Came across a page of Haiku and Senryu poems. Thought I'd try my hand. Here are some of them:
Haiku
leaves rustling softly
summer rain, long awaited
sleep beckons. good night
~~~
fresh bone, butcher's best
chase butterflies, nap on grass
dog days of summer
Senryu
goth in the workplace
already dark as it is
leave this place, I must
~~~
screen shows new message
stupid question, I should junk
sent reply to boss
A tear rolled down my cheek as I read the last page of the book. My heart breaks for the Walls children.
My old high school classmate and good friend, Jeanne Salunga, suggested I read Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls. I haven't been reading a lot of books lately. With the nature of my work, I hardly have functioning eyeballs at the end of the day. That's why I stick with magazines. Right now, I'm into "Women's Health," which features healthy-looking women that don't send me into a deep depression.
Going back to Glass Castle, I was able to borrow a copy from the public library. It must really be a good book. I had to submit a hold request so the library can reserve it for me as soon it is returned.
Glass Castle is a true story of a woman whose nomadic life as a child was fraught with unspeakable poverty. She described how they would often go hungry. At 5, she and her brother discovered the treasures that the dumpster could bring and rejoiced each time they found half eaten chocolate bars and moldy sandwiches. She also wrote about sleeping in cardboard boxes during the cold, cold winters in a dilapidated house that had no heating or insulation. What is different about her story is that the poverty was inflicted on her and her siblings by her non-conformist parents, whose idea of rearing children bordered on madness. Page after page, Walls catalogued the nightmares that were her childhood. Amazingly, even when she found out later on that her mother owned lands that could have brought them millions of dollars and a comfortable life, there is no bitterness.
My greatest takeaway from this memoir is the reminder that life is what we make it. There is no place for self-pity or finger-pointing. Jeannette Walls' parents stood, with conviction, by the life they chose for themselves. And they were happy. The children were not, so that one by one, they escaped that life and made new ones for themselves. It was a decision they made and they took steps to make it happen.
There are times when I question myself why I stay in a foreign land. Why I endure the loneliness of being away from family and friends. Why I put up with being a second class citizen. Then I am reminded. This is the life I chose for me.
I was sitting mindlessly in the car, waiting for the light to turn green when three elderly men caught my eye. All three were shabbily dressed, their hair graying from age and dirt. They carried plastic bags over their shoulders and unused ones hung by their back pockets. Two of them headed for the garbage can at the entrance of the public park. As one of them rummaged through the trash, another one waited, as if anticipating a treat. The third was a few feet away, distracted by something else.
The first man found a tall can of what looks like the energy drink - Monster. He shook the can and handed it to the other who was waiting. I thought they were merely looking for soda cans to sell to the junk shop and the first man handed the can to the other fella to deposit in the plastic bag where they kept their finds. But before I can say OMG, the second man turned away from the road and took a swig off of the Monster drink they retrieved directly from the trash. Instead of being grossed out, that brief scene moved me deeply.
All through my drive to work that morning, I thought about them. What unfortunate place did they come from that led them to that life? Homeless, aimless and spirits broken, those men found each other and decided to band together. What struck me most was how, in spite of poverty, there was still a show of generosity and selflessness. The man who found the can could have just as easily drank the remaining contents. After all, finders keepers, right? But no, he gave it to his friend and didn't look a bit resentful.
Ahh, America, the proverbial land of milk and honey. How sad that inspite of the opportunities this country offers its citizens and immigrants, a significant population still lives in misery. Sadder still is the possibility that these men might have chosen to live this way, much like the parents of Jeanette Walls in her heartbreaking memoir "Glass Castle". But that is a topic for another post.
Mulling over the recent news about his Lolo being confined in a hospital, my son Goji asked me: Mommy, is a good news always followed by a bad news? Coming from a nine-year old, that was a profound question. I struggled with my answer.
A couple of weeks ago, we found out that my Dad was able to secure a visa to visit us here in the States. We were all ecstatic about the prospect of having both him and my Mom come here and stay for a month. Then just yesterday, we received word that he was hospitalized. The tests have not confirmed the doctor's initial impressions but it was bad enough to cause me to melt down. Hence Goji's concerns.
Goj - bad news don't always follow good news. Sometimes, good news will be followed by even better news. Maybe Lolo was able to get a visa before he fell ill so that he will have a strong reason to want to get better knowing that if he does, he'll be able to see you and Ate and Daddy and me. Sometimes, we get bad news and feel sad over them but that just makes the good news even more special when they come.
Don't be afraid to receive happy news for fear that something bad will happen next. Celebrate them as you get them. As for Lolo, just as long as we pray and ask God to watch over him, he'll be walking out of that hospital in no time and we'll be picking him up from the airport before you know it.
My heart still goes a-thump-thump when I spot a police car from a mile away. You see I got pulled over for speeding one morning just as I merged to the main road from the quiet street where I live.
I heard the siren as soon as my foggy mind cleared. How long has the car been behind me? I signaled and turned to my right to give way to the cop. But to my horror, the cop followed right behind me. Is he serious?! Am I really being pulled over? My mind told me to relax although it was going through a thousand thoughts per minute. Did I just cost myself two-hundred bucks?
The cop was polite and greeted me good morning. He informed me that I was going 14 miles over a school zone limit. Who me...speeding? I kept my mouth shut. You don't argue with cops, right? He then asked for my driver's license, registration and insurance. No sweat - this is standard procedure. To my dismay, it took me a full minute to fish my wallet out of my sack that I call my bag. I could feel his impatient eyes on my back as I poured the bowels of my overstuffed bag and so I was already flustered when I found my wallet. Then I triumphantly handed him not my license but my credit card. Force of habit I guess, I'm used to pulling out my credit card when I go shopping. My license ever hardly leaves it nice pocket. Anyway, I didn't even realize that I handed him the wrong ID until he said rather dryly that he doesn't need my credit card. How stupid can I get? But it gets worse.
He said I need to hand him my license together with the registration and insurance. So I placed the license on my lap for safekeeping and reached to the glove compartment for the other papers. I looked and looked and all I could find there was a pair of sunglasses, a bottle of sun block, a note pad and a pen. F***! Where in the hell are those papers? After what seemed like eternity, I figured out that my car actually had two glove compartments. Duh! And as soon as I opened the second one, the registration and insurance card were right there on top, paper-clipped together. Tada! So I reached for the license on my lap, only, it wasn't there. Did it fall on the floor? No. Maybe it slipped on the side? No. Are you kidding me? By this time, I was ready to cry. Will I go to jail now for driving without a license?
Anyway, after getting out of the car and almost turning it upside down, I found the license and waved at Mr. Policeman who returned to his side of the car after getting bored waiting for me to get my bearings together. He came back to check on my papers and gave me the bigger shock of that morning. "I'll let you go with a warning this time," and handed me my papers back. Wait, did I hear right? I looked at the registration with disbelief as he went into this speech about focusing on the road even though I was busy planning a busy day ahead. Then he bid me a nice day and walked away.
Discombobulated,I stayed where I was trying to process what just happened. I got away from a possible $200-fine. I realized two things: God was definitely smiling down on me that day, and second - I'm such a freakin' moron.
Yesterday was Mother's Day and so naturally, I turn my thoughts to my own Mama.
She doesn't know this but I've always measured myself as a mother against her. I would always have this little voice saying, "Mama would do it this way and that or Mama would have dealt with that differently." Most times, I beat myself up because I know that she's a better mom and I'm convinced my kids are shortchanged just because they got me instead.
When my brothers and sisters were growing up, Mama hardly ever hugged us, except to greet us on our birthdays and Christmas. So it was actually a treat when I'm running a fever and she would put her cool hand on my forehead. Or when she would put Vicks Vaporub on my chest and back when I have colds. She was very restrained that way as if she was embarrassed to show even a little bit of affection.
Mama's always been a stay-at-home mom and so everyday when I came home from school, she would always be home waiting for us. She made sure there were homemade treats and snacks waiting for us. Some days there'll be ginataang mais, or cassava cake, or champorado. Sometimes, it's just pandesal and condensed milk. But it was always so comforting to go home knowing she'll be there. Then we tell her stories about school and classmates. She never offered any advise, she just asked questions and listened while she stood in front of the kitchen counter, making dinner.
Because she was always home, we always miss her sorely even when she would only be gone 2 or 3 hours to go to the palengke or when she visits her mother or when she goes out with her sisters. When she comes home, she'd always have pasalubong for us - candies, pastry treats, new slippers, etc. Even when she was away to spend time for herself, she was still thinking about us.
She never called me "Nang" which is short for inang, a local term of endearment. Daddy always called me that but not Mama. I never really paid attention to that and never realized that she didn't until I came here to the States. When I call, she would always ask me: Komusta na ka Nang? That's when it hurts most to be away. I would give an arm and a leg just to be beside her so I could tell her, just as I did as a child, how my day went.
Alone in a silent house, after I tucked the kids to bed and gave Bamboo his treat to retire to his dog house, I decided to rummage through the space bags I kept under the bed. I share closet space with hubby. So to keep him from complaining I have too much clothes and make me feel guilty for bringing home yet another top, I store off-season clothing in space bags, suck the air out of them and voila! they're flat as a board and stowed away under the bed.
Anyway, in one of the bags, I found a pair of pajamas that Mama bought for me when I gave birth for the first time 13 years ago. It was a matching pink button- down shirt and pajama that had little flowers all over. I wore the pair while in the hospital and every other time as soon as it left the clothesline after a day of drying in the sun. Even in the summer heat of March 1995, I had to keep warm and covered. I did not dare ask what happens if I didn't. I think stubborn new moms who refused to cover up went crazy or something if a breeze as much as touched any part of their waist down. 
I brought that pair with me from the Philippines. Both the top and the pants are now so thin that you can almost see through the fabric from years of wash and wear. I only wear them in the summer now because they're so flimsy they don't provide much warmth. Each time, hubby and kids will tease me to throw them away They said I can't even donate them to the Salvation Army. But how can I part with them? They were the last piece of clothing that Mama gave me before I became a mom myself. They give me a sense of who I was and still, my Mama's daughter.
So this summer, the infamous pajamas will make an appearance once again. Call before you show up at my house. I wouldn't want to be caught wearing them and embarrass me and you.
As soon as I open my eyes every morning, ten trillion thoughts will have already popped in my head. I think that's why I haven't really been able to blog lately. Multi-thinking prevents me from feeling passionately about one single thing long enough to blog about it. To my friends who have emailed asking why I have been quiet and who have been asking for more posts, I'll have some soon. For now, let me share with you my random thoughts in the first hour after I left my bed today:
I was listening to my iPod as I worked feverishly to get a web page updated before some 90,000 people get the email and click on the nice little button that will magically take them to the same exact page that's on my screen. But even with the urgency of the task at hand, I found myself humming to Jack Johnson's "Better Together" and started making a mental list of things that go better together.
That thought stayed with me the whole day. Here's my Top 10:
1. holiday celebrations and family
2. paid off credit card and discount coupon at Kohl's
3. a cheese burger and chocolate shake, yum-o!
4. blue ink gel pen and my handy dandy notebook
5. pizza and Dr. Pepper soda
6. manicure and pedicure
7. intense workout and well fitting panties that won't give me a wedgie
8. a cold winter night and warm blanket
9. morning freeway commute and John Mayer on the radio
10. a cup or two of brewed coffee and good conversation
I'm sure you have your own Better-Together list. Care to share?
Today I become a mom to a 13-year old. That's huge! I've never been a mom to any teenager before but I still remember when I was that age. The insecurities I felt, the pressures of fitting in, the heartbreaks - I know that Nikki will be in for a roller coaster ride. As much as she's shrieking with excitement over her very first cellphone and of breaking away from her "childhood" as she puts it, and officially becoming a teenager, I, on the other hand, am worried sick that she's a teenager now.
Ever since I had kids, my prayer was always the same. "Lord, please don't let anything happen to my kids." And then I read somewhere that it's a totally selfish thing to ask for your kids. How can you not let anything happen to them? Isn't that depriving them of things that will make them whole persons? If your kids will stay in a safe haven, how will that build their character?
And so I've revised my prayer, so that now I ask: Lord, please give my children the wisdom to make the right choices and strength of character to overcome the challenges that they are bound to face. Let me be the kind of mother they need at each point in their lives - a strong disciplinarian when they need an iron fist, a warm and loving one when they need to cry their hearts away over an unrequited love, a cheerleader and a coach when they achieve major accomplishments and important milestones. Most of all, let me be a mother that will grow with them accordingly.
Nikki is 13 today. I am proud of the young lady she's become. I may not tell her how proud I am of the little and big things she's accomplished because I fear that she'll become complacent and stop pushing herself to do more and aim higher. But I am truly proud. Happy birthday darling!
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