Space

If you live in a country with 7,107 islands, 88,706,300 people, and a total land area of 300,000 km², when do you sit back and say you have enough space to inhabit, till and stow as your own? Would one distinguish whether the craving for space is all about the simple joy of ownership or whether its something more noble like stewardship? What if one cannot separate the ideals behind every act of ownership yet has the money to buy land? Who says no, you've got enough.

If anyone can give answers to these questions then it will be of great help to many Filipinos who need a reminder or two of what is enough and what amount of property would sustain a single Filipino life. That way there would be answers to this insatiability I see around me. That way those whose only property claim is a pot of soil planted with "sili" or "kamatis" can likewise begin laying claim to their rightful space. That way, everyone knows when enough is enough!

Tell me.

USOG

A Monday in June. Have you ever felt like your whole digestive system wants to get out of your body while your head is throbbing like mad as you go through bouts of hiccups as if your whole body is one inflated balloon? Today, I just did.

Since it’s a Monday morning and work is waiting for me, I got out my first aid kit: the menthol stick from Binondo which Cha and I have named “the works,” a mug of hot water, and Franco’s 15-count pressure application on that skin between my point finger and my thumb. It didn’t work. I was frantic because the hiccups were coming out every single-minute and I was getting dizzy, too!
I was getting ready to rush to the hospital because I knew I shouldn’t be feeling anything close to what I call a “blah” moment. Agom and I had some body conditioning over the weekend by treating ourselves to a visit to a spa for great sauna time and a wonderful massage, we had a nice salad and fish meal last night and had a good night’s sleep.

So why this? Perhaps this unexplained occurrence calls for a mysterious explanation. I looked for S who’s known to inflict (for lack of any correct word) "usog" or "bales" on anyone she lays eyes on or greets just when she’s coming from outdoors or when she’s hungry or tired. Tough luck, S went through the ceremony of pinching my earlobes and groping through my hair but she concluded she’s not “guilty” this time. She said she can minimize whatever frenzy was going on with my body but can’t cure me since the “usog” did not come from her. I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry but surely the hiccups and stomach pain were preventing from engaging in any other emotion. Indeed, after her “ceremony” the hiccups died down a little bit but my stomach was still churning and there’s this throbbing along my forehead.

My lunchmates suggested I approach other “usog carriers” at the office. Sadly, L, one of those mentioned and whom I recalled I met while on my way to get a mug of water when I arrived at work, was not taking me seriously. He wouldn’t believe in such mysterious deductions of a problem which may otherwise be clinically categorized as migraine. So, beg while writhing in pain I did. Thankfully, L, out of pity perhaps, went through yet another earlobe pinching ceremony. I was half-waiting that he’ll get saliva and apply it on my tummy, which I knew was part of the “usog castaway” done among kids, but thank God he didn’t. After all, the frenzy was slowly leaving my body! After the “ceremony,” I took a nap. I got tired after all those cast-away ceremonies. Twenty-minutes later, I woke up and was up and about like I ought to be on any Monday.

HHWW (Holding Hands While Weeping)

This morning’s drive to work wasn’t the usual trip. For one, it’s a Saturday and usually it’s only Agom who goes out to work while I hibernate at home. Today, I decided to join him so I can work on some backlogs at the office.

It was smooth driving up to Buendia in contrast to our usual Monday to Friday trips when we always get stuck in traffic and blame the coffee for not working its magic. We had a nice breakfast and was looking forward to a badminton game tonight and planning an early mass tomorrow at U.P. Diliman, a good jog for me, and a grand journey for Frodo riding the red pick-up.

Half-way through Buendia, Agom got a call and all I can hear was him saying "SHIT, SHIT!" I thought to myself, oh no not another business deal gone awry early in the day. Agom’s day is either full of promise because a new customer placed a sizeable order that means sustained business and incomes for the people who depend on every single penny earned by AMS or its a SHIT-ty day when orders are cancelled because the same people who’s bread and butter is AMS did not do their job or did but in a sluggish manner that customers are pissed off.

So I asked: “what’s wrong this time?” Wifehood to Agom means sharing in his business frustrations and giving some consolation once in a while. Agom did not reply, instead he reached for my hand, held it tight and let the tears flow. My mind wracked for answers and the tendency was to think of death in the family. Who could it be? Then Agom tearfully announced that Thoy, a young cousin who's now a police officer, died in an ambush in Virac. He gripped my hand much stronger this time and how I wished I could give him all my strength to confront such pain of loss. But I couldn’t, because tears were also welling in my eyes. The news slapped me in the face really hard for just moments ago, while driving along C5, we talked about not fearing the same people that killed Thoy because we believe that they are not out to harm ordinary folks like me, Agom and Thoy.

Should this death reverse our belief or should we treat it as just one of life's mysteries? I don't know yet, but in the meantime I hold Agom's hands and join in his grief.

Eight to Celebrate

We celebrate our independence day today. Not the country’s independence but Agom and mine’s. On this same day eight years ago, we took the jump to freedom by getting married.

My former boss actually made me realize that when he joked about us choosing the 12th of June as our wedding date. Come to think of it, getting hitched is ironically setting oneself free from so many things.

The day I got married I freed myself from the nagging question of whether someone out there is meant for me because God’s chosen one was waiting for me at the altar. I trust that Agom, even while I saw him sweating like any nervous groom, also knew that the woman bound to meet him at the altar was God’s chosen one and he can finally liberate himself from the endless search.

In these few years of our wedded life, our freedom comes in the form of being true to oneself and no longer feeling encumbered by the exaggerations of romance. We present what we really are to each other and we love each other more for every quirk that we’ve probably kept hidden while we were still sweethearts for fear of breaking up. We allow romance to be the spice of our marriage but we try hard not to let any failed romantic expectations destroy what we hold dear to us. After all, we both know that the twists and turns we went through to stay together are enough proof that love is not really all about romance but a decision we need to prove beyond flowers, gift, or even the wedding bands we wear everyday.

That is another freedom we celebrate today: the choice to stay together in spite of and despite of all the hurts, doubts, and resentment. Liberty to be one because there are far more wondrous things to enjoy together than apart, because there are more beautiful memories to build as a couple rather than as a lonely nomad, because there are hurdles best solved when two minds work it out.

HAPPY WEDDING ANNIVERSARY TO US!

A Strip of Sand

One of the common things Agom and I share is the dream of having a strip of beach to ourselves. If the beach comes with a little patch of land where we can pitch a tent or build a little hut under a shady tree that would already be a bonus.

By stroke of luck and some relatives who’ve probably heard about our dream, we got what we wished for at a price that meant forgoing a trip to Bangkok for two (go figure!). Now that little paradise lays waiting for its stewards. Yes mere stewards for I don’t think we should see ourselves as owners because we’re not. Our travels have taught us that someone more divine, more brilliant, and more powerful holds ownership to all the beauty we’ve seen. No document or title can erase that reality and neither should we be deceived by legalities that have sadly misled many a steward to believe that they have the right to destroy what was given them to nurture.

Next on our wishlist is to ensure that we can fend off any misled individual’s attempts at defacing this slice of paradise under our watch. How to discourage people from hauling the shells and corals to their homes? How to dissuade them from burning trees that serve as watershed near the beach so they can collect enough “pang-uling”? How to stop passersby from throwing water bottles and trash without getting smirks and cynical stares? How to change mindsets that there are ways of earning a living from nature other than dynamite fishing and mining? How to make all fellow stewards believe us that every little act of respect to nature means a gigantic big step toward sustained life on earth? These are big questions that require firm and strong decisions from everyone.

If only the same questions were asked when our neighbors were mulling over who to vote for in the local elections, then Agom and I and other concerned stewards would be better positioned as we search for answers and solutions as well. But then, that little strip of sand was no one’s concern at all. Every household didn’t have the time to talk about it for they were all busy counting sums of money that adds up to a trip for a family of six to Rapu-Rapu, off the coast of Albay.

Prelude to Independence Day

A long weekend is ahead of us so the Powerpuffs and Kuya convened in a Pentagon-like strategy meeting to map out a much-needed break, the destination of choice: Real, Quezon. Its no longer the beach season but we insist to pack our bags for a special trip with special reasons.

Its the first time the four of us will bond with our significant others. Its a trip which will hopefully transform us from colleagues to very special friends, a clique of sorts building and sharing memories that come only once and to only a few. Its our way of breaking off from the bonds of work that of late have frustrated us in varied ways: uncooperative staff, misleading directions or no directions at all, intrusions into our private time, boredom settling in.

Each one may not be voicing it out but deep inside we know that we're yearning for this bonding moment. For months on end the possibility of separation has faced us from different directions. Moving on after getting to know each other's strengths and quirks and using such to perform tasks is something we have to accept sooner or later. Nothing can really be permanent, especially when prospects ahead tell us that something good career-wise is out there for the taking.

So off we go this weekend. We need to immortalize the friendships we built even while we're each facing challenges at work. We need to put the same relationships into a higher plane, a familial environment where we can be more than just workmates. We need to celebrate individual and collective triumphs and join hands because we still have more challenges to conquer.

I can't wait to pack my bags.

Taking It Slow

The May 14/21 issue of Newsweek just affirmed what I've been craving for the past few months. The travel double issue deals with taking it slow and argues why moving less and seeing more is the mantra of today's traveler.

Slowing down was precisely what I wanted when summer vacation came about in the Philippines. I've been itching to zap the mob of people out of my sight, forget the piles of papers and deadlines on my table, and leave the cellphone and notebook. I've been longing to vanish into nowhere, laze for hours by the beach, read and FINISH a book cover to cover, and enjoy the music in my i-pod.

Along came Potipot Island off the Zambales coast. A gem of a destination I "discovered" while the office went on its teambuilding early May. While most of my workmates were contented with spending the time at the swimming pool or playing card games at the verandahs, off to Potipot I went with some "water worshippers."

At the island, we met a family on their third break for the year and who have been coming back to Potipot to do precisely what I would call THE LIFE: live off fish caught from the sea, savor a lot of sleep in a hammock, commune with God's creation both on the island and underneath the waters, and bring the dog to likewise have the time of his life. All these experiences, I would hope would lead to stories I can blog about and to a better outlook when and if I bounce back to normalcy.

We learned that the family has been on the island for over a week and when we chanced upon them they seemed to care less what was happening with the rest of the world. Truth to tell I envied them so much that the time we were chatting with them was an awakening to me, a realization that my taking it slow is just a matter of choice. However, it was also a time to reckon with a basic question of life: Why bother with living when one can actually have a life? Why rush when I won't really know whether I'm running to or away? Why get trapped by normalcy and all its toils when you can just break away and breathe?

I had a lot more questions to ask but the boatman was calling us to board the banca that will take us, in a hurry, back to life and its expectations: food was waiting, people were packed to go home; the bus was revving up for the drive back.

Thus, I continue to yearn for that four-letter word, no not L.I.F.E, but S.L.O.W.

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Lighthouses

What is it with lighthouses that fascinate us? Beyond the architectural beauty of these landmarks, I think lighthouses give us a sense of direction. It is comfort that when and if we manage the storms, someone is there to guide is back to shore. It evokes in us the feeling that a light guides us back home, no matter where we may be.