My Mother Likes Flowers

It started with the picture of the lotus I have on my work IM. On seeing it, someone commented on the lotus, and on flowers in general. Then I remembered how much my mother likes flowers. Suddenly I was struck with this melancholy and realized how much I miss her.

Nanay passed away in May 1988 – over 18 years ago. It's funny how the pain is still there. Somehow I still ache in my heart. Somehow I still cry. I don't think the pain will ever go away. I don't think I want it to go away.

It happened very fast. My sisters called me one night to say they took her to the hospital. The following morning, she was gone. I was not able to see her or attend her funeral. I was here in LA and was providing emotional support to my sick brother and his family. My brother and I grieved for Nanay with our relatives and friends in LA. We celebrated her life with joy and pain.

She was the local nightingale. Her peers were awed with her musical talent. Nanay was the toast of the barrio and was invited to sing on most local occasions. They were all surprised when she married my father. They thought she would go with a more flamboyant local boy. It's just that my father was faster. And he LOVED her more. One kiss and she was his.

She said she did not love my father, but you'll never know with the way she treated him. She never admitted it, but we think she learned to love him. He was kind, he was a good father. He made all of us, most of all my mother, laugh and take things lightly. We knew she had the brains in the family, but she made Tatay and all of us feel like all the important decisions were his. We just realized the "deception" when we grew up and got to understand life better. It's like how all the eight of us all thought we were each her favorite. Oh, she played us so well!

She was one of the smartest women I know. She only had a third grade education, but oh, she was so bright. She could have been anything she wanted to be if she had the opportunity. She had this astonishing calculator in her brain. When any of us kids accompanied her to the market, we all went home amazed at how quickly she could compute in her mind her mark up on merchandise for our little store. She would haggle with the vendors already knowing the price she was going for and how much profit she would make. She had this uncommon common sense that guided her and our family to emotional and eventual financial stability.

When I was learning to write poetry in school, we were asked to write a poem about our parents. All of my classmates wrote about their mothers. I wrote about my father. You see, this was during the time I was getting a lot of "discipline" from her, and I did not like it very much.

I was a precocious child. I was curious, I was active, I was all over the place, and yes, was always in trouble. Trouble kept finding me. I could be just standing still and things would happen next to me and I would react, and get in trouble. I was not a bad kid -- just different. My interests even then were not the norm. I had to learn how to handle the karitela (horse-drawn cart – local transportation before the dawning of the tricycles http://www.answers.com/topic/kalesa) so I sneaked in while the "kutsero" (cart-driver) left his vehicle to pee – trouble. I was curious why the ice-cream cart was dripping so I slid under the cart to find out what was causing it -- trouble. It was so hot and humid that I jumped at the ice-delivery truck to get cool but ended up scraping my knees because I wasn’t fast enough. I was hurt, but was still in trouble. I was such a handful that my parents probably did not know how to handle me. My mother was the family disciplinarian and I did get a lot of spanking from her. There's even a 1/2 x 2 x 12 just for me. Looking back, that was how everyone was dealt with, except I had a lot more than any of my siblings. You see, even then, I was "special."

I was about 12 when I saw my mother crying while doing laundry one day, and I asked her why. She said she was praying. She did not like spanking me and she wished I would not give her a reason to do so. I remember the two of us crying together and I promised her I would try to be a good girl and I would not give her a reason to spank me from then on. That was it. I am not sure if it was because I really behaved or if I just got a lot smarter (and just did not get caught). Anyway, I lived up to my part of the deal - I did not give her a reason to spank from then on.

She was so proud of me when I was chosen for the RP-CWY Exchange Program and traveled to Canada. I wrote her everyday and described everything I saw and experienced in my letters. She looked forward to receiving those letters. She loved the fact that I kept her “company” throughout my travels. She would have loved to travel herself if she had the chance.

My family was eventually able to afford to buy a jeepney. (http://www.traveladventures.org/continents/asia/jeepney.shtml) That was to help with the family income. The night it was delivered, I took it out with our friend Rolly and promptly drove that vehicle into a tree. We came home and I told my mother about it. I asked her to not say a word as I have already said everything she would say to me myself. I felt so stupid and irresponsible and I could just kick myself! To my surprise, she listened to me and did not say anything. She actually treated me as an adult! The irony is, it happened when I was being so juvenile!

With my two older sisters' stable financial support, we were able to convince Nanay to close the store and to take it easy. She did so with trepidations. It took a mild stoke to convince her it was time to hang up her market basket. One side of her face was paralyzed and it scared all of us. She was also telling us of her dreams about her mother and aunt (who were her closest friends, both deceased) calling her to join them. She told us of how she would tell them not yet. She wasn’t ready.

This was also the time when we decided it was time for me to be a full time student. It was my last semester in college (it took me almost 9 years) and my sisters supported me with tuition and allowance. I kept Nanay company when I did not have a class. I took her to the doctor and helped with her medications and treatments. Eventually, her face went back to normal.

When I worked in Bataan, she visited with me one weekend. She was pleasantly surprised when I actually cooked a meal for her. You see, between her, my father, my two older sisters and my youngest sister, Gigi cooking at home, I never really bothered in the kitchen. But I have (obviously) always loved to eat and I knew the tastes I was going for so when I moved to Bataan, I actually cooked pretty well, and enjoyed it. That was a wonderful weekend. I took her to the neighborhoods, the Vietnamese cafes and the Buddhist temples where she loved the gardens and the flowers the Monks kept. I took pictures of her surrounded by flowers.

Before I left for the US, she asked me what I wanted to take with me. I asked for her gold ring. It was the first piece of jewelry she ever owned. It was old and had been repaired a couple of times, but it was special to her. For as long as I can remember, she has always worn it. She took it from her finger and put it in mine, and again, we both cried.

Nanay taught us directly and indirectly many invaluable lessons. Be kind. Be nice. Save money. Wear clean clothes. Take a bath. Study hard. Keep on trying. Be responsible. Behave yourself. Be yourself. Respect others. Try again. Be patient. Pray. Be careful. Don’t spend money you don’t have. Have faith. Pray some more. Be of service when you can. Treat everyone like they are special. They are.

I miss my mother. I miss her soothing touch, her healing voice, her tender love, her knowing looks, her loving presence. I’m glad flowers remind me of her.

My mother likes flowers.

What Takes Your Breath Away?

You know those endless emails that you get from friends and acquaintances? I automatically delete those that look like chain emails. I am not interested in a miracle that is sure to happen if I pass an email to seven or 10 or 20 people. I do not believe that Microsoft or Yahoo or HP will give me money for forwarding certain messages.

Once in a while I come across things that are worth reading and passing along. Sometimes, a phrase or a message actually inspires me. One of them is “Life is not measured by the breaths you take, but by what takes your breath away.”

What takes our breath away? What does it really mean? Common definition is “to be so surprised or awed by something that it makes you hold your breath” – thus it “takes your breath away.”

I was just talking to my friend Agie on the phone one night and she was telling me about a card her daughter sent her – a simple colored paper she folded and where she wrote how much she loves and misses her mommy. Now - that takes one’s breath away.

Driving from Santa Fe to Albuquerque one summer, I saw the most beautiful and clearest rainbow ever – that took my breath away. Danielle, a precocious 3-year old who kept repeating one afternoon that she is my sweetheart – she took my breath away. Kiara, my two year-old niece who after I kissed her goodnight and told her I love her replied “I love you, too, Tita Phlor” that, too, took my breath away.

The first time Lita saw the Grand Canyon, she cried and was speechless at the awesome majesty right before her eyes. That took her breath away. The first time Cora saw her grandson Ethan who took after her – that took her breath away. Venice Beach, watching the blue ocean waves as they tumble on to the sand with Keane playing on her IPOD -- that took Gwennie’s breath away. Caught in a snowstorm and frolicking in the knee-deep snow in Manhattan – that took our breaths away.

In the context of romance, do you remember what took your breath away? An old picture of a loved one, with that same look that made your heart leap then – and still does now, that takes your breath away. One look, one touch, one kiss, one voice, one song, one dance, one memory. Ah, wasn’t it just wonderful to be caught in such a moment? Isn’t it exhilarating to savor the feelings – the happiness -- the genuine joy -- once something or someone “takes your breath away?”

How much do we allow ourselves this simple pleasure of being awed and taken by the moment? How open are our hearts to the small packages of happiness that await us? It doesn't really cost us anything. All it takes is the right attitude. Let us be like children and free ourselves of the biases, agendas and prejudice -- just take life as it comes and accept things as they happen. We will be pleasantly surprised.

If “Life is not measured by the breaths you take, but by what takes your breath away,” I probably am one of the “most lived” persons on earth. How about you?


10/08/06

Learning Curve

I think learning curve should be learning circle instead. It takes a lifetime to learn. As soon as we think we know enough, we come across situations that make us realize how much we still don’t know or understand. Some of us acknowledge our ignorance and learn some more. Many of us don’t.

Let me talk about curves. For my sister Gigi’s college graduation present, I took her with us to this trip to the Mountain Province in the Philippines, in a town named Sagada(http://www.geocities.com/sagada_igorot/sagada/). It was what I called a “cave downing” (as opposed to mountain climbing) experience. We explored the Sumaging Cave, with its slippery mud and dangerous rocks, amazing stalactite and stalagmite formations and awesome natural pools, guided by a 12-year boy with a lantern. The adventure was wonderful despite the semi-treacherous trek, and yes, all of us got out alive.

We got back to the guest house still early enough to rest and even get a massage from a blind masseuse. Refreshed and showered, we looked okay even after four hours of climbing up and down the dark cave. Susan, our co-worker who was from the area asked if maybe we would like to see the lake since it was only three curves (liko) away. So we all said fine. We could do that. We walked the unpaved street again. The view was breath taking anyway, as from the dirt road where we were walking on, we could see the rice terraces.

About 15 curves after, there was still no lake. We finally asked Susan, where it was. She said we’ve only done one curve. Her definition of a curve is a full rotation of the mountain where we were (and it was a pretty huge mountain and we have already walked for about 2 miles), while the city girls’ idea of a curve is a simple curve. As soon as we realized what she was talking about, we hailed the one passing vehicle we’ve seen all day and hitched a ride back to the guest house.

The funny thing is, Susan was right. Nothing spectacular should come that easy. Some things are worth more than just a curve. Things that are of value are worth a full circle, or two or three. Most important of all is learning.

As adults, we have the tendency to be overprotective of those we love, especially our children. In an act that what we construe as love, we prevent them from making mistakes we made, remembering only the pain those mistakes brought us, forgetting the lessons they taught us. We sometimes even try to live their lives for them, make decisions for them, and thereby not allow them to make their own mistakes, experience their own pains, lick their own wounds, learn their own lessons, and yes, live their own lives. We think we know more than they do and that earned us the right to impose our own set of values on them.

We forget that there was a time when we were at the other end of the spectrum. Times change but many of us got off the bus when we thought we knew enough. We stopped learning about new things because we have reached our learning curve and we know better now. The truth however is that many of what we learned no longer apply to the realities of today. But we are not ready to accept that. In the meantime, our children are caught between their love for us and their disdain for our inability to connect with them and to understand them.

Too many of us do not come to full circle. Like the group of us who after a few curves gave up on the lake, many of us are not willing to go the all the way to understand our children and our youth. We stick with what we think we know and expect our youngsters just follow our “wisdom.” We got old, and act old, and feel old. We stayed in the curve, our learning curve.

A sage lady once told me that every generation questioned the ways of the generation before them. Indeed, there is wisdom in the statement. For how could progress take place when questions are not asked? How could learning take place when mistakes do not happen? How could one appreciate happiness when devoid of experiencing pain? How can one truly learn without coming full circle?

Someday, I would really like to get there.

10/2/06

Postscript: I know there is another side to this argument, and I, too, am torn, because some kids don't seem to learn even from their own mistakes. I know it hurt us more than it does them, and we feel helpless when we are unable to save them from themselves. It's a challenge to love and let go, and we, too, learn as we go.

One for the Road

I want to drink alcohol, but alcohol doesn’t like me. The slightest hint of liquor in my food or drink and my face and body become blotched with red spots, and I really think my ears start to twitch by themselves. So, I don’t drink. I can’t. It is very inconvenient for me to do so.

I discovered this inconvenience when I went to Canada, where legal drinking age was (and still is) 18. We would hit the bars and my friends would have their 12 oz beer for a quarter and I would have my 8 oz coke for fifty cents. How unfair was that? And yet, I would be the most “drunk”, not with alcohol but with the moment. We hit the bar for companionship and fellowship. I soaked myself in them, and like a sponge, absorbed the joy of friendship and camaraderie. I would of course usually be the loudest, and people who did not know thought I had one drink too many. I really didn’t mind.

At CFA, we would do “one for the roads” after work, mostly on Fridays, to unwind. You see, telling stories out of nowhere could be quite be draining! My friends would all drink their beers and wine, and I was still stuck with my coke. But I would be the loud one, okay, maybe second to Ernie who got really drunk, but I was next -- with zero alcohol in my system.

But I so want to be able to drink. I love the idea of romance that goes with drinking – wine by the crackling fire on a cold winter’s night. The trouble is, I don’t get to do the wine part, I just go straight to the cheese and crackers part – which results in bulges—and I got plenty.

Of course, these days, we have the ever popular HAPPY HOUR, cheap drinks and cheap hours devours, and I still can’t drink. But I guess that’s okay. The original idea of “one for the road” is to make the moment last a little bit longer. One for the road is to have a wee bit more time with friends we love or miss or care for, before they have to leave us, until who knows when? So we savor the moment and make it last.

I don’t need to have alcohol for that. Good old bottled water will do just fine.

Cheers!