Riding the waves at 67

I was struck by the Pastor's anecdote last Sunday about one of the things a batch of 6 to 13 year olds had to do at last month's church summer camp -- to write their epitaph. What do you want people to remember about you? What do you want to share with people after you're gone?

I found myself reflecting on what I heard, and asked myself what I would have written. I was actually absorbed by it even if I wouldn't need it, having said quite often that I prefer immediate disposal, no viewing, no vigils, just maybe a get-together of family and friends with lots of food and music. Nevertheless I came out with one after a couple of days..

I mean every word.

I actually had Jenny in mind. If there is anyone I would want to hear or read it, it's her, first and foremost. It is something I want her to remember after I am gone. If she does and heeds it, then I would not have only fulfilled my purpose, I would have left her the best that I ever could.

I am going through what I would consider the most turbulent period of my life so far. These last couple of months have been marked by big and strong waves. They are relentless and unceasing. I am weak, spent and against the wall.

I sometimes think back and realize I never thought this would happen. Not to me. Not at my age. I let my guard down. I lived for the moment when one must learn to do so but with enough consideration of tomorrow. I failed to use God's gift of wisdom. I opted for life's distractions.

My biggest regret is that I set a bad example for Jenny. I also did not equip her for the storm. I sense her pain, being in the storm with me. Under our circumstances, my only option is to pray. I regretted, I sought and received forgiveness.

Now I am learning to stay firm in the abiding presence of God, unbelievably joyful and strangely at peace even as the waves beat me up. After all, He knows my every need, His plan for me is truly the best ever, He knows each strand of hair on my head, He stays with me through the storm, He preceded me and has resolved all my problems. Often, He has to remind me of the countless big and small 'impossibilities' I encountered and how He sorted them all in a way that not only saved me but even prospered me in more ways than one. These thoughts never fail to quiet me down that I see the waves for what they really are -- not some punishment from a displeased parent but as merely an interlude, a refining that will enable me to savor the best of joy that is to come.

I invariably find myself praying. By His grace, I will focus not on the waves but on Him, the Lord of the storm Who holds me and will never let go of me, and that Jenny will learn the same. As I feel His arms around me, my heart sees Him nodding ever so gently and smiling quietly as He does.

Thank God that He made the rhythm of life such that before and after each wave comes a fleeting moment when one can lift up one's arms to grasp a bit of heaven's power. This way, one is always equal or even stronger than the next wave until the next momentary respite comes again.

The waves come again and again and again. But it no longer matters that they do.

Yup, at 67, I am learning to surf.

The giving tree

Upon entering our front gate, one has to navigate under the spindly branches of a slim and not-so-tall -- about 6+' -- atis tree. 

So to reach our front door, you risk being poked in the eye by a protruding branch or having your hair teased and matted by the same. 

But we never bothered to do anything to the tree more than to trim it a bit to avoid possible lawsuit from irate visitors LOL!

This is the same tree I took photos of in September last year. Its lovely fruits caught my fancy and  soon after, I posted photos of it on FB. Friends from overseas were delighted to see a fruit they never thought existed. Pinoy friends based abroad said how they miss the atis. Other friends said they haven't had atis for a long time!

The tree caught my fancy again this morning. I remember Raul's delight as he had our latest harvest from it for dessert at dinner last night. He so carefully made sure he enjoyed the teeny weeny flesh that held each of the countless black seeds. I guess its being "one from our own" really made it special.

The tree is so slim that one wonders how it can hold up against the wind. And how it continues to survive amid all that growth -- pepper, bougainvillea, water plant, all sorts of ferns, weed, carabao grass, papaya trees, etc. Most of all, how it can be so prolific! Right now, it has about two dozen fruits in various stages of development with more coming. One or two ripen up for eating every few days. 

This tree reminds me of Michael Jackson and something he said in his last TV interview. When the interviewer marveled at a  music piece MJ was working on with Will.i.am, MJ quietly said, almost in a whisper, "I never stopped." God's gift of music to MJ kept on giving. Until today.

Just like our atis tree. It has not stopped bearing fruit since it began to do so last year. 

What's amazing is that we just let it be -- no special care, just watering every so often, and a single light bulb on throughout the night to drive away the bats when one of its fruits is mature and about to ripen. 

So guess who's making such bounty possible?

I say this giving tree right by our front gate is a gift from a generous and loving God. 

Hats off, hats on!!

Bakit kaya ayaw pumila ng Pinoy? a.k.a. My own SONA

July 25, 2011, 8:15 a.m. A few minutes ago, I received a text message from Jenny – “Ma, I fell inside the train – I was pushed and lost my footing.” In a few more minutes, she limps her way into the house. While changing from her street clothes, we discover lumps and bruises close to her elbows and on her thighs and legs. “Thanks, God,” I whispered, for it could have been worse.

Mondays, Jenny goes to work via MRT. Her car's plate number ends with 1 and can therefore be on the road only from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. on Mondays. Thus she’s off around 7 a.m. ready to go through the looonnnnng line just to get inside the MRT (North EDSA) station and the insane melee that ensues once the train doors are opened. Until this morning, she has so far avoided anything worse than being elbowed.

While keeping the ice pack on the biggest lump close to her left ankle, Jenny recounted how she shouted at the people inside the train – “Bakit kayo nanunulak?!!!? Wala ba kayong pinag-aralan!!??!” The sadder thing here is that she boarded the coach for women, pregnant women, women with children, the elderly, the disabled. She said no one helped her get up or apologized or showed any sign of being affected by her remark. “No one could look me in the eye, Mom.”

This incident may be minor to some and major to me only because it happened to my daughter. Maybe. Nevertheless, it concretely conveys my own take on the State of the Nation today.

Whatever the President says in his SONA (State of the Nation Address) which he will deliver before Congress and the rest of the country this afternoon, one thing is clear to me – we have gone so low as a people. Until we are able to disengage from our being caught up in ourselves without any concern for others – at home, in the office, in the supermarket, at the MRT station, everywhere and anywhere -- we will continue to be less than what God meant human beings to be. We will continue to be more like the lower forms of God’s creations. But then, I am reminded that even animals and other lower species have their codes of conduct. Study the wolves and the geese and the dolphins and the ants. They have better sense of other-ness (if there is such a word) and team. Why then?

I have been engaged in much talk about the “kapwa” psychology lately -- that at the very core of the Filipino is an awesome sense of his kapwa, a shared identity that melds self with the others, a concern for neighbor and community over self. But more and more, I share what Eugene said last Friday – it is too good to be true, a goal rather than reality. From what I have been seeing and at the rate things have been going for so long, perhaps a figment of one's imagination? An "impossible dream?"

I have yet to read related dissertations and writings on loob and sarili. But I suspect the Filipino’s problem is right there -– inside. And there is no excuse to leave it at its present sordid state even if it's something Pinoys share with the rest of mankind.

I usually ride the car to wherever I have to go. But I sometimes also take the MRT or a cab or a jeepney or the FX. I walk the sidewalks of Quezon City, the malls in Ortigas and Makati, etc. Time and again, I am frustrated to see more negative behavior than I wish there were.

And I do not just see such behavior among sidewalk vendors or the tambay or the street families, the barkers at the FX terminal or the security guards at the Mall. I also see them exhibited by the white-collar workers, the uniformed professionals like the nurses, caregivers; the students; executive-looking men and women; etc. And also by the class of people who frequent such places as Shangri-la Plaza Mall, Power Plant or Greenbelt -- the wealthy-looking well-coiffed matron whose designer bag is in the tight clutches of yaya walking beside her; or the English-speaking young family at Sumo Sam or Tender Bob's; likewise the elderly guy with a bratty boy in tow who is probably his apo; or the one in a wheelchair being pushed by a nurse; or the bespectacled techie surfing endlessly on his laptop at Starbucks or UCC.

They are why I do not agree with something Jenny said at the MRT this morning. It is not because walang pinag-aralan. Sadly it is something more basic, something beyond schooling, perhaps more due to parenting or "pagpapalaki." I am reminded of what Sansan says about breeding, as she relates another incident that shows striking similarities between some of her uppity acquaintances and the squatters in Guadalupe outside the compound where she used to stay -- "Lu, you either have it or you don't, rich or poor, young or old, schooled or unschooled."

At the root of it all, I see the negative kind of pride – yabang, pagiging makasarili, walang paki sa iba. Basta makarating ako sa pupuntahan ko. Basta makuha ko ang gusto ko. Basta magawa ko sa pamamaraan ko. Ko. Ako. Akin. Sarili.

I see various versions of claiming one’s entitlements. Or simple unmindful unconcerned “wala lang.” Without fail, one finds in their wake someone deprived of his or her own right, someone hurt, someone’s freedom usurped. Ano ba naman, kuya?!!!???

This IS the State of the Filipino nation today. Call me a pessimist. KJ? Pintasera? Reklamista? Critical spirit? But I just find it such a challenge to find more positive behavior than negative ones on the streets of Metro Manila today.

What do I do about this? Well, I am increasingly more careful and trying harder to behave properly at all times, not just because, but precisely because I know I was created for a good and noble purpose. (Of course being human, I fail at times, though I honestly try hard to do so less and less.) Starting with the simplest, "noble purpose" cannot include winning in a jostling match just to win a seat onto the MRT, or slyly maneuvering my cart to be first in line to the cashier at the supermarket or squeezing my way at the taxi lane, or elbowing the woman beside me to grab hold of the only remaining Size XXXL blouse at the Rustan’s sale.

I now also remind those close to me to do the same. I bring up these issues with family and friends, which by the way often ends with more horrific accounts of the obnoxious, the disconcerting, the downright stupid incidents which have seemingly become second nature to the beautiful, smiling, hospitable people of the Pearl of the Orient. I also write these little pieces which I hope will get at least one other person thinking, and then doing more of his or her bit.

I know there are so many others doing the same and doing more than I am. Obviously though, we need to do more and many more ought to do the same. There are 90M of us and growing -- I guess being 65, it's not likely that I will see the change I am hoping for in my lifetime.

On second thought, God is in control so, who knows? Maybe I will.

What I thought couldn’t happen to me actually did!

At around 1:00 p.m. on Friday, May 13, 2011, I left Benpres at Ortigas Center for the Eugenio Lopez Center (ELC), the venue of the Building Bridges Leadership Journey (BBLJ) Start-Up Workshop, with the BBLJ secretariat. Having been strapped for time, Laling and I agreed to buy the additional Workshop supplies at the SM Hypermart Masinag branch on the way to ELC.

Again to save on time, Laling and I agreed to each take care of the different items and then meet at a specific cash counter as I had the project’s cash advance.

At around 2:00 p.m., I was waiting for Laling at Cashier no. 7 with a big grocery cart full of assorted goodies for the Saturday evening socials and 60 bottles of mineral water for the field visit. Not to waste time, I wanted to have my wallet ready and groped through the various compartments of my bag for it. It was then that I discovered it missing.

Momentarily Laling came. I told her about my loss and proceeded to the Customer Service counter where I reported the incident to the staff in charge.

I called up my daughter and asked her to call up the banks to have my credit cards and ATM cards blocked. I then also called up my boss to inform her of the incident and to request that she bring some cash as Laling didn’t have enough money nor credit card that we could use for the supplies.

Soon the SM guards came. Following was what I remember relating to them:

A woman in a dress – big and tall and fat with a pockmarked face– was in front left of me as I was traversing the center aisle. She had the small grocery cart with two empty baskets. I was irritated because I couldn’t get ahead of her as she didn’t seem to know where she wanted to go. She would go left, then right then left again, etc.

In front right of me was a couple with a child. They too were not moving as fast as I wanted them to. Then from one of the side aisles ahead on the right suddenly came a slim, youngish girl. I recall telling her off to give way because her empty grocery cart blocked my path.

I also recall having felt that there seemed to be a number of people around my back. And strangely at some point these people were suddenly all gone.

I pinpointed to the SM staff and guards the aisle I came from and the point where there was crowding around me. I requested that they review their CCTV tapes.

I was just focused on getting the chore done so we could be off to ELC that I didn’t look back or around me. I now think that was around the time when my wallet was taken. But a friend said that may have been better. She knows me well enough to know that I would probably create a scene or fight it out in case I noticed someone groping inside my bag. And if a group was really responsible, I may have been hurt.

Much as I hope I could get my wallet back (brown, soft genuine leather with circles in different sizes in light-colored stitches, a small hidden tag of the Japanese designer in one of the card compartments inside the zippered section – it was a memorable, much-deliberated-on albeit excessive purchase on my last tour of duty in Tokyo), I thought that the possibility of recovering it or any of the things it contained quite remote. I had P20,000 project funds, approximately P5,000 personal money, various credit cards, ATM cards, ID cards, etc.

The incident happened during “off-hours” – there were very few shoppers at that time. There weren’t even any lines at the counters. The place had just been opened a week or so ago. It was one of the most public and guarded places. One would think it's an unlikely place and time for such an undertaking. Or perhaps this was precisely why it was the perfect place and time?

There may have been carelessness on my part. But it is clearly an indication of how widespread crime has become in our country and how criminal-minded Filipinos have become so brazen as to go about their business whenever and wherever they want and so cunning as to use their ability to think up of strategies to get away with other people’s money and property.

Material poverty is something we clearly see around us. But the poverty of the spirit that has swallowed many of us and prevents us from discerning and/or choosing right from wrong is what to me of greater concern.

In the aftermath, one is able to think beyond the “societal” to the more personal.

Thank God workshops are what they are and being in the Secretariat what it is – nitty-gritty details, last-minute changes, rapid-fire decisions, etc. Through Sunday evening, there simply wasn’t time for me to dwell on that big fat woman, etc. and her cohorts. (Judgmental? But it's circumstantial! What else can one conclude?)

In between the numerous chores though, images of my lost possessions would cross my mind’s eye causing a momentary lump in my throat – my wallet tattered and lying near a trash can somewhere. Or being summarily examined by an unknown person. Or perhaps being lovingly fondled by a young girl who could not tell genuine from faux leather but was just happy that she had a new wallet. My ATM and credit cards carefully examined and my personal details taken note of. My senior citizen's ID being turned this way and that, perhaps eliciting laughter from my unknown attackers at having victimized "lola" or causing guilt in some of them for precisely the same reason. The cash being counted and split across the members of the group. Or perhaps turned over to the group’s top honcho.

Once the workshop was over and I was back home, there was no avoiding having to confront the incident and how I really felt about it.

I actually felt I was attacked unwittingly. A stranger’s hand groping through my bag and through my things without my knowing still gives me a chill. I had other things inside my bag which means s/he even chose which one to take. At one point I even thought that it was a form of rape. A helpless, unknowing, unwilling victim overpowered by one so driven by one objective alone – to take.

Over these past days, I had time to process the incident a bit more and I continue to do so. I ask myself questions? How come I stopped my habit of just keeping a few bills inside my wallet and most of my money in my pocket (am not stating which pocket lest I be victimized again)? How come I decided to bring my credit cards and my ATM cards when I knew I would be cooped up at the venue through Sunday evening? How come I decided to take along P5000 of my personal money when I had P20000 cash for workshop-related disbursements?

Then I eventually told myself that the only question I should be asking myself now is: what is this incident telling me? And for whatever they’re worth to others, here are the more significant things I “heard” and “saw” in answer to that question.

 I must think through what I do or how I use each and every blessing I receive. That is the call of stewardship.

 My material possessions are proofs of my moments of great wisdom or careless folly. I must have more of the former and less of the latter. They are also made not-to-last and therefore losing them, whether naturally by erosion or decay, or forcibly through theft or others' greed, is a real possibility.

 Extravagance is a choice I make and often, unwittingly. I must make less and less of such and must therefore try to always have my wits about me, especially when at the mall.

 The future will flow into my life whether I like it to or not. Much as I wish I could sometimes postpone it or sometimes speed it up, I can’t. I must therefore live in the moment at all times, allowing the present to be and the future left to its own time.

 Everything that happens to me is potentially significant to me for a reason. But I must delve into each one in order to know, to understand, and to use appropriately, no matter how painful, unnerving or jarring.

 What happens to me could also be significant to others if they allow it to show them things that could be of use to them in their own lives. But first I must tell them about it, no matter how sad or humiliating or uncomfortable or time-consuming.

Over all, I am thankful that I was allowed to carry out my duties during the Workshop with relative effectiveness. I sincerely appreciate that Laling was there to help me through. I am also thankful that I didn't have any precious irreplaceable items in my wallet -- photos whose negatives or digital files I no longer have or my tiny metal glove souvenir of MJ; or something for my eyes only as that tiny slip of paper containing my list of PINs and passwords, etc. I am grateful for the couple of years that I had used that wallet before it was taken away from me. I give thanks for the opportunity to recover the money I lost and God's promise to provide all I need. I am glad that even the cards can be replaced though as I am finding out could be quite unnerving at times. I share my family's and friends' happiness that I was spared from possible physical harm -- we recognize God's protective hand throughout that ordeal. I am grateful for the generous and understanding soul who offered to cover my loss -- God will surely repay her abundantly for her offer.

Most of all, I thank God for the peace and equanimity at the height of "my tsunami," and a heart that has opted to see and learn rather than brood and mope after such a jarring experience.

Other learnings will be the subject of another piece including the funny, the absurd and the infuriating as I went about getting replacements for my lost cards.

Life goes on!

Yes, this is it

A year ago today, I showered early, then with Jenny, Potit and Raul trooped to Cinema 6 at SM City North EDSA. We did so just as thousands of other Filipinos and millions all over the world went to the cinemas in their respective cities.

Strange because with the advent of videos and cable TV, I stopped going to the movies. I didn’t see the need to get out of the house just to spend two hours watching a story on the big screen.

What happened four months earlier changed all that.

When he died, Michael Jackson simply caught me off-guard. He captured my imagination and I just couldn’t have enough hours in a day researching on this enigma of a person who slipped by me in the last four decades.

As my research (mostly online) went on, I hardly noticed that he had gone beyond my imagination and had actually seeped into my heart. Nothing like the adolescent giddiness over a new-found celebrity idol though. I am a senior citizen, and it was and is really a case of deep respect and admiration for a remarkable human being who was misunderstood, incessantly persecuted and mocked but who kept at what he discerned as his calling -- to keep loving and to keep giving, no matter what.

Thus when the playdate for the docu-concert movie, This Is It, was announced, I put my planning skills to work to map out the plan that will ensure that this elderly will have the best seat in one of the best if not the best cinemas in town to watch the film on its first screening day.

My family, simple and normal as they are, were aghast. They could only watch as I enjoined my small troop to come along. When the tickets went on sale, I was among the first to pick up the tickets for seats I meticulously chose and previously reserved for by phone.

On the morning of Oct. 29 (or Oct. 28 in the US), we were at the mall way before screening time. We went for an early lunch and then finally to the IMAX theatre for the screening.

When the house lights went off, the wiggling inside my stomach intensified. If or when the wiggling stopped, I didn't notice. Because what followed for me were 111 minutes of rapt, spellbound absorption for what was unfolding on the big screen. For once, my favorite popcorn went unnoticed -– it was never in competition with the multi-sensory feast being laid out in front of me at all.

This guy who I only really came to know four months earlier had me stunned. My eyes glued to the big screen, I was confused at the gamut of emotions running around inside me.

Unspeakable delight at seeing talent like I've never seen before.
Awe at genius unfolding before my very eyes. Respect for such discipline, patience, and hard work until each note was perfect and each movement precise.
Regret at what his family, friends, colleagues, fans, and the world were deprived of when June 25, 2009 transpired the way it did. Anger and disbelief at those who hurl untruths about him.

But most of all, my heart was welling up with deep fondness and love for this caring, giving masterpiece of a man who was focused on work one moment -- executing his part or mentoring excited and timid newcomers or gently but firmly asking the musicians to tweak here and there in order to achieve the right sound -- and funny and laughing the next.

What a beautiful human being. Just what this dark and dreary world needed, I thought to myself.

When the movie ended, I was speechless. I walked out of the theatre with a lump in my throat. I knew then what I missed all along. And it’s a regret I still grapple with today. For how long will I do so? Only God knows. Because God does know. I know.

And it is not only my new friendships with other MJ admirers and fans all over the Internet and the globe are proof of that.

Michael Jackson did not only give me a hell of a movie experience last October 29, 2009. He gave me and countless others greater awareness at how we can be kinder to one another, more courage to stand up for what’s good and true even if the rest are standing on the opposite side, and greater perseverance to use the gifts that were given us to be better persons -– to our families, to our friends, to strangers, to planet earth, and to all creatures that roam our forests, swim our oceans and soar through our skies.

His mission lives on -- beyond propofol, beyond Staples Center, beyond Forest Lawn. Thank you, God, for Michael Jackson.



Aftermath:
I saw the movie two more times while it was running in the cinemas and have watched it countless times on the DVD from Dodo or from my commemorative TII flash drive from Jenny. I have also since acquired MJ books and other stuff. My research is still ongoing. I continue to discover accounts that solidify my respect and admiration for the man. His fans who speak and act L.O.V.E. are manifestations that the world is reaping what he sowed while he lived.

As for my family, they have come to terms with my MJ habits. With the stories I share with them, they now also know the man better. With my constant playing of MJ tunes, they now also have a real and greater appreciation for his outstanding musicality. Most of all, I notice too that we've become better with one another, as well as with others over all.

The Lord's ways are indeed strange, wonderfully strange.


(My thanks to the owners of the photos I used in this piece.)

Online miracles: reflections of an avid surfer

Except for official mail, messages to friends, and general research, I never thought I’d make use of the Internet the way I do now.

I would say that the past 9 years of holding a “virtual” job was when I really came “up close and personal” with the Internet -- I worked from home and travelled abroad for project monitoring, meetings, conferences, etc. My time online at home and in hotels was mostly spent communicating with my bosses, associates, and supporters who were in different places. Ian was either home in Australia, on a project visit in Kenya, at a conference in Guatemala, or waiting for the rest of us in Hong Kong or Chiang Mai for one of our meetings. Herc was training staff in Ethiopia on project development. Okuda was in Fukushima meeting new contacts. Tim was in Johannesburg tinkering with the website. Li Ying was in Chengdu arranging for our yearly gift-giving to several hundred Chinese children. Ellen was in Quezon City updating the books for the upcoming audit.

From June last year when I retired, the texture of the time I spend online has changed considerably.

First stop nowadays is the Purpose-Driven Life website for my dose of Daily Hope. This is followed by my bite of Daily Bread in its official website. Then I read the news – Inquirer.net followed by Google and then Yahoo news. Then I check my mail.

Precipitated by my need for anonymity for specific correspondence, I have several email accounts. They also enable me to classify my mail. They function like a filing cabinet of sorts where one account is a drawer for business matters, another for family matters, and another for what-have-you.

In my first email account, I read mail that have come in and respond to selected ones. I send out updates to clients on my progress on some output. I scroll through tons of forwarded mail, sharing a few and junking most. I do the same thing in my other email accounts.

Then I visit certain blogsites including one a group of friends and I consider home. I perform online transactions ranging from purchasing books, dolls, DVDs, etc. to paying my bills. I also manage my emaciated bank accounts online.

My online researches range from something as cursory as checking the time in Toronto or how much US$ 45 is in Japanese yen to as bland as whether “firsthand” is “first-hand” or “first hand” or really "firsthand.” To as straight-laced a topic as organizational development, interfaith-based reproductive health issues or the suggested sugar intake for a Type 2 diabetic. To something as technical as ways of extracting an image from a background using photoshop. To something as heart-warming as Michael Jackson’s stay in an Irish hamlet. I also surf a lot for graphical elements I need for wallpapers, brochures, etc.

When something I read moves me, I post comments to express my own thoughts and feelings about the subject. I sign up for petitions for causes I want to support. I watch videos that interest me. I download materials that I know I will want to read, watch or listen to over and over and over.

Of course, I cannot log off without visiting my FB page. There I exchange messages or joke around with friends sometimes. And...I maintain this little corner of the web which I can call my very own.

The web is an open arena where one can encounter anyone and anything. You are in one site and out pops the biceps of a Latino hunk. You are on another site and a car commercial comes on. You are accessing the news and an online job teaser butts in.

But I will take the online inconveniences and annoyances I have encountered so far anytime. They are nothing compared to the speed with which I manage tasks, the insights I have gained, and most important of all, the friendships I have made, rekindled and sustained.

How wonderful that after decades I am again in touch with Alex, Andy, Angie, Aster, Ching, Chiqui, Chit, Cynthia, Dario, Edmund, Frankie, Hope, Jimmy, Joy, Julie, Kitz, Laling, and Merly (to name some). How comforting that I can talk to Mavic in faraway Calgary anytime, any day. Or with Yoko in Tokyo on weekends.

How amazing that at 64, I am still making new friends, not only from the US, the PRC, Japan, Thailand, Guatemala, and Vietnam but also from Argentina, Chile, Canada, Greece, the Netherlands, Russia, and Sweden. Just like the man who helped forge my new international connections (guess who?), I have somehow become global!

And even if some of them are faceless and some I only know by their “username,” I actually interact with them more often than I do now with my good old friends. While I do not know where in their country they are specifically based, I know some very personal bits and pieces about them -- a boyfriend's favorite dish, a girlfriend's favorite flower, their pets' names and quirks, what they do, what’s ailing them on a particular day, how rowdy the class was in school today, what happened at the office this morning, what festival they are attending this weekend, etc. And the jokes and terms of endearment are truly something else!

And these friendships are not just for a good laugh or an interesting story. Because more and more, our exchanges are coming around to learning to live life with real meaning and purpose. More and more, it is no longer just us. It is spreading truth and justice and love and concern for others -- the lost, the sick, the needy, the hurting, the threatened. And not just for mankind but for planet earth as well and for all creatures big and small.

I thank the Lord for the Internet. I think He meant it for several things. As I see now, it is a venue for almost unlimited learning – from experts including the sages from times past, from authors in places we’ve never been or could ever hope to be, from anyone who has something to share. A place where we can use our "voice" to speak for the voiceless, our gifts to delight others. Where we could care for one another – to listen to, to laugh with, to chat with, to cry with, to just be with. But most of all, it is a universe of opportunities for discerning the good from the bad, and based on that make our choices.

In the end, I think God meant it as a limitless space where man could exercise God's gift of free will. Nothing coerced, all free for the taking and the choosing. When we choose right, He is delighted. When we choose wrong, He is there to correct and to give another chance.

Incongruous and weird as it may sound, the Internet is Holy Ground. A place where miracles are happening all the time.

But how many online miracles do we see? How many do we experience?

Let us hope that when we do, we will always remember to say thanks.




(Note: I thank the owners of these images I "borrowed" from the Internet to liven up this piece. God bless you all.)

Safe at sea

This morning was special.

A return visit to something I loved so much but haven’t done for ages made it so.

When I was much younger, I hung out with friends with whom I shared a deep and passionate love for the beach and the sea. All urbanites, we would travel four to five hours to get to the nearest beach that was clean and uncluttered of fellow city dwellers escaping the heat and smog of Metro Manila. (This photo here which I "borrowed" from the web, is merely illustrative of the Philippine beaches we frequented.)

To the south, there would be the beaches of Batangas. To the north, there would be the beaches of Bataan or Zambales, or farther away, Pangasinan and La Union. One time, there was even this private island forty-five minutes by boat from the main shore of San Fabian. Owned by a friend, it is small enough that one could be back at where one started after an hour's leisurely walk. Idyllic, white sand, with trees and plants in wild abandon and the caretaker's nipa hut in a clearing hardly seen from the shore. (Alas, at the time I hadn't discovered yet the value of photography!)

We would stay at least a night and a day and a half to make it worth the time we spent on the road. No big production. Just lolling in the sand, and time – lots of it – in the sea.

Out of the water and on the sand, we would play, doodle or build whatever we took a fancy to, tease the children of the fisher folk who peddled broken corals and seashells strung into necklaces, and chat with the women selling yummy boiled peanuts, and native delicacies and snacks. At times, we would walk either northward or southward along the shore until our spot is but a dot in the distance. Then we would walk back, picking up, as we went, shells and broken twigs and driftwood washed ashore. From time to time, a dried starfish or a teeny-weeny crab scurrying into the sand would stop us dead on our tracks. For a few minutes we would be on our hands and knees, scrutinizing those lovely creatures and invading their privacy.

Before lunch we would troop to the nearest “market” -- just a few makeshift stalls actually -- that sold seafoods, veggies, fruits, rice, and cooking staples like cooking oil, salt, garlic, charcoal, and the like. Back on shore, we would cook our purchase and then have a hearty lunch. Just before sundown, we would repeat the same routine, this time for dinner.

After dinner we would build a fire and sit around it, singing, playing truth or consequence or some other game, or just joking around and chatting. The carousing would become subdued as the night wore on, signalling fatigue had set in. Soon, there would only be whispers punctuated by episodes of total silence as we gaze up at the sky figuring out the constellations, or waiting for a falling star, or trying to spot the man on the moon. Meanwhile, the sea had become an endless stretch of black that one now only saw with her mind. It had transformed into a rhythmic sound accompanied by bubbles that with the moonlight and the campfire, glittered as it played and danced with the sand in a choreography that is at once magical and hypnotic.

In the water, in the water – those were the best times! We would spend long hours far from shore swimming around the rented banca (like this photo which is also "borrowed" from the web) that brought us to the spot. We would play in the water around it, sometimes jumping alternately on its bamboo outriggers on either side, our squeals reaching a crescendo everytime it seemed the banca would turn over. To rest from swimming, we would hook our arms around the outriggers, or climb atop them and sit, dangling our legs and swishing the water with our toes. Sometimes we stayed in “lifesavers” – inflated old tire tubes that we rented from the fisher folk who lived nearby.

We would also rest on some bamboo raft close to shore, sometimes drawing shapes in the water with our fingers or toes. From time to time, we would jump in and take a dip to douse the burning on our skin. Refreshed again, we would climb back onto the raft. Lulled by the unstoppable even rhythm of the sound and movement of the waves, we sometimes fell asleep lying on our tummies.

I was young. It was a time of adventure and fun and friendship. It was so long ago. I have since lost touch with most of those friends (some of them shown here in a photo taken by Mang Romy, RIP), a handful I am in touch with via Facebook, though infrequently.

But the memory is vivid still. I feel the hot sun stinging my face. I feel the breeze fanning my hair. I taste and smell the sea water. I feel the fine grains of sand under my feet.

Perhaps because of age, now I also see the risks and the dangers that were lurking all the time. And by grace, now I also see how life is truly very much like the sea – with no let-up it swirls around gently, or hits back with a tad of force, or comes with a whack so strong it drives one underneath. These are the times when I panic. Will I rise to the surface again? That question sends me floundering, waving my arms and moving my legs every which way in an attempt to break through. I gasp for air and spit out the salty sea water as soon as my head is out of the water.

Then I realize how the same God Who created the sea and commands its moving has been holding me firmly that I surface again and again and again…safe and whole, ready for the next tap or the next whipping.

An exhilarated child sometimes, more often a scared adult, but always, protected in the steady arms of a loving and faithful Father.

Sweet encounter

There was a muffled fluttering sound when I entered my workroom a little before 7 this morning. As I lifted the blinds, there was this beautiful creature holding on to the textured window pane. It must have drifted in the day before without my knowing.

For once I had the presence of mind to get my camera and shoot away. After a couple of shots, it slowly opened its wings, revealing a pair of yellow orange center panels adorned by brown splotches of different sizes. “Look and let the beauty of my wings start you off to a good day!” the creature seemed to be saying.

I sensed a connection in the making at that instance and my heart began to pound.

Quietly I watched. In a while it moved to the wooden window frame. We both stood still. And so did time.

Thinking it is better than the cold surface of the glass or the hard surface of the wood, I picked up one of the small plants sitting on the window sill. With a bit of coaxing, the little beauty moved from the window frame and gently perched on the plant.

There it stayed but only for a while. Soon the lure of the morning light seeping through the pane proved irresistible. Still perched on the plant, it maneuvered itself towards the glass as if bathing in the reflected light.




In a moment, it left its perch and again held on to the glass, perhaps to have more of the morning light.

After a while, I took one of the water plants hoping it would move from the glass. It did shortly, settling on the plant's main stem, its head towards the water this time. Then I began to worry. Is it hurt? Is it sick?

But I do not know anything about such creatures. And all I could do was to watch quietly and hope that it is all right. I finally let it be – silent, still, perched on the water plant, its center wings now hidden.

Hands shaking, heart pounding with an excitement I couldn’t explain, I took the card out of the camera, transferred the photos onto my computer, and uploaded them onto my Facebook page.

Moments like this are gifts that must be shared, not simply filed in one’s memory. In thanksgiving, I began to type this brief account of this morning's surreal encounter.

A tattered spiderweb

When a child hurts, she runs to her parent and cries. When a parent hurts, she becomes a child, runs to The Father and cries.

I am a parent that this morning hurt like a child. I was disappointed and angry. At best effort falling short, at concern mistaken for something else, at choosing without thinking what seemed like the right thing.

This is not the first of such instances. My usual reaction was to sulk and sweat and wallow in self pity. And this morning, I did the usual, but only momentarily. Instantaneously, I found myself running to The Father in pain and in tears. Just as suddenly, I was rebuked by the thought that this must have been how The Father felt each time I failed to see the good He intended for me. How badly He must have felt when I rashly went off on my own without caution or chose the other way even if I knew He meant nothing short of the best.

In that instance, pain served its purpose. Images of a good Father's hurting heart brought me back to my senses. How the many blows from me must have transformed it into something very much like a tattered spiderweb.

This morning's episode was a Master's stroke that transformed what to me were ugly into something positive and beautiful.

What an awesome God and loving Father You are that you speak to me not only in the sunshine and the smell of morning. Or in the moonlight and the stars. Or in the breeze, the rain and the ocean waves. Or through the guava tree outside my window and the chirping birds in its branches. Or the people around me and those far from me. But also through something as searing as pain and as disfigured as a tattered spiderweb.