit more spirited and at ease, gradually nurturing and enriching the soul.

Pain, though, is a necessary evil. It inures us to the possibility of being messed up anew, of committing the same mistakes over and over. Love’s labors make us learn a thing or two about facing up to aggression and hurt, of coping and surviving and emerging out of it in one piece; about thinking while feeling, and not letting pride get in the way of emancipating all the heaviness and spite stifled deep inside.

When love goes, it comes back again and again to turn our lives upside down, inside out – like a fierce cycle of hits and misses, trials and errors, twists and turns, comings and goings, to and fro, hither and thither, yonder and further away. It may take years, or a lifetime, to get over one hump after another – but does it matter? Sooner or later, we might find what we’re looking for – or we might not – but in the final analysis, we are definitely better off for having loved and lost than never having loved at all.

FIRST CRUISE

2007-10-26T16:59:00.000+08:00

On life’s vast ocean diversely we sail ; Reasons the card, but passion the gale. - Alexander Pope

‘IT’S not far down to paradise,’ that hopeful song about sailing goes. ‘And if the wind is right you can sail away, and find tranquility…’

Tranquility, indeed – and joy; the thrill of a new adventure, the giddiness of a first time happening, a gleeful sense of anticipation over a dream vacation come true. Daybreaks and sunsets at sea. Islets glimmering in the horizon. Untainted air. Moonlit evenings. Peaceful mornings. An endless canvas of sky blue and ocean green. Swooning to the rhythm of waves kissing the hull of a beautiful boat bound for… paradise?

Nah, just China. Xiamen, to be exact. But that’s not saying there is no pleasure in the destination. While the boat – Star Cruises’ Super Star Aquarius – is as lovely as ‘love boats’ go, Xiamen is the nearest there is to an oasis of clean and leisurely living in this side of old world enchantment.

But first, the ship. There is something about cruising that makes one equate it in a sense with romance, though, more than anything, one feels a rather curious intimacy with Nature. The milieu appeals to the dreaminess of it all – sounds and sights so far removed from the dreariness of everyday concrete and steel. ‘Love Boat’ – or the notion of it – is indeed altogether a different world!

Traveling by sea has its own fascination. On an airplane, one looks down at the clouds below, at the dots of white on an emerald swathe, at firefly-like flecks under a pretty night sky. But on a ship, one looks up. In wonder and amazement at the beauty of all creation. At the miracle of sun and sea, moon and stars, mountains and valleys, rivers and streams, land and people. And one is reminded of the puniness of man, and the greatness of The One Up There who made everything down here.

To someone taking their very first cruise, SS Aquarius provides just the right dose of initiation to the sea, so to speak. It doesn’t come on as too huge as to get constantly lost in a maze of aisles and cabins, or to be too overwhelmed by its sheer immensity. Neither is it too small as to feel it swaying here and there from restive waters.

Cliché though it may sound, the luxury liner’s three-day, two-night cruise to Xiamen out of Hong Kong, however short it is, affords the stressed-out workaday struggler the chance to get away from it all – to relax, unwind, recharge, let the hair down, make new friends, think nothing and do nothing but laze around, take in the scenery, shoot the breeze, eat and eat.

There are a million and one things to do on board there is absolutely no time to get bored. The ship entertains you, from the moment you embark until you get off, almost reluctantly. The crew never runs out of smiles or a cheerful greeting. The schedule of activities will leave you breathless – for lots of choices and lack of time.

Face painting, coconut bowling, line dancing. Piano serenades, live bands, karaoke singing. Pool games, jackpot bingo, afternoon movies. Body stretching, kung fu demonstrations, magic shows. Table tennis, production numbers, card games. Aerobics, jogging, swimming. Work out at the gym. Get a massage at the spa. Play slot machines at the casino. Hit the golf driving range. Take a dip at the Jacuzzi. Shop at the souvenir store. Join teambuilding exercises.

And the food, heaps of glorious food all there for the taking. Chinese sit-down at Dynasty, international buffet at Mariners, Asian specialties at Spices, outdoor barbecue at Oceana. Fruits and sweets galore. Coffee and tea all you want…

Alone time? Just a little. When you retire at night and wake up in the morning. And that’s when you contemplate on the comfort that the ship’s stately rooms offer – hot shower, cable TV, hair dryer, toiletries and amenities, spacious closet, safety deposit box, queen-size bed, a sitting room beside the floor-to-ceiling window where you look out at the breathtaking seascape passing before your eyes. It’s a veritable five-star hotel out there on the high seas…

And what of the shore excursion at Xiamen? China’s ‘window city’ allows the sightseer to take a glimpse of what the erstwhile Sleeping Giant is all about. Even as it reeks of progress and prosperity, there is no mistaking the traditions still steeped deep in its pristine environment cloaked in the hum and hustle of its modern incarnation. It will take more than a whirlwind stop to fully appreciate its evident charms and explore its ancient history. Like its motherland, Xiamen is an enigma waiting to be unraveled.

HAPPINESS IS...

2007-10-26T13:09:00.000+08:00

Happiness resides not in possessions, and not in gold; happiness dwells in the soul. - Democritus

HAPPINESS IS…

… A glass of milk and a jar of cookies. And a good book to nuzzle in a comfy chair on a rainy day. What better way to appreciate bed weather than be safely ensconced in one’s own comfort zone with no worries in the world other than what is at arm’s length…the last cookie in the cookie jar.

… A rendezvous at the spa. Getting a foot scrub, a therapeutic massage, an earth facial. Hanging back at the sauna room, lingering at the tub, thoroughly pampering the body and relaxing the mind. Indulging in a little extravagance, giving in to a few spontaneous cravings, freeing the wits from the excruciating grind of day after day.

… A celebration. Cold cuts and warm hugs. Wolf Blass and Misty crooning. Sweet thoughts and animated chats. Laughter, bubbly and sparkling. Blowing candles and sounding trumpets amid people who mean the world. Raising toasts and drinking to fond wishes. Feeling brand new all over again.

… A warm and fuzzy feeling. A hug, a snuggle, a caress. The giddy flush of a budding romance creeping into our being. Sweet nothings that bring a tingle in the spine, tender mercies that make the senses run wild.

… A joy ride. A spin around on a carousel or the Ferris wheel. A cruise on a river boat or a lake canoe. A run across town on a bicycle pedaling your heart away or piggy-backing on a motorbike. A drive along the countryside, taking in all the specks of green and just letting your hair fly with the wind. The joy is indeed in the ride.

… A makeover. A new hairdo, a new wardrobe, a new strut, a new attitude. Or a nose job, perhaps; an implant where it matters, a slight stretching of some facial muscles (botox, anyone?), a nip here, a tuck there – to boost one’s self-confidence and stoke the ego a little. Move over, old warts, here comes the new and improved neighborhood hottie!

… A bowl of hot chicken broth. To drive away the bug of affliction. A dose of gentle loving care from people near and dear. Bundling up in their safe, affectionate embrace. Holding on to the promise of better things to come.

… A surprise. A pat in the back for a job well done. A favor from a friend. A smile from a stranger. A compliment from someone we’ve only just met. A card from out of the blue. A poem written specially for you.

HAPPINESS IS…

… Looking at old photographs. Reliving the little moments of times gone by captured in living color or in foggy black and white. Scanning albums filled with cheerful faces and familiar places in all their glossy splendor. Summoning wistful thoughts and dormant memories, evoking fragments of time and space that will never come again.

… Holding the hand of a child. To make them feel safe when they’re learning to make the first stride. To make them feel protected when they start to venture into the world outside – kindergarten school, Sunday church, the park, the mall, the circus, the house next door. When they decide to walk the walk, talk the talk, make the break, go for broke.

… Wiggling into an old pair of jeans. And finding out that it still fits. Ha! Doesn’t it pay to eat a little and exercise a lot?

… Breaking a sweat. Taking the time to stretch the limbs and flex the muscles, to limber up and pump adrenaline. Burning the dance floor to the beat of rhythmic music till the knees give in. Walking a mile in rubber-soled shoes, briskly or leisurely, till the heart beats a little faster and the temple throbs a little friskier.

… Walking barefoot. On the seashore, on the grass, on the pavement, around the house. Touching the ground, rubbing calloused feet on solid earth, feeling cold stone or warm sand, treading on damp lawn or soft rug, just gliding along with a song and a smile in the heart.

… Catching up on house chores. Fixing the closet, rearranging the furniture, changing the sheets, wiping soil off table tops, sweeping away the cobwebs that have been lingering in the fringes of our nearly moldy existence. Spring cleaning doesn’t have to wait for the next winter.

… Catching up on our reading. Devouring tomes that have been lying unopened for years gathering dust in the bookshelves. Paperbacks yellowed with time, pages brittled by indifference. Atlas Shrugged, East of Eden, The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter, Love In The Time Of Cholera, The Book of Job…

… Learning a new skill. In the kitchen concocting something other than fried stuff – baking a cake, whipping up the ideal pasta, inventing dishes yummy enough to show off. Or a hobby both relaxing and productive – doing the cross-stitch, surfing the Internet, taking up photography, playing a musical instrument, writing the movie in our mind.

… Finding a friend. Meeting new acquaintances and reconnecting with old ones. Basking in the excitement of getting to know someone, roosting in the affection of old but not wasted pals, rekindling flames of long ago. The gift of friendship is precious and few like seconds shared to last through intertwined lifetimes. Sure beats staring at the clouds in your coffee all day...

… Finding what you’ve been looking for. A lost piece from the glory days, priceless no doubt because of the sentiment attached to it. A thing of value that we’ve always wanted to have but couldn’t, for one reason or another. A part of our lives that’s been missing, perhaps made nonexistent by choice but more probably by circumstance, traveling the distance but not really knowing which way to go and what we are actually in search of. A material possession, an object of desire, a purpose in life? One best friend, one perfect moment, one true love to last a lifetime?

More Lessons

2007-06-19T18:19:00.000+08:00

In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life. It goes on.
- Robert Frost

I HAVE LEARNED THAT…

… Success is not permanent and failure is not incurable. Don’t rest on your laurels and don’t cry over spilt milk. Like everything else in this material world, whatever we go through today – win or lose, happy or sad – will be over tomorrow, whether we like it or not.

… Things are not always what they seem. A book should not be judged by its cover, or a person by the clothes he wears. There are diamonds in the rough waiting to be polished, and ugly ducklings have the inherent potential to transform themselves into swans.

… Silent waters run deep, and they forebode either profundity or peril. What lies beneath the surface may astound or confound, bewitch or bewilder, inspire goose bumps or raise alarm bells. A man who doesn’t say a lot knows a lot, or he may be carrying a stick.

… Respect is earned, not solicited. It is bestowed upon you without asking for it, if you deserve it. Demanding respect is totally inappropriate, neither is it the way to achieve it.

… Flattery will get you nowhere, but honesty has its own just rewards. Insincerity rings hollow, and hypocrisy is an annoyance. Being true to oneself, no matter how humbling, can be invigorating; truthfulness might be a lonesome task, but lying is far more pathetic.

… What goes out of our mouth comes from our heart, and more often than not, they defile rather than honor another. From our hearts emanate thoughts of love or hatred, good or evil, compassion or cruelty, understanding or revenge. Idle talk often turns into gossip, and back talk is the most deceitful act of all.

… Beauty is all in the eye of the beholder. It may be skin-deep, or it may radiate from within. It is ephemeral because it fades in time, but it can be everlasting when nurtured with a gentle heart.

… While it is nice to have money, it isn’t everything. It should only be the means to an end, not the end in itself; as one moment you have it, another moment it’s gone. It may be the root of all evils but it can also be an instrument for good.

… Mothers always know best, give much, take little, love greatly, suffer a lot. They know it when you are in trouble, they feel it when you are in pain; they make life easier for us, in their own inimitable way, without fanfare, without thanks. Yes, God couldn’t be everywhere, so He created mothers.

… The wheels of fortune are never constant; they grind unpredictably, at times so exceedingly slow. What goes up must come down, what comes in must go out – in the wink of an eye, in a wave of the hand. Because what the Lord gives, He also takes away.

… Everyone has their own 15 minutes of fame, their own time in the spotlight, their own place in the morning sun. Better seize the moment when it comes for there might not be a second helping. The ice cream on your plate melts, and it doesn’t taste the same.

… Kids do declare the darnedest things. Straight from the mouths of babes often burst forth the most outrageous but philosophically sensible statements – innocent remarks that make us laugh until we cry because they hit close to home, often at our expense. Who says wisdom is the consequence of age?

… Genuine style doesn’t scream for attention, and simplicity is almost an anomaly in this era of excess. One’s true colors will shine through, for better or worse, effortlessly, naturally. Empty cans rattle the noisiest, and loudness is terribly unbecoming.

… Greed is the scourge of the weak in spirit. Is humanity’s thirst for the riches of this earth insatiable, the lust for power and renown unquenchable? But what does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and suffers the loss of his own soul?

… Laughter is indeed the best medicine and music is the best cure for stress. Laughter that erupts from the bowels of your soul is always music to the ears, and music that stimulates the senses inspires a cloudburst of hope and deliverance. It is a beautiful world, why sulk?

… If there’s a will, there’s a way. From rock bottom, there is a path that leads to the mountain top, and though the path be long and narrow, it eventually leads you there. Persist in spite of hindrances, persevere in the face of hopelessness.

… The glory is not in never failing, but in rising every time we stumble. Never quit, your turn will come, don’t be afraid to not succeed. For a virtuous man falls many times, and gets up again and again…

… When the sun shines, it shines for everyone. All men are created equal, and opportunities flourish for those who have the strength of mind and muscle to take them all in. No pain, no gain; nothing ventured, nothing attained.

LESSONS

2007-05-12T18:32:00.000+08:00

Life is like playing a violin in public and learning the instrument as one goes on. - Samuel Butler

I HAVE LEARNED THAT…

… All rivers flow to the sea, yet the sea is not full! Life is a work in progress, and knowledge is infinite. The more we learn about things, the more we discover that we actually know nothing about anything.

… Most of the things we need to know, we learned in kindergarten. The ABC’s and 123’s; good manners and right conduct; faith, hope and charity; the love and fear of God; fixing a hole, mending a sock; crossing the street on our own. The values we were taught at our mother’s feet, we carry with us through life.

… If it is to be, it is up to me. I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul. What I make of myself depends on me, because God only helps those who help themselves.

… What is essential is invisible to the eye, it is only the heart that can see ever so rightly. The heart knows what the mind cannot conjure, and feels what the body can only endure. It understands without reservation and accepts without conditions – with no questions asked and no quarters taken.

… Everyone deserves a second chance. An unfaithful partner, an errant child, a disloyal friend, a recalcitrant foe. A shot in the arm, another stab at romance, a fresh opportunity to pick up the pieces and make something of one’s self, to bask in new-fangled freedoms and relish little successes.

… Beautiful hands are hands that do. They are not afraid to get soiled from menial toil, or get ravaged by constant turmoil. Calloused by struggles, inured by pain, hardened by adversity, but strengthened and toughened by it all.

… Little things mean a lot. A smile, a hug, a pat in the back, a rainbow in the sky, a song in the air, a letter from a friend, a voice from miles away, an old photograph, a cup of coffee, a good book, a new dress, a ray of sunshine, a drop of rain. They summon a tear or bring on some cheer and make a moment last forever.

… What soap is for the body, tears are for the soul. They cleanse, they purge, they wash away inner hurts, untold miseries, shattered dreams, broken spirits. Crying is oftentimes liberating, healing and invigorating.

… People are lonely because they build walls instead of bridges. No man is an island unto himself. He needs people and people need him.

… Love is wonderful when it is real, when it is true. When it is light and easy, not a heavy load to carry. When it is free and breathy, not consuming or controlling.

… There’s no such thing as a free lunch, a free ride, or a free ticket to the opera. Every perk has a price tag, a string attached, a catch somewhere, a pay back at some later time. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours, and the circumstances often are not pretty.

… For everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under the heaven. There is a time to win and a time to lose, a time to speak up or to hold one’s peace, a time to yield or to move forward, to leave it be or live and let live. Things happen, for a reason, in God’s own perfect time.

… True friends are hard to find. People walk in and out of our lives but few truly leave indelible footprints in our hearts. More often than not, the friendships that we forge in our youth are the ones that stay with us for the rest of our lives.

… What goes around comes around. Do not do unto others what you do not want others do unto you. The law of retribution will catch up with us, sooner or later, and taking flight is not an option.

… God hears even the smallest prayer. Whatever we store away in our innermost thoughts is unraveled before us one fine day as a pleasant surprise, a gift from somewhere, a bolt out of the blue. Whatever we pray for with all our heart, we get – and our soul, we lift.

… Blood is truly thicker than water. When all else fails, when no one steps forward, when the going gets rough, family steps up. They provide the shoulder to cry on, the rope to hold on to, the wind beneath our wings, our shelter from the storm.

… Good things come to those who wait. Patience is a virtue and haste makes waste. Think before you speak, look before you leap.

Without Music, What Are We?

2007-04-02T14:51:00.000+08:00

Thank you for the music, the songs I'm singing
Thanks for all the joy they're bringing
Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty
What would life be, without a song or a dance, what are we
So I say, thank you for the music, for giving it to me! ABBA

IMAGINE a world without music. A world without melodic sounds and harmonious rhythms – without songs to listen to, sing along with, dance to the beat of.

Imagine a world that knows not the cadenced beating of drums and cymbals, the tuneful blowing of trumpets and clarinets, the pulsating stream of symphonic strings, the torrent of melody produced by magical fingers over ivory keys, the wondrous resonance of vocal cords often lifting the senses to heights that cannot be described.

Imagine if musical notes were never created, lyrics were never written, instruments were never invented. Imagine if all that ever came out of the human voice were drones and moans, mumbles and grumbles, howling and wailing, gnashing and growling and snarling.

Imagine if all that we ever hear are engines roaring till kingdom come, car horns blaring like nothing, voices just ranting and rambling from all over, machines whirring and buzzing without let-up, wheels chugging on and on and on...

Would the soul have known its universal language? Would the heart have seen where to find freedom from temporary pain? Would the mind have discerned where to seek shelter from the cold, biting winds of change?

Would humanity be as human if music, as we know it now, never was?

If there were no songs of love to memorize each line, no songs of praise to raise up into the heavens, no songs of hope to bring cheer to the dejected, no songs about friendships to celebrate through thick and thin, no songs about people to dedicate to, identify with, express affection for, immortalize in stirring refrain – how sad.

How sad for the lovelorn boy yearning for the one who knocks him off his feet, while his guitar gently weeps. How sad for the lonely girl waiting in vain for Valentines that never came. How sad for the young at heart dreaming up Mona Lisa smiles, spending the hours hopelessly reminiscing.

Music provides the palliative for broken spirits in need of solace. It offers a sanctuary from the miseries of the moment, a breathing space from everyday burdens, a quick fix out of needless worry, an easy way to unwind, loosen up, calm down, chill out. It is like an oasis for barren emotions, a panacea that makes the body whole again.

If there were no songs to dance to, what a pity for the aspiring ballerina eternally struggling with fouettes and pirouettes, sweating it out to achieve that magical illusion of flight. What a pity for ballrooms everywhere empty of twirling bodies and gliding feet, of sensuous moves and bouncy steps. From simple swaying to soaring leaps and intricate strokes grooving to the beat of a rhythmic accompaniment – dance will forever be inextricably linked to music.

What of the great musical creations through the ages – DeBussy’s Clair de lune, Chopin’s Sonata in E Minor, Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, Schubert’s Ave Maria, Handel’s Messiah, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake and The Nutcracker, Rodgers and Hammerstein’s The Sound of Music and South Pacific, Lerner and Loewe’s Camelot and My Fair Lady… all timeless and enduring, awe-inspiring and soul-enriching.

And the great musicians of times gone by – Caruso, whose incredible voice and powerful range made him one of the most famous tenors in history. Wagner, whose operas allowed him to flee from personal troubles that would have brought him over the edge. Beethoven, whose deafness did not deter him from creating more concertos and sonatas that otherwise would have driven him to the abyss.

What of Santana’s breathtaking guitar playing, Dylan’s poetic songwriting, Sinatra’s inimitable crooning, Lennon and McCartney’s chart-topping deluge that changed the face of popular music, Yanni’s flights of fantasy that defy categorizing, Marley’s poignant songs of peace and redemption, Mancini’s orchestral maneuvers out of the dark – the world won’t be the same without the sweat of their genius.

What of the solo saxophone evoking sensual visions and motions, the weepy violin wailing strains of melodies unchained, the unobtrusive flute whistling a soft lullaby that wrenches the heartstrings, the wistful tambourine weaving magic all its own. What of the gongs and chimes, the drums and bugles, the mantras and bird calls, the temple bells and wooden blocks, the Gregorian chants of yore, the choir of angel voices singing prayers from hallowed halls.

Listening to the songs of our life makes us swoon like the starry-eyed youngsters we once were. It makes us fly on the wings of love up and above the clouds. It makes us shed tears for the days of wine and roses we wish would come again. It makes us smile through our fears and sorrows and gives us reason to believe that the sun will shine brightly tomorrow.

What is a world without music but a world without a soul. All concrete and steel, no flowers or sunbeams. All sound and fury, no passion and warmth. All coldness, no comfort. All darkness, no moonlight. All hell, not a sign of heaven. All gloom, not a bit of rain.

A world without music is a world without love – bereft of feelings and sensitivity, devoid of dreams and romance. For the heart speaks through it, conveying a whole gamut of emotions all at once and all too clearly – ardor, desire, bliss, longing, pleasure, despair, happiness, loneliness, emptiness, lust. And it speaks to the heart as well, in a language too beautiful to resist, too pure and simple and true, too deep but not unfathomably so.

Poetry in slumber

2007-03-01T17:11:00.000+08:00

The glass is empty.
The faucet is dry.
The shadows linger.
It is cold outside.

An endless saga.
A crying shame.
The road is narrow.
But who’s to blame?

Laughter is easy.
Though no one knows
Deep down inside
The wound still shows.

A tear in the dark.
A silent scream.
Sleep takes long.
Where is the song?

The soul is famished.
The heart is chained.
When morning comes
The pain remains.

The (Lost) Art Of Listening

2007-02-13T12:49:00.000+08:00

How many ears must one man have before he can hear people cry? Bob Dylan
I like to listen. I have learned a great deal from listening carefully. Most people never listen. Ernest Hemingway
Bore – a person who talks when you wish him to listen. Ambrose Bierce

OUR ears will never get us in trouble, even if we keep them open all the time. Our mouth may speak hurtful words and our consciousness may lead us to do unkind deeds, causing someone else’s pain. But our ears – they are perhaps the most taken-for-granted part of our body. The ones we use perfunctorily, if our lives depended on them.

Have you noticed how the world seems to be speaking to us in syllables and monotones most of our waking time? It’s like everything is a blur of fast-moving trains, and empty conversations, harried faces and hurried footsteps, frazzled nerves and stressed out egos, muffled tones and squeaky bones. It’s like we are forever running around in circles, going everywhere but really just to nowhere.

And it’s all because we don’t stop to listen anymore. We don’t listen to ourselves, much less to others. We don’t pay attention to our thoughts, to the beating of our heart and the cravings of our soul. We go through the daily grind deaf to the voice of reason, dumb to the ways of humanity, unmindful of the sounds emanating from within, unable to hear the searing music that fills the vapid air.

Have we become totally insensitive to life outside our own? Have we turned on the mute button at will, 24/7? Have we, knowingly or not, shut us off from the hum of the bees and the call of the wild?

***

Listen to the other person. It isn’t always about us. The universe doesn’t revolve around us. Sometimes, people aren’t interested in what comes out of our lips; but we don’t notice because we are rapt in our own world, lost in our own egocentric grumbling.

Have we ever stopped and looked at the other person deep in their eyes? Stopped and listened to them speak, took in the sound of their voice, gazed at their facial movements, watched their body talk? Have we ever really thought about what lies behind the façade? Hammered into our own awareness the reality that they, too, have a story to tell?

Let’s pause for a while, and contemplate. What they’re saying may not be the wisdom of the ages, but neither is ours. Let’s give them the courtesy of our undivided attention. Make them feel that they exist, for once. Say only what needs to be said, nod in appreciation, squeeze their hand now and then, sit back, settle down and yield to their own muttering.

Then we’ll realize that existing takes more than just looking after ourselves, thinking about ourselves, making something out of ourselves. There are other people in our field of dreams as well, who are no less important in the general scheme of things. Let us not forget that even as we believe we are superior to some, we are vastly inferior to many; and in the final reckoning, before the eyes of our Creator, no one is greater than the other.

***

Listen to yourself. Do you hear what you’re saying? When you say yes, don’t you in fact mean maybe, I’ll see, I’ll think about it, I’m not sure, I don’t know? Do you absent-mindedly nod when you should actually shake your head? Do you open your mouth first, think later and then regret it?

How many times have we put ourselves in awkward or embarrassing situations mainly because we didn’t give much thought to what we were supposed to say? How many enemies have we made simply because we did things that were better left undone? If our orifice didn’t work faster than our brain, we would be spared the ignominy of shooting ourselves often where it hurts.

Listen to your body. Do you hear it creaking here and there? Does it mumble aches in some joints and pound like crazy in some inner nooks and crannies? More often than not, we neglect them like nothing. Our tired limbs grunt and our weary mind groans, but we just move on to the pressing need of the hour. We perish the thought for another day, until the grunts and groans become too audible to ignore and our body becomes too feeble to resist.

Listen to your heart, it knows everything. It speaks volumes when the flesh has been rendered numb to the wiles of the world. When it’s calling for you, do you take heed or do you look the other way? Do you trip the light fantastic or do you seek refuge in the cover of twilight? Do you take the plunge or do you hedge your bets? Did you choose wisely or are you forever in regret?

Let us listen to the music of our lives, the songs that we sang when we were growing up, when we fell in love, when we were happy, when we were lonely, when we were troubled, when we were carefree. Without music, what are we? What would life be but a voiceless, dreamless void – a labyrinth of noise and clatter, a web of tangled emotions and jumbled situations, a maze of boring rhyme and joyless rhythm?

Let us listen to the sounds that remind us of how human we are, the sounds that kept us from going over the edge at one time or another, that made us sit up either in amazement or bewilderment, that made us weep in sweet surrender or get away from the dissonance of twisted lives and busted morals. A new-born baby crying, a child laughing, grass rustling under our feet, birds chirping on tree-tops, leaves crackling with the wind, water falling from rocks up ahead, someone whispering saccharine nothings to our ear – aren’t they the sounds that make us alive?

Let us listen when all around us it is silent, and what we will hear is our soul murmuring.

This I Believe

2007-01-30T15:07:00.000+08:00

He does not believe who does not live according to his belief. Dr. Thomas Fuller
If you cannot find the truth where you are, where else do you expect to find it? Belief consists in accepting the affirmations of the soul; unbelief, denying them. Ralph Waldo Emerson
God is great, even the animals feel it. Gabriel Garcia Marquez

I BELIEVE that there is more to life than what we are or what we are not, what we could have been or what we still aspire to be, what we should have done or what we intend to do, what lies on the surface or what lurks underneath. I believe that there is more to life than just being, doing, wanting, hoping; taking the journey and enduring the ride, wishing upon a star and making things happen, getting over the humps and driving off into the sunset.

I believe that there is a thin shred that separates love from hate, right from wrong, good from evil, wisdom from madness, contentment from greed, happiness from loneliness. When does pride end and prejudice begin? Isn’t truth stranger than fiction? Is making sense more important than hurting another person’s sensibility? Is innocence the better part of worldliness? Can valor take the place of virtue? Doesn’t crime have a corresponding punishment?

I believe in love at first sight and the flightiness it endows the senses, the sweet smell of romance hovering in the air, the earthy thrill of adventure looming in the horizon, the bizarre sensation that is at once mesmerizing but altogether confounding. I believe in seizing the moment when it comes, taking the chance when it matters, breaking the chain when it cracks, mending the heart when it is broken, giving in and letting go when it is time.

I believe that the simplest things bring us the purest joy, and we need not look so far ahead to realize that the most wondrous pleasures are right there at our feet – within our reach, within our sight, just a fleeting glance away. In our insatiable thirst for worldly gain, we fail to notice that the most mundane situations are those that actually fill our spirits with bliss – touching a leaf, climbing a hill, running after sparrows, counting a rainbow’s colors, staring at the moon, rising with the sun, munching on chocolates, simply having fun.

I believe that there is one omnipresent, omnipotent God who hears every word uttered in supplication and bequeaths every human being with the unique gift of prayer. Without faith in our hearts, isn’t it a meaningless existence? We see blindly, and we trod along aimlessly. We get lost somewhere in the dark, and we grope our way out of it without purpose, weighed down with fear, almost consumed by panic. We sink into depths of wretchedness, and can we swim back to shore by our lonesome? Can we save our middling selves from the misery of our own cynicism?

I believe that there is more to life than meets the eye, and the heart invariably sees what the eyes usually don’t. We only need to look inside ourselves more often, to think more deeply and love more freely, to sing our lungs out and dance up a tempest, cry a little and laugh a lot, work hard and breathe easy, speak our mind and listen intently, walk with confidence and stand at attention, do what is right and hope for the best, never stop dreaming, just keep on believing.

Life is truly beautiful, and anything is infinitely possible, if we only believe.

Laughter Is The Music Of Life

2006-12-06T17:04:00.000+08:00

The most wasted of all days is one without laughter. e. e. cummings
Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face. Victor Hugo

LAUGH and the whole world laughs with you, sulk and you sulk alone. Cry and no one will cry with you. Brood and you brood on your own.

It isn’t totally ironic that laughter begets laughter, and melancholy leads to solitude. After all, man is a positively social creature and our natural reaction is to stay away from emotions that bring heaviness and gloom to our lives. And didn’t some sage hammer into our heads, one time or another, that it entails lesser strain on our facial muscles to laugh than it does to frown?

Life’s lessons have invariably taught us that laughter is the best medicine. It is the perfect elixir for pain, emotional and even physical; the sweet tonic for misery that takes away our troubles, if only for the nonce; a welcome relief from the unremitting turmoil of our egoistic tendencies and self-absorbed infirmities.

Albeit temporarily, laughter is the one sensation that most assuredly delivers us from the sheer wretchedness of a single, forgettable moment.

Like love, laughter evens out the folds that perpetually wrinkle the fabric of our tenuous being. It caresses the heart jaded by many labors lost in the name of passion. It strokes, ever so sweetly, the nerves of steel and paroxysms of fury that indomitably litter our consciousness, rising above the torrent of unmitigated hurts and wounded pride.

Like rain, laughter drenches the soul numbed by the turbulent swings and swirls of time and space. It soothes the mind calloused by the twists and turns, wear and tear, hits and misses, that constantly assault the sum total of our fragile reality. It cleanses the body of all the grime shrouding our countenance, the fragments enveloping our visage, the stains that won’t go away, threatening to cloak our veneer with even more filth and even more slime.

Like sunshine, laughter brings cheer to foggy spirits and warmth to cold, unrelenting shoulders. It gets rid of self-imposed burdens, alleviates heavy loads, eases difficult situations, and lightens up crabby dispositions. It drives away the aches and pains of flesh and blood and doddering knees, settles down the throbbing and smarting of muscles and bones and fading joints, and breathes a new ray of optimism to waning, shrinking, dwindling hopes.

All in a fleeting instant, most absolutely, but nevertheless cathartic and thoroughly exhilarating. Beats staring at clouds in one’s coffee all day, or wallowing in emotional self-flagellation time and time again.

Except that, does one know laughter if one hasn’t known tears? In the same breath, is happiness possible without the specter of loneliness looming from a distance? Can love exist without hatred? Would there be peace without war? Is heaven true without hell?

Laughing beneath the tears; shedding tears of joy; laughing on the outside, crying on the inside – isn’t it the most mystifying of paradoxes? How can two disparate feelings be present in one incongruous burst of time? Yet the sentiment is as real as the lachrymal flow that goes with the lilting, pulsating sound of mirth; or the obligatory twitching of the mouth to form a smile that masks the soreness seething within.

Laughing one’s guts out – with nary an inhibition, with nary a care – can be a completely emancipating experience; like purging the spirit of hidden guilt or freeing the mind of agonizing thoughts. For it is in having wept with all our heart that we are able to laugh with all our soul. It is the laughter of pure happiness, perfect bliss; like soaring to heights unknown, exploring fresh frontiers, discovering new horizons.

When was it that we last shared a hearty laugh with someone? A loud, raucous reckless fit of laughter it was almost scandalous, practically uncontrollable, downright unstoppable. Do we remember how invigorating it felt? How undeniably loose and lighthearted we seemed? Like being unhinged from chains that bound us for so long, or being released from a dark prison that we locked ourselves into.

When did we last hear ourselves laugh like a child? A nervous giggle here, a gleeful chortle there. Clear but not biting, unknowing but not hurting. With a dash of innocence that stirs up memories of the good old simple, uncomplicated times. Like unleashing a deluge that’s been lingering in the chest for ages, or jumping up and down, dancing up a storm, not feeling the least bit guilty, only unbelievably happy.

Indeed, we should not forget to laugh – at ourselves, at anything or everything, at the mistakes we’ve made, the mess we’ve created, the holes we’ve dug for ourselves during our thorniest periods and sorriest states, at our own foibles, our own frailties, our own flaws and moral weaknesses. And even as we go through difficult situations over and over, even as we travel through dark tunnels and lonely highways, the light of the sun, the sighing of the wind and the sound of laughter ringing in our ears will make us overcome.

Laughter is the song that comes from our heart and comforts our soul. And, without a doubt, the sound of our own laughter is the most beautiful sound of all.

Chances Are

2006-11-13T17:34:00.000+08:00

I want to live my life so that my nights are not full of regrets. D. H. Lawrence

The follies which a man regrets most in life are those which he didn’t commit when he had the opportunity. Helen Rowland

CHANCES are, somewhere in our cherished past, there was someone that we thought was the one, someone that we couldn’t have, the one that got away.

What might have been – if the person that we thought was the one, was actually there beside us now. What possibilities lie in wait – if the one that we couldn’t have, was in fact ours for the taking. What promises lurk in the horizon – if the one that got away, didn’t really get away and stayed with us forever and a day.

The sleepless nights and cold mornings we spent pining for that one lost love would have receded from the misty staleness of our regrettable long-ago. There wouldn’t have been so many what-if’s and what-not’s befuddling our thoughts and actions in the wee hours of our sporadic ponderings. Love’s follies might have taken another turn – perhaps towards something more wonderful, a bit more unpredictable and lusciously unthinkable.

Even as the one with us has become increasingly less exciting as well as less appreciated. The magic has faded a bit, the spell broken by the humdrum of constant togetherness. Familiarity breeding boredom, certainty creating dullness. Mostly crises, no more surprises. The mystery is gone, and romance – or a veneer of it – sheepishly flies out the window.

But, woefully, the object of our lamentation will remain just that – somewhat to be sorry for and frustrated about, to endlessly shake our heads in mute disappointment, to hopelessly utter in our inner wrestling -- what a waste, what a pity, never will it be.

***

Chances are, sometime in our moments of vacillation, there were choices we had to take, to be or not to be, to plunge headlong or to drop out altogether, to do or die for what we thought was the be-all of what we are here for.

Only to find out in the bitter end that the road we traveled on was crammed with bends and forks, sticks and stones, hills and thorns. That there was a smoother path, after all – more rewarding and satisfying, a tad less maddening and aggravating. Not too many jerks and jolts, fewer humps and bumps, no sharp turns and blind alleys, no waste of precious time.

What if we gave vent to our idealistic, romantic, artistic inclination rather than the realistic, prosaic, pragmatic? What if we followed the less beaten path, the light that beckoned at the end of the tunnel, the whispers in our head urging us to cultivate the cravings of our soul? What if we opted to play devil’s advocate instead of going for the jugular, or to play it safe instead of throwing caution to the wind?

Life might have been nothing like we know it now. But the choices we made then were borne out of daring; a leap of faith, as it were; a shot in the dark; a vote of confidence on ourselves – never mind the twists of fate that prowled in ambush. They made us become what we are today, freckles and all – never mind the cruel jokes that besieged our defenses. We thought, therefore we are – nothing more, nothing less.

***

Chances are, if we were given another opportunity at righting a wrong, repairing a tarnished friendship, mending a heart that was badly broken, doing a task, a favor or a cause that was left undone in our haste to keep pace with the exigencies of the here and now – we wouldn’t think twice about acting on it this time around.

Was our youth wasted when we were young? Did we aspire to be somebody but didn’t have the wherewithal to make it come about? Did we harbor intense feelings for someone but didn’t have the guts to let them know? Did we miss out on something – the prom, probably, or a shot at the varsity team – because resources were scarce or our skills didn’t measure up?

Did we let go of our heart’s desire because we chose to follow the dictates of our mind?

Regret can be the most painful of human emotions; more painful, perhaps, than defeat or failure, rejection or deprivation, loneliness or sorrow. It robs us of many possibilities, of savoring a cloudburst of other sensations and basking in the celestial afterglow. It denies us the prospect of ever knowing what is at the end of the rainbow, what is at the other side of the realm, what becomes of the wish that our heart makes.

For isn’t life all about taking chances, a second chance, another chance? Isn’t it all about seizing the moment, taking a stand, letting it be? Win some, lose some. Put up or shut up, conquer or perish. If it feels right and warm inside, go for it!

And chances are, if we can live our life all over again, we would live it the way we want it to be lived. Not so much as to defy the fortunes, dare the fates, taunt destiny. Neither to shrink like a violet, hide in a shell, or sit on a fence and leave room for more regrets. Life is already confounding as it is, without us making it even more so. Then we realize, one sad day, that regrets have already taken the place of dreams.

The First Time

2006-10-16T15:30:00.000+08:00

No one can possibly know what is about to happen: it is happening, each time, for the first time, for the only time. James Baldwin

NOTHING stirs the senses more than it does when we experience something for the very first time.

The surge of emotion is often uncontrollable – like waves rushing towards the shore or a dam bursting without warning. At times, it is absolutely inscrutable – was it rapture or anxiety? Giddiness or restlessness? Agony or ecstasy? Will-o’-the-wisp or merry-go-round?

Other times, it is rather nerve-wracking – like a fear of the unknown, a walk to the dark side, a daring leap of faith or a cruel twist of fate. But mostly, it is perfectly indescribable – because how does one put into words what it feels to fall in love for the first time?

First love – wasn’t it the most pleasant ache we ever had to endure? The hardest of all feelings to forget, one that we like to reminisce upon, because it never really dies? It never completely fades away?

It made us walk on air or drove us to despair. It brought us near the edge of reason and took us to the limits of our imagination. It led us to long stretches of bizarre posturing and gleeful meanderings. Music played all day long in our head, and we constantly smelled blossoms even if the trees were bare.

And the first time we laid eyes on the love of our life, we couldn’t help staring. The earth moved from under our feet, and we stopped breathing. Much like the first time we suffered heartbreak. We couldn’t eat, we couldn’t sleep, we couldn’t think right if it was at all possible to think. We sulked, we grieved, we didn’t want to live – until the next heartache came along.

The first kiss? There was thunder and lightning, fire and brimstone all around. Clammy hands, weak knees, cold feet – a strange, tingling sensation that left us delightfully bewildered, carrying us to that enchanted kingdom up in the blue called Cloud Nine. We never really knew what hit us, did we, because all we could only think about was, would the feeling be the same the second time around?

The first moment we beheld our first-born, we felt certain there was indeed a Supreme Being; a God who makes all things not just bright and beautiful, wise and wonderful, but who allows us mere mortals to be part of the grand miracle of Creation. That we could bring forth into this world a tiny living thing – fruit of our loom, labor of our love – is a reality that is difficult to fathom, much less put in plain words.

Seeing them beside us, we were swathed in a torrent of thoughts and emotions, overwhelming us in their complexity and significance. Right there and then, we knew our life took on a new dimension, a new direction, a new meaning – essentially different from the way things were when we only had ourselves to think of and live for.

Back when we landed our first job, we became the full-fledged adults we were supposed to be. Whether we were ready for it or not, a whole new world unfolded before us – big and intimidating, bold and frightening, brave and unforgiving; but also beautiful and nurturing, allowing us to strengthen our body somehow, to grow our mind a bit and to deepen our soul a little.

We were the new kid in town shrinking under the glare of hostile eyes; a babe in the woods venturing into a den of lions and wolves; or the geeky youngster who couldn’t do anything right – until we lived up to expectations, and exceeded them at times.

Then, when we received our first pay envelope, we wanted to paint the town red, treat the special persons in our lives to a feast, savor the sweet taste of honest toil and just splurge. The satisfaction one gets from being able to earn one’s own keep finally sank in our middling consciousness and a fresh sense of independence and self-confidence enveloped our being.

Not so unlike the day we first learned how to drive a car. We were thrilled at the idea of being in control of something bigger, more complicated, more powerful. Learning a new skill filled us with a certain feeling of exhilaration, a heightened awareness for what lies ahead, a greater tolerance for the quirks and idiosyncracies of others.

What of the first time we took a plane ride – the nearest thing we could ever get to being able to fly and touching the sky. We sat by the window so we could gawk and gawk at the sunbeams peering from clouds hovering beneath us, or at the strands of pearls strewn over an enormous canopy of green farther down below.

The nightscape was even more dazzling – with streaks of light flickering like fireflies from a distance, and the moon’s majestic glow radiating a certain calmness that at once numbs the soul. We felt like swooning at the splendor we don’t see everyday – not from where we are perched on the ground, taking for granted all the loveliness that man, nature and machine combined can create, perhaps inadvertently so.

Or when we first sailed the open seas on a ship. The earth never looked so vast and infinite, so unbelievably breathtaking, nevertheless humbling and just plain overwhelming. The ocean’s immensity made our spirit rise from the jumbled mesh of disbelief and apathy that we invariably cast at the wonders all around us, and we could no more than ask ourselves, where did all that foamy brine come from?

Leaving our comfort zone for the first time to face the uncertainty of the realm outside was akin to letting go of the security blanket that protected us when we needed to feel safe; like going out of our mother’s womb, or being born again. Much the same way as breaking a habit, mostly bad, that is synonymous to what we are as an individual. Weaning ourselves from smoking one pack a day, drinking alcohol to excess, sucking our thumb from when we were babies, clutching at an unhappy relationship involved a tremendous amount of political will, so to speak.

And the first time we ever tasted failure, defeat or loss, we thought the whole universe caved in on us. We blamed everything and everyone but ourselves, pointing a finger at the object of our anger and the cause of our despair. We wallowed in fits of self-pity and denial for long, unproductive periods – until we gathered enough courage to pick up the pieces and start anew.

The little things that we did for the first time are the things that defined our character and shaped our personality – flying a kite, climbing a tree, reading a good book, having our most precious possession, passing a test, getting a degree, traveling to foreign places, writing a letter, meeting a soul mate, falling in love. Little things that we can go through over and over again, making believe it is the very first time.

Coming Home

2006-09-15T20:01:00.000+08:00

What is home? “A roof to keep out the rain? Four walls to keep out the wind? Floors to keep out the cold? Yes, but home is more than that. It is the laugh of a baby, the song of a mother, the strength of a father, warmth of loving hearts, lights from happy eyes, kindness, loyalty, comradeship. Home is first school and first church for young ones, where they learn what is right, what is good, and what is kind, where they go for comfort when they are hurt or sick; where joy is shared and sorrow eased; where fathers and mothers are respected and loved, where children are wanted; where the simplest food is good enough for kings because it is earned; where money is not as important as loving-kindness; where even the tea kettle sings from happiness. That is home. God bless it!” – Anon.

THERE IS a magical place in our own private universe that stays at the core of our being no matter where our life’s journeys take us.

It is where we seek refuge when the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune have become too much for the soul to bear. It is where we find relief when earthy frills and bodily ills gnaw at the very fabric of our flawed existence, and our mind becomes drained from the heavy task of struggling to survive.

Home beckons every time the child in us cries out from above the din of conflicting sounds and clashing egos. It is like an unseen hand that lulls us to blissful slumber, a veritable shoulder to cast our never-ending burdens upon, an invisible light that warms the innermost recesses of our hearts.

It smoothes our ruffled feathers, irons out the wrinkles in our overwrought countenance, repairs the chinks in our overused armor -- letting us forget our fears for the nonce, bringing us back to more transcendent times when we were children.

Ah, when we were children. Wasn’t it the most pristine, most sublime period of our existence? The time of our life when all that we cared about was having the time of our life. When laughter was easy, dreams were for free, moments were tender, and troubles were a world away.

And home, sweet home, was the safest place to be. Inside its protective walls we were shielded from the inexorable pains of growing up, taking it all in, letting go. On its hallowed grounds we planted some good grain and sowed some wild oats. Its unblemished air allowed us to breathe generously the fresh smell of morning sunshine, the invigorating whiff of new mown hay, animals in pasture, flowers in bloom, soft breeze blowing from the horizon

It is a virtual reservoir of the loveliest thoughts and fondest memories of our formative years, mostly well spent and devoutly to be wished for again and again; a haven where things and faces are warm and familiar, giving and nurturing, caring and everlasting. It bequeathed to us in no small measure the priceless gift of innocence, the heady feeling of mirth, the invaluable sensation of being forever young.

Home makes us crave for the food that fed the fire in our belly and stoked the flames smoldering timidly in our mind’s eye. The satisfactions we derive from our ego-inflating conquests do not match up with the gentle mercies that home-spun nourishment and down-home country living provide. Nope, food for the gods simply does not compare with mother’s best. The gastronomic habits we acquired early on we carry with us through a radical change in taste buds and epicurean preferences.

And the people we grew up with, they never leave our consciousness through restless time and unconquerable space. They are part of the constant fixtures in our lives, the ones we don’t see for years on end but remain etched in the mustiness of our increasingly onerous subsistence, bringing us back to the wonder days when all that we deigned to see through our looking glass was heaven in a wildflower.

Aren’t they the ones who stay with us through thick and thin, sick or sin, the rest of our lives? Did we ever wonder why, even if we try to, we can’t shake them off our inveterate lifestyle in favor of those we encounter much later when we have become different persons? They come back to us, again and again, our childhood companions -- perhaps to remind us from whence we came, to keep our wobbly feet planted firmly on solid ground.

We make periodic visits to this beloved place where we gained our rites of passage -- like returning pilgrims or homing pigeons, like gypsies pitching tent for the night, or prodigal souls hungry for a feast. It is where we shed our superficial selves, repair our battered bodies, boost our wilting spirits, fix our tarnished psyches, mend our bruised emotions, change our evil ways.

It is where we find solace amid the sweeping expanse of blue and green -- sky kissing ocean, mountain cuddling river, rocks breathing new meaning to life gasping for air. Grass was never greener elsewhere, brooks were never half as luminous, the moon never shone as bright and lovely, and birds never chirped more carefree and happy.

It is that one warm spot in all of God’s marvelous creation where we could be children again – feet up, hair down, laughter perpetually etched on our faces, never running out of tall tales and tickling; like goblins gamboling in the rain, romping in the mountains, running up and down barefoot on the shore, frolicking with nary a worry in the world.

Home makes us proud to be the persons we are today because of what we were when all that we had were dreams to spin, rainbows to chase, stars to wish upon, dewdrops to catch in the simplicity and buoyancy of our youth. It bestirs passions long laid dormant by peripheral distractions, letting it all break out, hang loose, fall free. And we always emerge the better for allowing ourselves to delight in the breathtaking vista of oft-trodden pathways and old, familiar places; the welcoming embrace of cherished faces; and the fond memories evoked by things not at all withered by time.

Indeed, more often than not, we stray too far to places unknown, too far and too wide in search of what we need, what we want, what we would die for just to have – and we return home to find it.

Finding The Fountain Of Age

2006-08-14T17:57:00.000+08:00

First you forget names, then you forget faces. Next, you forget to pull your zipper up and finally, you forget to pull it down.
- George Burns
The woman who tells her age is either too young to have anything to lose or too old to have anything to gain.
- Chinese Proverb
Forty is the old age of youth. Fifty is the youth of old age. - Victor Hugo
He who is of calm and happy nature will hardly feel the pressure of age, but to him who is of opposite disposition youth and age are equally a burden.
- Plato
Maturity is the time of life when, if you had the time, you’d have the time of your life. - Anonymous

WHEN middle age - or the semblance of it - comes along, can panic attacks and fits of denial be far behind? You look at yourself in the mirror and you see strange and unpleasant apparitions - there are crow’s feet beside your eyes, there are quirky lines on your cheeks and forehead, your chin has multiplied, and yikes, your hair has grey streaks all over! You take a longer look at yourself in the mirror and you are confronted by more rude awakenings - your arms are the size of your thighs, your thighs make out like a rhino’s neck, your breasts rest on a mound that was once your flat tummy, and your butt has disappeared into oblivion.

The tell-tale signs are all over the place - you wiggle yourself into jeans that won’t fit, you bend over and you hear a creaking sound, you can’t read a thing without your eyeglasses, you catch your breath going up a flight of stairs, the monthly period gets scarce, the adrenaline rush slows down - and you just know you’re “getting old”.

And then, like a mantra, you recite to yourself a litany of cliches that twenty years ago definitely didn’t apply to you: You are as old as you feel. It’s all in the mind. Think young, feel young. Life begins at 40. Age doesn’t matter as long as matter doesn’t age.

To many people, the advent of middle age is an event of crisis proportions, a worst nightmare come true, a face-your-fear kind of scenario. At best, it is the stage of life that leads to senior citizen status - an inevitable path towards incontinence, osteoporosis, triple heart bypass, hypertension, Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, erectile dysfunction.

For a woman at the prime of her life, the dreaded word is ‘menopause’. For a man who has been a macho all his life, it is ‘viagra’.

It is interesting to note that at the turn of the 20th century, the average life expectancy for women was 46, and women lived a few years longer than men. Today, people survive well into their 80s, even 90s, with many leading healthy, productive and meaningful lives. Has the fountain of youth been found at last?

Probably - inside the cool, private comforts of a cosmetic surgeon’s clinic.

Liposuction, botox, mesotherapy, breast implants, nose lifts, eyebags removal, photorejuvenation treatment, beauty imaging system - the options for enhancement and preservation of looks are endless. Technology poses no limit to what vanity can conjure and the body endure. If you have the werewithal, staying forever young is no longer wishful thinking.

But while the doctor’s scalpel does contribute in no small measure to looking young, much of it really lies in practicing the things one learned as early as kindergarten. Eat a balanced diet, exercise regularly, sleep well, drink plenty of water, get enough rest, take vitamins, observe the right posture, do everything in moderation and project a positive attitude towards life in general.

In mid-life, one should never think “too old” to do things that are often associated with age - like going back to school and earning a degree; starting a new career or going into business; building a relationship or letting go of an old one; learning to dance, ride a bike or drive a car; picking up badminton, tennis or golf; working out at the gym; getting a hair rebond; meeting new people; expanding one’s horizons; catching up on high tech; doing the South Beach diet; getting a life.

One should never feel “too old” to do things that were undone during younger, more reckless times - perhaps due to failed undertakings, missed opportunities, misplaced priorities, wrong choices, costly mistakes. Middle age, after all, is exactly what it means - half a lifetime still lies ahead to pursue new goals, avail of second chances, savor the fruits of one’s labors.

Indeed, the secret lies in thinking young, feeling young. A healthy mind equals a healthy body. The glow of youthfulness comes from within, brought to the fore by purging one’s system of anger, regret, negative thoughts, violent reactions, grudges, ill wishes. Ridding one’s mind of ugly ponderings is like washing away the body’s toxins. Shedding off all those leftover emotional baggage will remove the frown on your face. As they say, travel light through life. The joy is in the ride.

Make Me, Let Me

2006-07-17T15:50:00.000+08:00

Make me the reason for
the sparkle in your eyes
the spring in your step
the ripple in your thighs.

Make me the source of
the smile on your lips
the racing of your pulse
the quiver in your hips.

Let me be the one who lets
your heart skip a beat
your blood stir in rapture
your temple throb in heat.

Let me be the only one
your whole being surrenders to.
Let me be the only love
you’ll ever know.

I’d like to bury my face
in your chest for always.
Would I finally be home
in your warm, tight embrace?

A Morning Prayer

2006-07-06T17:30:00.000+08:00

God Almighty,

Let this new morning bring sunshine and laughter to those who believe in Your infinite goodness and mercy;

Let the flowers bloom in all their magnificent colors that they may bring cheer to the forlorn and hope to the desperate;

Let the grass grow greener and softer that they may bring rest and comfort to weary feet;

Let the trees spread their leafy arms far and wide that they may bring refuge to lost souls and broken spirits;

Let the birds sing mighty songs of praise and wonderment that they may bring serenity to anguished hearts and peace to troubled minds.

Lord, let me live each day as if it were the last, help me walk the long and narrow path to righteousness, show me the burning flame of Your everlasting love, so that I may bask in the shower of Your generous blessings today and always.

Give me strength for the day that I may face my fears with courage and fortitude.
Keep me away from the vagaries of temptation and the lures of sin.
Open my heart that I may become sensitive to the feelings of others.
Open my mind to new and rewarding possibilities that will uplift me as a person.
Grant me the humility to understand that while I am superior to some, I am inferior to many.
Allow me to discern the truth in the eyes of those I will meet along the way.
Make me persevere to do Your will with absolute trust and conviction.
Bless me with enough passion to inspire joy and positive reactions, and instill in me the value of loyalty that I may remain faithful to those whom I hold near and dear.

I ask You these through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Fathers Are Angels, Too

2006-06-29T14:05:00.000+08:00

A father is always making his baby into a little woman. And when she is a woman he turns her back again. Enid Bagnold
Be kind to thy father, for when thou were young, who loved thee so fondly as he? He caught the first accents that fell from thy tongue, and joined in thy innocent glee. Margaret Courtney
A father is a banker provided by nature. French Proverb

WHAT IS a home without a father, or a family without a provider? Would it smell as sweet, or feel as safe? Would its hearth burn as bright, or flicker softly in the cold of night?

For what is a house without walls, ceilings or floors? What is a room without the soothing comfort of its familiar, unbroken space? Would a chair at the head of a table still be a chair if no one sits there?

Easy to figure out that fathers, like our more beloved mothers, are angels on earth, too.

He was the strong, dependable figure of our childhood; the take-charge chap when the going got terribly tough; the go-to guy when things got intolerably rough. Wasn’t he the original 24-hour Handy-Man? Mr. Fix-It, who patiently mended our broken hearts and bruised egos; who allayed our fears, dressed our wounds and wiped our tears when no one was looking.

He gave us a calming shelter from the storms of our simmering discontent; a gentle dwelling to keep us warm from the misery of our failures and excesses. Didn’t he build our haven from the sweat of his brow and the pain in his sturdy joints? His generosity made it even sweeter, lovelier, second to none.

He gave us wings from which to soar to heights we wouldn’t have possibly known in our age of innocence – ushering us into the wondrous worlds of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, Peter Pan and Tiny Tim, Kon-Tiki and Moby-Dick, Batman and Superman, The Flintstones and Charlie Brown, Sesame Street and Disneyland.

He opened our senses to the magic of poetry and music, the thrill of playing games and solving puzzles, the marvels of ancient cultures and recent history – introducing us to the ubiquitous little book which taught us about the power of words, and about laughter being the best medicine. Could he have been the Nutty Professor dressed in pajamas and funny overalls?

Fathers adored their first-born to bits; boy or girl didn’t really matter. He was in a hurry for them to grow up, so that he could look at himself through their eyes, and know if he had done right. He wanted his spitting image in the little one whom he carried around like a priceless trophy; showing off to all and sundry the fair skin and high-bridged nose – an improvement of the race, definitely.

He couldn’t wait to take them to places where fathers are supposed to bring their kids – the carnival or the zoo, Hong Kong or Cebu, the promenade or the mall, to church or to school. He was there to clutch at them when they were struggling to make the first stride, and to goad them into speech, making sure that ‘Da-da’ was the first word they ever spoke.

Didn’t he take endless pictures of us as toddlers and adolescents, recording for posterity every step we took from the moment we could walk? He watched over us from the crib until we were old enough to sow our oats and go out on our own, never giving up on looking after us even when we’ve grown too big to cuddle and too worldly-wise for our own good.

He attended PTA meetings and helped us with our math assignments, patiently giving us cues while we labored on the multiplication table. He held our hand while our Worst Nightmare tinkered willfully with our tooth. He stood beside us at First Communion, led the daily prayers at Angelus, bundled us up for Sunday Mass and then treated us to toy balloons and cotton candy at the park.

He taught us how to ride the bike, mount a pony, recite a poem, fly a kite, make like Beethoven on the piano or De Niro in a school play, draw a picture like Da Vinci, swing the baseball bat like DiMaggio or match wits at the chess board like a genius. He educated us on the rudiments of knotting and unknotting a rope way before we became cub scouts and took to heart the oath to always be prepared for what lies ahead.

We watched the sunset with him, climbed a tree and broke a nimble leg in the process, walked the dog around the neighborhood, fed the birds and trimmed the grass, stretched the limits of our imagination dreaming up the movies in our minds and the love songs in our hearts. We ribbed each other hoarse silly over the silliest jokes, now and then weaving tall tales and gazing at the moon, our crackling laughter beatific melody to his ears.

He took immeasurable pride in our accomplishments, big or small, always beaming with delight whenever we hurdled the various tests of time and circumstance – kindergarten, spelling bee, dance recital, junior prom, the school bully, entrance exams, swimming lessons, first love, first job, first time everything in our youthful, exuberant state of being.

He was there at all the meaningful moments, looming large over us with his constantly reassuring presence, now and again not saying a word but nevertheless speaking volumes with his momentous silence. He may not have changed our diapers when we were babies or weaned us from infancy to precociousness, but he fed and clothed us to our hearts’ endless desire; kept vigil for us when we were sick; pampered and spoiled us rotten till his back ached and his pockets emptied.

And then at some point, he goes away, often too sudden and too soon, leaving us poorer in spirit but otherwise richer in grit, and our existence is never the same. The void he creates is like a gaping hole in the ground, deep and hollow, irretrievable and irreparable; making us disconsolate and inexplicably lost in our own melancholy.

But then again, he never truly departs. He stays in our subconscious like a melodious refrain – the hero of our early days, our fountainhead of wisdom and caring, a solid rock from where we drew strength and resilience. He never leaves his place in our affections, even when all that stares back at us are photographs and memories that time will not, cannot, ever erase.

Restless

2006-06-13T18:30:00.000+08:00

Looking through eyes
that don't see
I feel the surge of passion
struggling to be free.

Afraid of tomorrow?
Think of the afterglow.
There are things
better felt than said
but it eases the aching
when the heart often reckless
takes over the reckoning.

People touch,
and then they're gone.
We touched, breathlessly,
and we're haunted
by the careless whispers
of desire undaunted.

Hold on to the feeling
until it bleeds
from trying so hard
to ignore the hurting.

I can see through
the cold mask
the lonely wall
it doesn't hide
the reason of it all.

Even if I couldn't
bloom for you
- oh, how late I was
in finding you! -
I'll cope with the thought
just seeing you
and knowing you're there
to keep the memory
from fading.

Save me a place in your heart
and I'll save me a dream.

Love It Or Leave It

2006-05-12T15:01:00.000+08:00

Patriotism is your conviction that this country is superior to all other countries because you were born in it. George Bernard Shaw When I am abroad, I always make it a rule never to criticize or attack the government of my own country. I make up for lost time when I come home. Sir Winston Churchill Our country, right or wrong. When right, to be kept right; when wrong, to be put right. Carl Schurz

“ONLY IN the Philippines” is a phrase we Filipinos love to parody ourselves with, often derisively rather than self-deprecatingly. We like to think of them – not us, excuse me! - as a peculiar race, rightly or not; an odd mix of cultural pigeonholes labeled according to one’s own stereotypes; a bizarre hodgepodge of undesirable characteristics that put a bad taste in the mouth or make one’s head drop in disgrace.

The list of ‘undesirables’, or a semblance of it, is rather long -- mostly embarrassing, a little amusing; at times downright funny, sometimes pitifully so; now and then inexplicably humiliating, but always with a tinge of sarcasm that tells a lot about us as a people. More is the pity, because instead of raising the bar of our national consciousness, we plunge ourselves deep into the global gutters – and we seem to take immense pleasure in doing so.

Aren’t we a masochistic society? How did we become what we say we have become anyway?

Not that the images reflected in the mirror are mere figments of the imagination. Reality bites, rather painfully, and truth is often stranger than fiction. However, to paraphrase a pundit, it doesn’t hurt to acknowledge once in a while that this country isn’t in flames yet; that there are people in the Philippines other than politicians, entertainers and criminals. That there is hope, in fact, if only we’d start believing in ourselves more and stop bashing one another like mad.

What is so wrong, anyway, with being Pinoy in this age of ultra-high technology and worldwide diasporas; when good old-fashioned values have been seemingly consigned to the dustbins of history and acknowledging one’s roots has become such a crying shame?

Discipline is an alien virtue? The cynic only has to look at Subic and Marikina, even Davao and Bohol, to realize that the Filipino is ‘controllable’ and ‘manageable’ after all. In fact, when we are in Rome - or elsewhere on the planet - we do as the Romans do, for fear of being deported or having one’s fingers cut off.

We drive cars (the latest SUV model, no less) the way the rest of the world does. We fasten seat belts, stop at intersections, obey traffic signs, heed traffic enforcers, observe speed limits, defer to fellow motorists, and follow common road courtesy --- that is, when we are not in the country’s chaotic interchange of tapered lanes and frenzied highways; when obnoxious drivers are the rule rather than the exception, and vehicles run like rats blinded by the light.

When we are in Singapore, LA, Toronto, Tokyo or Jeddah, we cross the streets using pedestrian lanes, overpasses, as well as underpasses. We throw away garbage at designated times and appropriate places, properly wrapped and segregated. We do not toss cigarette butts, candy wrappers, chewing gum residue and paper scraps any which way but the trash can.

We queue up at bus and railway stations, patiently and without raising a fuss. We don’t bother neighbors with boisterous karaoke singing, all-night card games, stereos blaring at mega decibel, rowdy laughter heard a block away. We toe the line, conscientiously (no spitting and vandalizing, for heaven’s sake), lest Big Brother knocks us off our feet. and rams down our throats a ticket back to ignominy.

Here at home, we don’t clear tables after eating at McDonald’s because we are used to having someone else clean up behind us. Maids, we grew up with them at our beck and call, didn’t we. When we are lazy to reach for a glass of water sitting at our elbow’s end, they do it for us, don’t they? And we don’t have to be rich to have one in the household, do we.

They do our laundry, cook our food, clean our rooms, arrange our closets, clean the sink, blow off the cobwebs of our shoddy existence. Which are exactly the things we do, less for ourselves but more for other people, when we depart for greener pastures or settle in some land of milk and honey.

‘Filipino time’? There’s no such thing as arriving fashionably late for an appointment or event, elsewhere in the world. Either you’re on the dot or you’re kaput. If anything, we make use of our waking hours to the max – taking on an extra job to pay the bills and send money to the folks. On off days, we do the tedious chores no one else will do at our dwelling places. Thus, there’s really not much time to be late for anything – fashionably or not.

We adapt very well, chameleon-like, to new environments, taking on an entirely different way of life like second skin, assimilating novel cultures and lifestyles like there’s no tomorrow. We acquire the local tongue and speak the same like natives, with a nasal twang to boot, even if back in high school we couldn’t utter a straight sentence in English. We change our wardrobe with the change in seasons, dressing up in stylish clothes straight out of Cosmo and Vogue, strutting around as veritable fashionista wannabes.

Nothing wrong with all that, actually. Like it or not, we are citizens of the world – we do fine out of the box, either by choice or circumstance, and we pay our dues quite faithfully. We stand out in the international arena as award-winning artists, champion athletes, blue-chip professionals, clever entrepreneurs, high tech wizards, ingenious inventors, excellent seafarers, innovative designers, multi-skilled workers – at par with, sometimes even superior to, other races.

Inside the box, however, is another story. We pull each other down like crabs racing to get out of a tight hole. We thump our leaders like it’s the only thing we do everyday, to the point of wanton disrespect and sheer disregard for authority. We even compete with each other in being the first to scale the world’s highest mountain, setting off on two separate expeditions at the same time. Whatever happened to the Filipino’s vaunted ‘bayanihan’ spirit? Where have all the heroes gone?

What of the very few who run this benighted land like it is their sole birth right ---those who’ve had their time at bat, and those who couldn’t wait for their own time to come? Aren’t they a cacophonous mix of graying political has-beens who think no one else can do better, and overfed political scions who think they are God’s gift to Juan de la Cruz? They have made it their personal crusade, bordering on obsession, to remove those who are more corrupt and more dishonest than they are, day in and day out. Pray tell, where have all the smart ones gone?

Many of them upped and left the country to break away from being identified with the Sick Man of Asia. The few who opted to remain are securely ensconced in their private comfort zones, steering clear of politics, believing it is beyond them to engage in the game’s dirty tricks. And those who do not have the means to do either become part of the self-styled silent majority – fence sitters, if you will, but just minding their own business and eking out an honest living.

Do migrant Filipinos, especially the ones who have acquired another citizenship, possess the moral ascendancy to rant and rave about what is happening in the Philippines while doing nothing more than just paying the requisite lip service from where they snugly sit and watch? Rizal and Ninoy, nearly a century removed from each other, decided to leave the safety and comfort of Madrid and Boston, respectively; to face the ‘battle field’ here, not there, as it were. They bit the bullet, went for the jugular, put their money where their mouths were, and their deaths fanned the flames of two disparate revolutions.

On the other hand, Joma and Jalandoni, ageing ideologues both, prefer to go on living it up in the Netherlands, in exile so-called; while their lesser cadres have been lurching for years and years in the hinterlands of Samar and Quezon, the two of them apparently not sharing the heroic notion that the Filipino is worth dying for. No way, Jose, oh no.

Foreigners looking in have a better perspective of us as a nation than we have of ourselves. To the outside world, we are a cheerful, hospitable people; decent and laid-back; talented and industrious; respectful and morally upright; strong and resilient; and famously good-looking, as we have a bevy of beauty queens to prove it.

Our country is blest with an abundance of natural wealth that other countries only dream about, and yet we take the first available chance to leave its shores to find “a better life”. In contrast, strangers who come adrift find it hard to leave for one reason or another. “The place grows on you”, they say, but we don’t know that because we grew up looking the other way, not really seeing, never listening.

Only in the Philippines.

soulmate

2006-05-03T18:22:00.000+08:00

hazy, almost unexistent, you
suddenly intrude into uncontrolled thoughts,
stirring unrestrained passions.
i'm afraid i'll never find you
in this lifetime.
i feel your presence
but you're not here,
and i bleed for unsaid
hellos and goodbyes.

i see a part of you
in everyone i hold,
but you're not there
when i look again
and i know
it wasn't you
all the time.

fate has a way
of hurting.
and truth is often painful.
you are destined
for another time and space
while i go through
this lonely journey
alone
in search
of you.

Bohol In My Reverie

2006-04-11T18:16:00.000+08:00

Were this world an endless pain, and by sailing eastward we could forever reach new distances, and discover sights more sweet and strange than any Cyclades or Islands of King Solomon, then there were promise in the voyage. Herman Melville (Moby Dick)

IT IS a place one doesn’t really dream of visiting; the way one perhaps obsesses about Venice, Athens, Paris or Prague. After all, it is just one island among 7,100 others that litter the archipelago. Could one be different from the rest? More so since it is just a hop and a skip away from the isle of one’s childhood -- the same mountain and sea, rivers and streams, caves and waterfalls, beaches and corals, trees and forests, the works. Or so one thinks, albeit with naiveté.

But this being a land of smiling contradictions, even an un-sentimental tourist is bound to get a pleasant surprise or two Bohol is charming in its simplicity, amazing in its inimitability, comforting in its laid-back way of life. It is endowed with a certain quality all its own; a distinctive character that transcends stereotype, bordering on legend but walking on sunshine, as it were.

And there lies the difference between Bohol and my island, bless the latter’s simple unadulterated soul. While the country’s third largest land mass wallows in abject poverty despite its richness, Bohol basks in the glory of its uniqueness and the attention that everyone showers on it - perhaps rightly so. For in a nutshell, the visitor doesn’t get the feeling of being lost in the middle of nowhere; neither do they have to wait long to exhale the putrid smell of decay whence they came.

One sets foot on it, and everything is there for the taking. Fresh air, paved roads, swaying palms, green fields, blue sea, white beach, good food, warm bed -- all the perks of modern living are draped in an abundance of Nature’s bounty. On a clear day, one can definitely see forever --- mountains looming in the horizon, clouds dancing in the sky, starry nights painting palettes of silver streaks and golden moonshine, marine creatures huge and tiny cavorting in the blue yonder. The promise of a one-of-a-kind adventure is at once inviting, at best exhilarating, inspiring giddiness and childlike glee.

The beaches? Any beachcomber worth his seashells will tell you he’s frolicked on more powdery grains and waded in more luminous waters. Panglao Island is no great shakes, actually, blessed as the country is with an infinite coastline that oozes white sand and crystal sea. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all; more so if one grew up caressed by the breeze and nurtured by the sun.

Then again, it’s all about seizing the moment. You look out to the ocean from your balcony, and you feel the impulse to jump into one of the hammocks cradled between rows of coconut trees, put your feet up and disappear into blissful slumber. Or, you walk barefoot on the seaside, and an odd sensation shrouds your being, something that not all the foot spas in the world can measure up. You walk farther towards where sea and sand meet, and the sound of tiny waves kissing the shore is music to your ears. All at once, lazing in the outdoors never looked so tantalizing, and it truly doesn’t matter whether some beaches are whiter than others.

Loboc River is a whole different story, however. You behold it and you wish Pasig River was not dead. Bohol’s quintessential crown jewel absolutely makes your heart skip a beat with its sheer magnificence. At first blush, words fail you until the river’s spell grows on you. Then something tugs at your sentimental cords and a similar waterway from your past haunts you like the mythic sprites that inhabit the realm. Salug, suba, karayan, ilog – whatever name one calls it, it would evoke the same rustic splendor and inspire the same maudlin yearning.

But only if it is as pristine and as healthy and as picture-pretty. It is a testament to the Boholano’s sense of heritage and reverence for Nature that Loboc has preserved its immaculate state, where other tributaries have succumbed to decadence and grime. The river hums its siren call, and its denizens take heed. They guard it with their lives, literally keeping vigil around its embankments; to care for, not destroy; to preserve, not annihilate; to enhance its beauty for all the world to see.

And what beauty there is to see. The river snakes its way amid verdant landscape, sunbeams peering through thick foliage, its emerald waters so tranquil and soothing to the senses. On its edges, people go about their daily lives, oblivious to strangers traversing their celebrated waterway. Overhead, children happily romp on a huge coconut tree that juts out across its breadth – a perfect diving board, if ever there was one. The wooden bridge that hangs from one end of the river to the other lends a more bucolic aura to the picturesque vista.

Not far away one hears a droning sound, that of a rhythmic splash that can only emanate from a waterfall. Busay Falls is no more than two meters high, but it is stunning just the same and the city dweller wishes for an urban oasis as rejuvenating. And if one gets lucky, the accidental day-tripper might even get to listen to the voice of angels. When the renowned Loboc Boys’ Choir rehearses, the whole town is swathed in an almost celestial atmosphere, adding a spiritual dimension to the passage. No, the Three Tenors on DVD can’t even come close to the surreal experience.

What of the postcard-perfect Chocolate Hills? Astounding, to say the least; confounding, when one comes to think of it; mystifying, to the highest degree. One could not help but marvel once more at the mysteries of Creation. Mounds of earth covered with patches of green that turn to brown at the height of summer. All 1,268 or so of them bosom-like peaks lying side by side on that piece of God’s solemn handiwork.

You used to just see them on postcards, learned about them in elementary school, and shrugged them off as no big deal. But after you’ve climbed 214 steps to stand on top of one of the biggest hill, you drink in the panorama laid out before your eyes, lift your head up to The One behind the clouds and mutter to yourself, what a wonderful world this is indeed.

Then there’s the tarsier. Is it a bird? Is it a rodent? No, it is a primate. Reputedly the smallest monkey on earth. Found mostly on the island’s forests, and a few in neighboring islands. Ohh, they’re simply adorable. They stare at you with their wide open eyes; long thin naked tail hanging from their minute frame no bigger than a man’s hand; arms and legs clinging tightly to barks and branches of trees and shrubs. When they’re as much as startled or excited, they turn their heads half a circle, their smooth furry bodies curled up even more snugly.

Six kilometers from Tagbilaran, one finds the oldest stone church in the country. Built in 1596, Baclayon Church still retains its original granite structure, its massive appearance symbolizing the inhabitants’ strength and resilience. Inside the church are artifacts and relics as old as the building itself: crystal chandeliers, silver tabernacle, altar with carvings inlaid with gold, stained-glass windows, life-size statues, religious paintings on the ceiling, and a 600-pound antique bell up in the belfry.

Bohol offers all these and much more -- dolphin and whale spotting at Pamilacan Island, spelunking at Hinagdanan and Bingag Caves, scuba diving at Balicasag Island, bird-watching at Rajah Sikatuna National Park, a string of ancient churches, landmarks depicting historical events (Blood Compact, anyone?), Spanish-era watch towers, mangrove-intertwined coasts, rows and rows of mahogany trees lined up majestically in the countryside, fresh seafood, cheerful people … and a boat ride down the river that sticks to one’s reverie like an old romance that refuses to go away.

The Heart Of A Woman

2006-03-01T14:55:00.000+08:00

“For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.” - Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)

“A woman is like a tea-bag – you never know how strong she is until she gets in hot water.”
- Eleanor Roosevelt (1884-1962)

“A woman’s whole life is a history of the affections.” - Washington Irving (1783-1859)

HOW does one fathom what is inside the heart of a woman? Does one dare venture into the unknown? Or try to make sense out of something incomprehensible?

“Woman, behold thy Son,” the dying Christ uttered from the Cross, virtually placing the weight of the world upon the shoulders of one fragile being. “Frailty, thy name is woman,” Shakespeare exclaimed in Hamlet, practically declaring the specie feeble and defenseless.

Strong or weak, any which way one perceives her to be, there couldn’t be a more paradoxical entity. She is the embodiment of everything the opposite sex is not, and perhaps much more. She can make you or break you, turn your day into a heaven or a hell, lift you to dizzying heights or bring you to your knees, inspire you or bewilder you, stir you up or stare you down, twist you around her little finger or firmly put you where she wants you to be.

But then again, when she allows you to enter her world, she is the personification of docility - acquiescent to temptation, susceptible to despair, vulnerable to aggression, prone to hostility. She will take all physical brutality, mental anguish or verbal cruelty in quiet, defiant tears. And when she does get hurt, the scars are deep; the wounds take long to heal.

Yet, she can only receive so much abuse. The moment she decides she’s had enough, she’ll lick her cuts and roar like an injured tiger; she’ll bare her fangs and strike like a demented avenger. She can inflict the deepest hack, pierce through the thickest skull, and tear down the most impregnable ramparts with the force of a waterfall raging through the rapids.

What is inside the heart of a woman? A history of the affections, indeed, and a cascade of emotions unraveling at will. Mother, wife, sister, breadwinner; lover, mistress, soul mate, friend – all rolled into one enigmatic bundle of spirit and spunk. Sinner, saint, martyr, victim; object of admiration, respect and wonder, as well as of envy, lust and anger --- a hundred different inscrutable things within the measure of a day.

She carries burdens and endures hardships that a man of lesser substance will find unbearable, yet she holds a vast reservoir of joy and lightness that infects those who surround her. She doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, absolutely not, and will toil her way towards solving a problem when no one else can. She is fiercely loyal to those who have earned her trust, and blames no one for the mistakes of her own making.

She smiles when she wants to cry and cries when she is happy. She sings when she is down in the dumps and shrieks in delight over little things that take her fancy. She laughs when she needs to spill her guts out and livens up the loneliest soul she meets along the way.

She fights back tears when the going gets tough, and leans on her own fortitude when her world is about to crumble. She may be pushed to the edge by the weight of all her fears but she manages, each time, to thrust herself right back to the center of her galaxy – determined, more than ever, to realize her dreams and achieve her goals.

Inside the heart of a woman is an immense capacity for giving and forgiving.

She gives so that her loved ones can have, even when there is none for her. She gives so much of herself, to the extent of being oblivious to her own wellbeing, expecting nothing in return. She gives until it hurts and there is no strength left to wash away the soreness in her jaded consciousness.

She forgives errant offspring, truant lovers, untrue friends. She forgives little indiscretions, intermittent slips of the tongue, and occasional lapses in judgment. She forgives - and tries so hard to forget – unforgivable transgressions and invasions to her space in the mold of deception, unfaithfulness, dishonesty, or treachery --- charging it all to lessons learned, experience gained, wisdom earned.

She suffers in silence, often in mute desperation, the persecution of adversaries and the loss of kin or relationships. Losing a partner by death or circumstance can drive anyone to wit’s end, but she copes rather well – mostly with a serenity that is amazing in its alacrity. Her opponents can assault her with all their might, but she will just hold out the other cheek and walk away – unbowed, unsullied, unscathed.

When she puts her mind on to something, she perseveres without letup; against all odds, if need be, come hell or high water. She gets things done without too much fuss, without wasting too much time; exerting not the least bit of effort whatever the outcome may be. She takes pride in a child’s achievement or a friend’s milestone, tripping the light fantastic with them and cheering them on to greater heights.

She does not easily let go of things that she treasures, even if they are not worth a fool’s ransom, and values every gift that she receives no matter how inconsequential. She takes it upon herself to make life easier for those she holds dear – cleaning toilets and ovens, paying for debts she doesn’t owe, talking the walk, walking the talk. She grieves at funerals, rejoices at weddings; hankers for love’s labors lost, and takes refuge in the freedom and solace of sleep.

Deep in the heart of a woman lay myriad secrets of the universe. Cherry blossoms abloom in springtime. The shadow of a smile reflected in a stream. The rock of Gibraltar conquered by no enemy. The moon over Venus and Mars. Music’s universal language. Poetry’s everlasting Muse.

While hers is the hand that rules the world, having rocked the cradle and nourished the womb; her heart, decidedly, is never ever out of love. It is always full to overflowing, like a river that surges to the sea when it swells too much for its own good. It keeps the earth revolving, like a wheel that has no ending or beginning. It emits warmth and nurturing, like a rainbow that lights up the sky after a sprinkle.

The heart of a woman feels a lifetime of pain, but wouldn’t willfully inflict it on another. It can bend, but never really break; stumble, but never actually fall to the gutter. It is strong, but not truly that invincible; for it aches passionately and craves for the same kind of love it gives away.

How Can I?

2006-02-17T15:25:00.000+08:00

How can I say
it was nothing
but a dream
when everytime
I close my eyes
I see you
I touch you
and I quiver?

How can I tell myself
let go of this folly
when you've given new meaning
to my dormant passions
and rekindled the spark
of a slumbering rapture?

And how can I
hold on to this feeling
knowing there's no tomorrow
and the rain won't fall
to wash away the pain
in my jaded heart?

How can I forget
the miserable aftermath
of that single indiscretion
when you loom
larger than life
in my anguished horizon?

How can I?

When A Man Loves A Woman

2006-02-14T16:35:00.000+08:00

When love is in excess it brings a man no honor nor worthiness. - Euripides (Medea, 431 BC)

There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.
- Friedrich Nietzsche (On Reading and Writing)

WHEN a man loves a woman, he treats her like a queen. He gives her everything he’s got, and more. Her every wish is his undying command, her every whim the desire of his heart. His is not to question why or give her a reason to cry, nor to argue why not and leave her high and dry; but to surrender completely, and be her slave if need be.

He places her on a pedestal, to honor and cherish till the end. He worships the ground she walks on, leaving an intoxicating scent of roses in her trail. He smothers her with mushy displays of affection, rendering her breathless in midair.

He loves her not for the way she looks but for what she is, warts and all. She may come on like a hag or croak like a frog, but he only sees a vision and hears the voice of a lark.

When a man loves a woman, there is nothing he won’t do just to be next to her. He would climb the highest mountain, sail the seven seas, walk to the ends of the earth if he would find her here, there, or anywhere. He wastes no time, and hesitates not a minute, in asking her – on bended knee - what she is doing the rest of her life.

There is nowhere in the universe he’d rather be than where she is. He will face every danger, conquer every obstacle, just to breathe the same air she breathes. He would trade places with the devil, or give up all that is dear to him, just to be close to her and give in.

When a man loves a woman, he sets her free. He gives her space to exhale and grow, to live her own life and be her own person. He allows her to pursue her own dreams, nurture her own skills, shine on her own achievements. He casts a gentle shadow behind her -- to nudge tenderly, not to overpower; to support unequivocally, not to compete against or be jealous of.

He waits patiently for her moment in time, secure in his place and undauntedly so. He prefers, invariably, to walk a step behind or to stand beside her; not walk a step ahead or stand in front of her, except to shield her from hostile forces. He is content to be the wind beneath her wings, the summer breeze that blows through the jasmines of her vulnerable mind.

When a man loves a woman, he doesn’t see the follies that she herself commits. He is blind to her sins of omission and little indiscretions. He is deaf to her protestations of imperfection and turns his back on those who try to put her down. No, she can never do anything wrong. She is either an angel or a saint, a goddess or a princess, a nymph or a temptress – flawless, faultless, infallible.

He is the first one to praise her, and the last one to condemn her. He extols her virtues, applauds her qualities, goes into raptures over her charms. He never blames her when she does commit a tiny bit of human frailty. To him, she will forever be the epitome of grace, the archetype of decorum, the model for near-perfection.

He watches over her like a lamb that’s lost in the woods, ready to pick up the pieces of her fragile world. He lives each day with music and poetry in his head, and the thought that consumes him is to be able to pluck her heartstrings and hold her at night.

When a man loves a woman, nothing else matters. The world can go hang for all he cares. He’ll sleep out in the rain if she tells him so, or jump over the cliff if she makes a pact with the prince of darkness. She can play him for a fool and bring him so much misery, but he’ll just string along and let her be.

“I cannot exist without you,” John Keats wrote to Fanny Brawne. “I am forgetful of everything but seeing you again--my Life seems to stop there--I see no further. You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving--I should be exquisitely miserable without the hope of soon seeing you. I should be afraid to separate myself far from you…. I cannot breathe without you.”

The prolific author Nathaniel Hawthorne felt inadequate describing his wife Sophia: "Dearest,-- I wish I had the gift of making rhymes, for methinks there is poetry in my head and heart since I have been in love with you. You are a Poem. Of what sort, then? Epic? Mercy on me, no! A Sonnet? No; for that is too labored and artificial. You are a sort of sweet, simple, gay, pathetic ballad, which Nature is singing, sometimes with tears, sometimes with smiles and sometimes with intermingled smiles and tears."

And the great Napoleon was a vanquished warrior in the presence of his beloved Josephine. In one of his letters, the lovestruck emperor intoned: “I wake filled with thoughts of you. Your portrait and the intoxicating evening which we spent yesterday have left my senses in turmoil. Sweet incomparable Josephine, what a strange effect you have on my heart! Are you angry? Do I see you looking sad? Are you worried? My soul aches with sorrow, and there can be no rest for your lover; but is there still more in store for me when, yielding to the profound feelings which overwhelm me, I draw from your lips, from your heart, a love which consumes me with fire? Until then, mio dolce amor, a thousand kisses; but give me none in return, for they set my blood on fire.”

History and literature are replete with great tales of love and romance, many of them tragic, some with happy endings. Who can forget how the grieving ruler of India’s Mughal Empire built a monument, known as the Taj Mahal, to honor his young queen? Or the way Marc Antony defied the Roman Empire to protect the Queen of the Nile. Surely, the story of how King Edward abdicated his throne in order to marry the American divorcee, Wallis Simpson, rings a familiar bell.

Lucky, indeed, is the woman who finds herself a man who will love her all the seasons of her life, not just for 15 minutes or so. But then again, Shakespeare wasn’t merely being facetious when he wrote:

“Men are April when they woo,
December when they wed.
Maids are May when they are maids
but the sky changes when they are wives.”

And Oscar Wilde: “When a man has once loved a woman, he will do anything for her, except continue to love her.”

incubus

2006-01-20T17:08:00.000+08:00

alone
nights find me
lost in ambivalent
thoughts of you.
i seek refuge
in the semi darkness
loath to sleep
afraid to see you
in my dreams.

mornings of discontent
bring no sunshine
to numb feelings.
cold hearts and tired limbs
douse the promise of spring
and i feel like a sad song
without an end.

a futile struggle, this
nightmare possessing me.
pangs of anger grow
inside throbbing breasts
searching for reservoirs
of splintered tears.
pain overcomes anger
yielding to emotions thawed
by a mere vision
enough to last me
till the morrow.

i only wished
to love rightly
and freely.
but what is right and free?

i'd rather
save the sunlight
than chase the rainbow.

The Sweetest Things

2006-01-07T17:32:00.000+08:00

“The best things in life are nearest: breath in your nostrils, light in your eyes, flowers at your feel, duties at your hand, the path of Right just before you. Do not grasp at the stars, but do life’s plain common work as it comes, certain that daily duties and daily bread are the sweetest things in life.” - Robert Louis Stevenson

STRANGE how we go through life in search of something we don’t really know what. Every so often, we miss the wood for the tree, or the tree for the forest, because we prefer to look at the big picture rather than the little snapshots that make up the grand mosaic of our existence.

We crave for the glorious pie in the sky and ignore the scent of fresh bread baking in the oven. We obsess about ivory towers and overlook our roots, maybe in fear that they will forever haunt us. We fixate on getting the corner office and neglect the nooks and crannies of our personal comfort zone.

Perhaps for the reason that early on, we were told to aim for the moon. Reach for the stars, conquer the world. Should we live our parents’ dream or should we follow our own road? We grow up, and we make our choices - good or bad, right or wrong, big or small, instinctive or ridiculous, enlightened or unwise.

As adults, we were admonished to think big, act big. Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing! We become single-minded in our goal to succeed – at all costs, come what may, whatever the consequences, damn the torpedoes, if it is to be it is up to me. In the process, we turn out to be like zombies somnambulating through the concrete jungle, or androids springing to animation at the push of a button.

Eventually, we end up not far removed from the commodities we trade in the market. Or the mean machine that churns out the perfect assembly line. Equipped with skills, but lacking in sensibility. Gifted with brains, but wanting in sentiment. Intricately packaged, but missing in value. All form, less substance. Hot air, no warmth.

Have we gone so far up the ladder or wide across the horizon that we don’t anymore feel the least emotion on what we have done or what we have become? Do we still recognize our own uniqueness as an individual or do we see ourselves as just another product on a shelf? Do we look at ourselves as a human being with a set of values or as a human resource with a set of abilities? To be sold or bought, as it were, according to what are puffed on the label or declared on the curriculum vitae.

It doesn’t help, either, that crass materialism and wanton commercialism have become the prevalent norms by which lifestyles are set or measured. In today’s world, having enough is never enough. There is always room for another car in the garage. The cell phone has too few add-ons. The living room TV set is not fashionably thin. The laptop has got to be an Apple. Xbox is the new toy. The iPod has a new version. Play Station has a new incarnation. Europe is passé.

We put out all the stops in keeping up with the Joneses, so to speak, much better if we put one over them. We bend over backwards in trying to outdo ourselves, or to outmaneuver the pretentious bloke drooling over the coveted post. We make a huge effort to make even the most trifling thing happen if only to feed our fantasies, assuage our fears or knead our oftentimes bloated egos.

Success!, or the sweet smell of it, makes us want to keep on plodding for more. If you look up, there are no limits! Don’t stop till you drop in exhaustion. Winners never quit. Quitters never win. I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul. Chances are, all chances will be taken – to get the extra mile or drink the extra bubbly; to dip our fingers on the caviar or soak our feet in the hot tub; to be king-of-the-hill, head-of-the-list, cream-of-the-crop, top-of-the-heap!

Looking out for number one isn’t such an off-putting thing, however. It is in making it the end-all and be-all of our existence that can inebriate, confound, stupefy, befuddle us to bits and pieces until we don’t know much of ourselves any longer. The heady brew of conquest has a way of shifting the balance, tilting the scales, lifting our chins up up and away, leaving us dreamier and hungrier, doubly insatiable, twice as unquenchable.

And we forget the little things that made our eyes sparkle in expectation during the wonder years. We conveniently relegate to oblivion the diffident manner with which we pandered to simple pleasures. We consign to the dustbins of our past the small victories we picked up on our way to the top, preferring to wallow in the luxuries and vagaries of the moment.

Consequently, much of the beautiful music within us remains unsung for the longest time, unheard and un-played and wasted to eternity. Much of the joyous rhythms that nourish the soul stay unshared with the persons near and dear to us, tattered as we are from the wear and tear of fighting tooth and nail for what we have and still must have. Most of the time, we just touch and go, hit and run, sink or swim, take it or leave it.

No, we don’t stop to smell the flowers, that’s too cliché. We don’t look up at the night sky and wish upon a falling star, that’s too juvenile. We don’t thump our chest over a game of scrabble or pump our fist after fluffing up the perfect pancake, that’s too blasé. We don’t take long walks at the beach or watch the sun go up and down, that’s too much waste of precious time.

Neither do we make an effort to know the person behind the handshake, seeing them only as the entity that signs on the dotted line or the face that goes with the soon-forgotten name. Old friends? They are mere entries in our phone books, if not hazy pictures from ancient history, that we go back to only when the need arises or the opportunity presents itself. Most of the people who walk in and out of our lives are merely fleeting shadows that we don’t allow to leave footprints in our hearts, washed away from our dreariness like sifting sands along unlamented shores.

And what of the thrill we used to get out of solving crossword puzzles, gazing at ships dropping anchor, feeding stray cats and dogs, having a good cry from watching a mushy movie or reading Les Miserables, pigging out on ice cream and mud pie, whistling a tune in the dark, climbing trees and picking up seashells, walking in the rain with the one we love…

They are now just misty water colored memories of the way we were, aren’t they. Sad, how we’ve drifted so far away from the odds and ends that made us whole. Sadder still that we continue to trudge on - sans emotional entanglement, without jubilation or trepidation. The tragedy being, that this so-called life does not let us savor the fruits of our labors, no more than slither through them, and we die without having truly lived.

Late Bloomer 2

2005-12-05T13:25:00.000+08:00

I wasn’t looking
when I found you
looking at me
looking at you.

It could have been
a twist of fate
a stroke of luck
a leap of faith.

Or was it
serendipity
coincidence
or meant to be?

A cruel joke
it doesn’t matter
I took the plunge
no need to ponder.

I’ll seize the moment
I’ll walk a mile
I’ll hold my breath
and lurk
in the shadows
of your mind
for a while.

LATELY

2005-11-19T18:32:00.000+08:00

HAVE YOU looked at yourself in the mirror lately? Really looked and seen things that weren’t there before? A grey spot here and there, perhaps; or an extra handle in the middle somewhere, a few funny rings around twitchy circles, some superfluous lines over rough edges that won’t go away. Or did you discern a new-fangled sparkle, a twinkle in the eye that radiates a warm glow, an inscrutable smile on the threshold of rapture, perchance to exact mayhem on an otherwise complacent state of being.

The mirror has two faces. Do you see the heady flush of maturity, or the alarming onset of senior status? Is it the sensuous aura of wisdom and experience, or the frightening advent of bodily dysfunction? Else, might it be the promise of renewed passions, instead of the disquieting onslaught of dead cells and dormant hormones?

Indeed, time has taken its toll on your visage; after all, no one is exempt from that torturous premise otherwise known as the law of gravity. But then again, in case you have been too much in a world of your own to even notice, you are at the prime of your life! Isn’t today the tomorrow you’ve been worrying about yesterday? So stop pacing the aisles and counting the miles for a while. Live it, love it, rock it, now.

*****

Have you gazed through the eyes of a child lately? Stared through and noticed the perplexed expression on his cherubic face? They speak volumes, a child’s eyes, penetrating through gaping holes in our subconscious, unearthing hidden guilts, harking us back to promises unfulfilled, breathing new life to unrequited wishes.

When was the last time you stopped to pat his head, muss his hair, twiddle his thumb, chase him around or just hug him tight? They grow up so fast these days, so fast and so furious it stumps you when you find out the child has become a man. When did he get to be so tall? Wasn’t it yesterday when he was small? And then you wonder where your own innocence went.

They are our likeness, a reflection of everything that is good, or bad, in us. We see a little, or a lot, of ourselves in them; and yet, more often than not, we take them to a quick ride through life’s merry-go-round with eyes wide shut. Are they merely part of the baggage, or the main journey itself? An appendage that discomfits you, or the love light that consumes you?

*****

Have you engaged anyone in a gratifying conversation lately? Real-time repartee, not punched on a keyboard or thumbed on a cell phone. Heart-to-heart, eyeball-to-eyeball, no-holds-barred, cards-on-the-table discussions with people who matter in your life. It is rapidly becoming a lost art, the art of conversation; pitiably snowed under by the constantly evolving wonders of technology.

Do you remember when it was you last wrote someone an honest-to-goodness letter the old-fashioned way? Do you, by any chance, still know the loops and twirls of your own handwriting? Most of the time, for lack of time, you would rather gawk at the blinking screen than take in the sounds and sights of an actual interactive exchange. You would rather pound feverishly away at the computer keys than enunciate your thoughts using all your senses.

There is just no substitute for crackling laughter and giggly banter, no virtual reality experience for genuine sentiment and unfounded fears, no stand-in emotion for crying out loud and driving another person crazy. Technological savoir faire empowers you to do things you haven’t done before, but it also dulls you of sensations better felt than conveyed through an emoticon or two. So go ahead and talk, listen, laugh, gaze, smell, touch, savor, live, love!

*****

Have you told anyone how you feel lately? Said it like it is, straight from the shoulder, without mental reservation, with a tug in the heart? Procrastination is the devil’s workshop, and being perpetually ensconced in our dog-eat-dog subsistence is no excuse for taking our loved ones for granted, complacent in the thought that they are just a glance away.

For once, just once, wear your heart on your sleeve; go for the jugular, throw caution to the wind, seize the moment, be spontaneous. Say it out loud, whether you’re ashamed or proud. Don’t take a second to hesitate before you jump into the water or take a leap of faith. Don’t let a sudden twist of fate overtake you and find out one sad day that someone is no longer there forever. What then of things undone, words unsaid? Regrets are many, and we pay dearly.

Kiss then your mother in the forehead more often. Walk your father to the wharf just as frequently. Cuddle up with the one you’re with, hold their hand and keep it close to your chest. Wrestle with the little rascals and smother them with baby kisses till they turn away from your tender embrace. Call up a friend you haven’t spoken to since that juvenile spat. Be patient with an annoying youngster, and hold your breath for the one who brings out the muse in you.

*****

What have you done for yourself lately? Surrounding yourself with earthy frills is fine, but haven’t you yet gotten weary with merely just surviving, doing the same rut over and over? Isn’t it the time of your life to do things that are mind-liberating rather than thought-provoking, body-relaxing rather than physically-draining, soul-feeding rather than soul-searching?

Are you forever caught in the I-don’t-know-where-I’m-going-but-I’m-on-my-way stage, or do you have this devil-may-care what-the-heck-life-is-short-anyway sensibility? Getting entangled in a web of self-inflicted anguish over unreachable goals or never-ending aspirations can be frustrating, maddening, exasperating, infuriating, vexing to the brain, the flesh, and the spirit. Pause for a while and give yourself a respite from exerting too much blood, sweat and tears over things that will pass. Experience a novel sensation, or revisit an old haunt.

Take up a new sport, or any sweat-inducing movement that could pass for a sport. Is golf too urbane for you? And the sun too harsh on your skin? It wouldn’t hurt to play sophisticated lady or worldly gentleman for a change, walk under an umbrella or hide beneath a hat, strut a confident stance across the length and breadth of eighteen impenetrable holes, never mind the wobbly legs or the protruding gut.

Take a look inside the old treasure chest sitting in a forsaken corner of your room and dig deep for long-forgotten memories, the better for you to summon a bittersweet tear or two. Peep outside the window of an airplane and see the clouds drifting far below and marvel once more at the mysteries of Creation. Play piano in the dark, or learn a new jig even if you believe you dance like a frog in a blender.

Watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the very first time, or read Wuthering Heights all over again. Find an occasion to wear the little red dress that’s been hanging in your closet for ages, or the crisp Armani jacket that’s been known to make heads turn to your direction. Write the poem that’s been filtering in your head for a while and give it to a friend as a present.

Heed the siren call of the mystic river of your childhood or the surreal sound of angelic voices that once ran shivers down your spine. Shed off that self-deprecating exterior and show off the side of you that charms the socks out of strangers lurking perilously in the night. Get down on your knees, if you haven’t done so in years, and lift up your spirit to The One who patiently waits at the Last Train Station.

Most of all, don’t give up on you; go on chasing rainbows, spinning dreams. The future, you know, isn’t just one night!

id

2005-10-14T16:47:00.000+08:00

i've been
chasing rainbows
most of my life
anxious to see
the silver lining
eager to catch
the pot of gold
never knowing
where to start.

i am
obsessed by a spectral dream
haunted by an imaginary oath
enrapt in a dizzying whirl
of light and shadow
hoping the rain
would not fall.

i often trudge
where angels fear
to tread
acquiescent to temptation
susceptible to despair.
the scars are deep
the wounds take long
to heal.

i've never been
to a rainbow's end.

i wish
it wouldn't stop
somewhere in midstream.

wanderlust

2005-10-03T13:17:00.000+08:00

passing through
now familiar highways
cold winds battering a ravaged face,
thoughts drift away
from the flurry of images
sweeping a frenzied vision.

out in the black night
what-might-have-beens
and what-used-to-bes
assault the tired mind
with unwanted recollections
while the pale half-moon
casts a sympathetic wink
at the dancing silver streaks
in the cloudless sky.

a vicious cycle, this
long and winding road
leading nowhere.
uphill, downhill
in rhythmic proportions
on to rugged trails and empty trains
life passes by
untouched, unsullied, unchanged.

a stranger sits still
watching the wheels
go round and round
asking questions with no answers
searching for truths with no meanings
ever wondering, never knowing
forever just passing through.

If I Could

2005-09-29T18:43:00.000+08:00

If I could fly
across the sky
I'd be an eagle
soaring high
with mighty wings
in breathless flight.

If I could write a song
it would be a ballad
not of pain
or of longing
but of faith
and of hoping.

If I could be a new creation
I'd like to be the deep blue ocean
keeping the secrets of its bosom
an infinite mystery to fathom.

If I could be part of a rainbow
I'd be the color yellow
bringing laughter and mirth
to golden home and hearth.

If I could live
in another place and time
I'd only wish to be
where you will be
I'd try to end all questioning
and do only one thing
worship you just the same.

Life is a perpetual dream.

If I could
I'd love you
longer than forever
if it would mean
you'd be mine by then
and I'd stop living
the dream that is
you.

The Unbearable Lightness Of Being A Writer

2005-09-23T16:00:00.000+08:00

Writing is easy. All you have to do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.

The pundit who said that must have known whereof he spoke. To many, writing is an abstract undertaking that doesn’t require any real work. It entails nothing more than furring the eyebrows, rubbing the chin, tapping the fingers, pacing the aisles, muttering incoherent words, fidgeting on a chair, sitting immobile for hours on end, staring at the ceiling or blankly into space.

It is a hazy profession that offers few tangible rewards, if at all; a choice not often taken as it barely puts food on the table or a shirt on one’s back. It is a constant wrestling with thought that sucks strength and dissipates the intellect; an incessant grappling with words that emaciates the spirit and takes one’s breath away.

Yet, “of all the arts in which the wise excel, Nature’s chief masterpiece is writing well,” a poet of yore intoned. It is the only profession where no one considers you ridiculous if you earn no money, another learned man said. And, “Achilles exists only through Homer,” a French author riposted. “Take away the art of writing from the world, and you will probably take away its glory.”

In essence, good writing starts as a lump in the throat or a glint in the eye, a jerk in the knee or a spark in the belly, a wrench in the gut or a pinch in the heart. It is invariably referred to as a germ or a lead, a brainstorm that wouldn’t leave; a Muse, or an inspiration, a writer’s sole excuse for being.

It begins “as a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness… a moment here and a moment there,“ Robert Frost said. “It finds the thought and the thought finds the words. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom… in a clarification of life.”

It can be a poem or a song, an essay or a play, a short story or a novel, a news item or a commentary, an ad copy or a press release, a film script or a TV spiel, a corporate report or a promotional collateral, a speech or an editorial, an office memo or a court pleading, a marketing plan or a feasibility study. The writer’s flights of fancy are limitless and manifold --- chronicled in ways that are prosaic or metaphorical, wistful or analytical, mundane or ethereal.

Thus, if writing makes an exact man as Francis Bacon opined, what exactly makes a writer?

“(A writer is) a complicated soul who lives only for words in ink”…“(a person) who says farewell to the secrets of his mind and gives them to the world.” He ignores gender biases - “I am neither a man nor a woman but an author,” Charlotte Bronte stressed. He is single-minded in his purpose, according to William Faulkner – “The writer’s only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one.”

He is a prodigious thinker who makes other people think and look inside themselves; who, in the words of Jane Austen, produces gems “in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humor are conveyed to the world in the best chosen language.”

He is a profound romantic who celebrates beauty in equable odes, joyfully ever after spewing forth a cornucopia of rhythmic tours de force; who stirs passions and dares the Fates in reckless abandon, bestrewing an iridescent glow across a rarefied firmament; who sees the world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wildflower, reciting mantras only his ilk can understand.

He is a restless warrior fighting the demons forever bedeviling his mind’s eye; an intrepid hunter eternally trying to figure out life’s meaning; a plumed denizen of a charmed fiefdom constantly divining intellectual awakenings; a paradoxical entity, happily or sadly, often lost in his own thoughts and rapt in his own philosophical musings. He not only sees the stars in the heavens, says a young American poet named Lane Edwinsol, but brings them to earth one by one and keeps them in a museum of text.

He has the luxury of time to smell the roses, watch the sunset, hear the music, feel the pain…

Czech author Milan Kundera, in his bestselling novel The Unbearable Lightness of Being, asks the reader this compelling question: “What then would you choose – weight or lightness?” In the context of everyday life, the choice would depend on one’s priorities, values, goals, limitations, inhibitions or aspirations. Each has a purpose in the scheme of things, with one choice not necessarily better than the other.

The writer, however, doesn’t have much of a decision to make. As it is, a heavy baggage weighs him down from one journey to another, with numerous forks to hurdle along the road; Atlas lugged and shrugged, as it were; the Sword of Damocles hanging over his head like a curse; his chest bursting at the seams in suspended animation.

On the other hand, he soars in weightlessness like a bird in unimpeded flight – no limits, no fears, no worries, no tears. He carries an aura of giddy invincibility borne of self-gratification; a daring proclivity to venture into the unknown; a lightness of mind, body and spirit that can be so incredibly unbearable.

Spellbound

2005-09-13T17:16:00.000+08:00

The whole day she sat and fidgeted. Her world was full of blank spaces and empty stares, and there was a hint of sadness in her eyes.

Even the words wouldn't come easily as they used to. She had to grope for every single phrase, every single line, heavily, arduously.

Her heart brimmed with only one thought, albeit a painful one; and she was lost deep in it, hurting so bad, trying hard to reach out to the ghost that bedevils her cluttered life.

Then suddenly, her face lit up like a thousand blooms and the world stood still for a moment. He was there, in front of her, staring his soulful stare, smiling his silky smile.

He must have seen the stunned look in her eyes. She just sat on her chair, pen in hand, a pile of paper on her desk, gazing back at him, trying hard not to blink for fear that he might disappear.

But he didn't. He was really there - in living color - still pink from the cold of his distant journey, so big, and gentle, and beautiful.

And she melted.

What Is The Sound Of Silence?

2005-08-15T16:23:00.000+08:00

Could it be the sound of a leaf falling gingerly to the ground, or that of one’s heartache reaching out in muted screams of pain and longing?

Could it be the sound of a rosebud breaking gently into full bloom, or that of one’s thoughts floating aimlessly in the vast emptiness of time and space?

Silence speaks, ever so eloquently, but no one stops to listen.

No one hears the sound of a portrait staring back at eyes that don’t see, or that of a single teardrop threatening to unleash a torrent of despair.

No one hears the sound of a rainbow changing hues across a listless sky, or that of deep slumber heaving dreams in rhythmic sighs.

What of the song that needed to be sung, the letter that craved to be written, the prayer that yearned to be said, the promise that hankered to be fulfilled?

The language of silence is the language of serenity. Serenity that resides in the heart and mind, as well as in the senses; that comes from embracing love, attaining wisdom, knowing contentment.

“Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence…”

The Phantom Of Her Haunted Dreams

2005-08-13T13:27:00.000+08:00

She stares blankly ahead, her chin resting on a folded hand. Her thoughts swim to all directions, but really just to nowhere. She looks but doesn't see, listens but doesn't hear, touches but doesn't feel, moves but doesn't understand. Smile? She tries, but...

She lays in the dark alone, sleep takes long in coming. Her thoughts swim again and tears well in her eyes. When will it stop, this madness? Even as she prays hard to break free of the shadows that follow her, deep in her heart she craves for that one moment long ago and far away, now lying steadfast in her dreams, just a fading memory.

Only he can make her smile again. Just the thought of him, or the sound of his voice, can make her feel good again.

For a while.

Phantom Dreams

What's on his mind? I fear
The silent scream of a restless tear
I cannot hide. The pain of knowing
Reality when ends the dreaming.

Frazzled thoughts swim to nowhere
Listening to sounds I couldn't hear
With my eyes closed. Like rain in May
The word goodbye it's hard to say.

What's on his mind? I wonder
Whether 'tis nobler to surrender
And let it die. It's such sweet sorrow
Good things don't last until the morrow.

Like An Unforgotten Lover

2005-08-11T18:18:00.000+08:00

It is said that home is where the heart is. The peripatetic soul seeks pasture in the far corners of the earth, takes root and bears fruit in some strange places, wanders off to more unknown spaces, struggles to fulfill a destiny, and yet still hankers for that one warm spot where dreams used to be sweet and memories decidedly tender. Home is where the heart is, indeed, and it beckons every time the spirit falls prey to earthy frills, when the flesh succumbs to bodily ills, and the mind grows weary from merely just surviving.

Smell the flowers... walk on grass... hear the birds sing... gaze at the moon... laugh in the rain... be a child again. The promise of home is at once inviting, at best hopeful; sometimes stirring, oftentimes uplifting; but always wistful and almost ethereal, in essence a comforting refuge from the cold, biting winds of change.

Phantom Dreams 2

2005-08-11T14:06:00.000+08:00

If my heart had wings
it would have flown with the wind
and lingered where your thoughts are.

If my thoughts could touch
a part of you,
I would feel the sadness
in your eyes
and reach out to the deep end
of your soul.

If my soul had a heart
it would have soared from the depths
and found its home where you are.

incubus 3

2005-08-10T18:20:00.000+08:00

leo nights
are here again
killing me
with the violent winds
of burnt passion
and steeled emotion.

i fear
the rustling of grass
under my feet
the touch of rain
upon my face
the gentle stroke
of lustful fingers
against my skin.

would i surrender
my virgin heart
chastened by pasts
long lost among the shadows
of time?
should i stop trying
to save the sunlight
knowing there's no tomorrow
in the uncertain mists
of now?

being least and last
is such a terrible feeling.

the rainbow is pale
amid a hysterical sun
as i watch in quiet abandon
the changing of hues
for the answer
that wouldn't come.