I could buy a thousand clocks
each with a distinctive frame
a harmony of ticking hands
whose face never stays the same
Clock hands are idly moving
bringing life forward
time signalling every act or step
whether to start or end
Hands beckoning, hour after hour
time is told by an unsympathetic face
unchanged, undistorted, and final
moments are created, sometimes erased
We measure time in seconds
minutes, hours, or days
the NOW constantly leaves
the PAST always stays
We 'make time' for a myriad actions
if noble purposes necessitate
and if ONLY time would stand still
perhaps, sad souls can mend their fate
http://www.thevirtualwire.com/2006/10/time_a_precious.html
Friday, March 28, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Breakthrough
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After years of searching online, I "found" a couple of old friends from MD. We used to have a singing group named "Breakthrough." We did not sing professionally, just enjoyed getting together to perform at small Christian group meetings. Being with the group was among the most meaningful things I pursued.
The original image file was found on my friend's personal web page. She sent me the pictures and decided to turn one of them into black and white to add a bit of nostalgia.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Recollections of My First Home
Of the many places where I lived with my family (I counted about thirteen), it is this bungalow on a 280-square meter lot in Marikina that holds my earliest memories in the early seventies. This 2-bedroom affair had a driveway large enough for 2 cars, a front yard where a mango tree was planted, and a small area in the back that had a wooden swing set.
My recollections as a girl of four or five, go back to the first time I went to school in Kindergarten. I'd walk from my house to school, taking a right turn at the corner and entering a small mesh gate after the next.
It's funny that it is only the first and the last weeks of school that I do remember. Probably because, the business of any child of that age is to do nothing but relish the freedom to play.
I spent most of my time at home my own with my tea sets and dolls. The living room that I recall had these orange L-shaped sectionals and stereo turntable with cabinets filled with vinyl record albums (called LP's). The music of salsa or Glen Miller's "Pennsylvania 6500" (or something that sounded like it) would have my parents do the two-step on the parquet. And then there was the cheerul chorus of Ray Conniff and his group singing Christmas songs. Even to this day, I strain to hear those tunes when October, November, December (the "ber" months, as we'd say) start rolling in.
On most days, that center of that parquet floor, for me, was primary dumping site for my toys.
However, I think the OUTSIDE was my domain. The details that linger in my head include one morning when my older brother (or his friends) caught a common brown bird, and I held in my little hand, and then realizing soon after that I must have squeezed it so hard because its head rolled limply to one side with its mouth bleeding.
Then there's this little swing made from a piece of rope strung from a limb of a kamias tree in the back yard. Using a piece of folded cardboard as a seat, I'd kick back as far as I can manage while I bathed in the orange hues of the afternoon sun. Perhaps I was never required to nap in those times because I picture many, many afternoons enjoying my own freedom.
My brother, the household helpers, and I used to roll out a green plastic mat on the front lawn. I would do cartwheels, pick the blossoms from the flower bushes, or squeeze myself through an wide space in our iron fence.
Among the neighbors I remember visiting was a brood of older kids named after German numbers (eins...zwei...drei...vier), and a girl named Cecille Lee, who showed me how to remove paint stains on our hands with malunggay leaves, and the next door neighbor whose wall I'd often climb over to get to their house.
Ivory Street was our playground, and we were fortunate that cars did not pass through it very often. When the big kids played their games, I'd sit on the pavement, making the bottoms of my undies dirty because I had this stubborn habit of refusing to wear short pants.
Even the sight of certain plants, like the "san francisco" with it riotous patterns of yellows, reds, and greens, this plant that had bowl-shaped leaves, or another one with leaves that looked like gathered lace, remind me that we, too, had those same varietes growing along the low walls that separated our property from our neighbors.
After more than 30 years, my parents and I chanced upon an opportunity to see it and I was so surprised to find out that the place was not as huge as I recalled. The new owners had the whole house re-designed; the streets were actually quite narrow. Looking for my former pre-school (in the hope that I'd meet a teacher who would remember me?), I instead found what looked like a small storage building.
As vivid as these memories are, the first five carefree years of my existence were filled with joy, innocence, and wonder.
My recollections as a girl of four or five, go back to the first time I went to school in Kindergarten. I'd walk from my house to school, taking a right turn at the corner and entering a small mesh gate after the next.
It's funny that it is only the first and the last weeks of school that I do remember. Probably because, the business of any child of that age is to do nothing but relish the freedom to play.
I spent most of my time at home my own with my tea sets and dolls. The living room that I recall had these orange L-shaped sectionals and stereo turntable with cabinets filled with vinyl record albums (called LP's). The music of salsa or Glen Miller's "Pennsylvania 6500" (or something that sounded like it) would have my parents do the two-step on the parquet. And then there was the cheerul chorus of Ray Conniff and his group singing Christmas songs. Even to this day, I strain to hear those tunes when October, November, December (the "ber" months, as we'd say) start rolling in.
On most days, that center of that parquet floor, for me, was primary dumping site for my toys.
However, I think the OUTSIDE was my domain. The details that linger in my head include one morning when my older brother (or his friends) caught a common brown bird, and I held in my little hand, and then realizing soon after that I must have squeezed it so hard because its head rolled limply to one side with its mouth bleeding.
Then there's this little swing made from a piece of rope strung from a limb of a kamias tree in the back yard. Using a piece of folded cardboard as a seat, I'd kick back as far as I can manage while I bathed in the orange hues of the afternoon sun. Perhaps I was never required to nap in those times because I picture many, many afternoons enjoying my own freedom.
My brother, the household helpers, and I used to roll out a green plastic mat on the front lawn. I would do cartwheels, pick the blossoms from the flower bushes, or squeeze myself through an wide space in our iron fence.
Among the neighbors I remember visiting was a brood of older kids named after German numbers (eins...zwei...drei...vier), and a girl named Cecille Lee, who showed me how to remove paint stains on our hands with malunggay leaves, and the next door neighbor whose wall I'd often climb over to get to their house.
Ivory Street was our playground, and we were fortunate that cars did not pass through it very often. When the big kids played their games, I'd sit on the pavement, making the bottoms of my undies dirty because I had this stubborn habit of refusing to wear short pants.
Even the sight of certain plants, like the "san francisco" with it riotous patterns of yellows, reds, and greens, this plant that had bowl-shaped leaves, or another one with leaves that looked like gathered lace, remind me that we, too, had those same varietes growing along the low walls that separated our property from our neighbors.
After more than 30 years, my parents and I chanced upon an opportunity to see it and I was so surprised to find out that the place was not as huge as I recalled. The new owners had the whole house re-designed; the streets were actually quite narrow. Looking for my former pre-school (in the hope that I'd meet a teacher who would remember me?), I instead found what looked like a small storage building.
As vivid as these memories are, the first five carefree years of my existence were filled with joy, innocence, and wonder.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Heavenly Treasure
I wouldn't say that I ever seriously got into the fad of collecting angel figurines. There are only four statuettes on display in my room, one of which is marked with a date that goes back ten years ago.
The angel, a hand-painted figure made of resin, is a golden-haired little boy. Holding a songbook in one hand, he is poised to offer the Heavenly Master with a song of praise.
I bought this angel during one of my wanderings at a time when I was grappling with the grief of losing my firstborn infant. I had named him after a prophet who lived in Biblical times in the old testament.
The memories still come back, as tragic and as gripping as the day the misfortune happened. He lived for only 3 days, yes, but I knew him a great deal much longer and I cherish every moment that I felt his existence when I was still carrying him.
I could still hear his first cry in the delivery room, and remember seeing his eyes flutter open when I called to him in the nursery.
I was never able to hold him in my arms though, and whatever manner of suffering he might have endured I would never know. When I received the call the day after I was sent home, my mind just screamed. And I screamed.
The onslaught of why's, guilt, and regret could somehow only be slowed with this faith that he was called home to heaven and that that would have been the best place for him to continue living.
I have this hope that one day I'd see him even in dreams. My ten-year old son and I could take walks and I would share with him stories of his younger sister, who still does not know that an older brother ever existed.
If some believe that God assigns a guardian angel to watch over His believers, and that infants go straight to Heaven when they die, then I would wish that God would grant a special request that my son be my designated angel.
The belief that my son is watching, invisible to my human eyes, and hearing my every whispered "I love you and miss you" may not be validated as Christian truth, though it is for me, as the only possible means by which I could accept the non-negotiable reality of the dear treasured life taken from me.
And if a life of eternity in heaven does hold its promise, then may it have a place for us, my son and I, to acquaint ouselves and make up for the time we lost.
The angel, a hand-painted figure made of resin, is a golden-haired little boy. Holding a songbook in one hand, he is poised to offer the Heavenly Master with a song of praise.
I bought this angel during one of my wanderings at a time when I was grappling with the grief of losing my firstborn infant. I had named him after a prophet who lived in Biblical times in the old testament.
The memories still come back, as tragic and as gripping as the day the misfortune happened. He lived for only 3 days, yes, but I knew him a great deal much longer and I cherish every moment that I felt his existence when I was still carrying him.
I could still hear his first cry in the delivery room, and remember seeing his eyes flutter open when I called to him in the nursery.
I was never able to hold him in my arms though, and whatever manner of suffering he might have endured I would never know. When I received the call the day after I was sent home, my mind just screamed. And I screamed.
The onslaught of why's, guilt, and regret could somehow only be slowed with this faith that he was called home to heaven and that that would have been the best place for him to continue living.
I have this hope that one day I'd see him even in dreams. My ten-year old son and I could take walks and I would share with him stories of his younger sister, who still does not know that an older brother ever existed.
If some believe that God assigns a guardian angel to watch over His believers, and that infants go straight to Heaven when they die, then I would wish that God would grant a special request that my son be my designated angel.
The belief that my son is watching, invisible to my human eyes, and hearing my every whispered "I love you and miss you" may not be validated as Christian truth, though it is for me, as the only possible means by which I could accept the non-negotiable reality of the dear treasured life taken from me.
And if a life of eternity in heaven does hold its promise, then may it have a place for us, my son and I, to acquaint ouselves and make up for the time we lost.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
My Special Treasure
Each time I reach for my daughter and lock her in my embrace, I always feel somewhat sad for not being able to go back to the time when she was but a quiet bundle. She officially stopped being my "baby" and is now aptly called "my little girl". Even the word "little" would soon be passe for when she stands tall the top of her head almost reaches my collarbone.
Many milestones have passed since I first heard her heartbeat and felt her stirring in me. She's the only person on earth whose every single day of life's existence I have witnessed. I fed her from my breast during her first six months, brought her to every scheduled vaccination with the pedia, gave her first meal, and propped her for her first walk.
The memories of her babyhood are documented in my scrapbooks. Items that I stored away include her ultrasound printout, hospital bracelet, a lock of hair, the wee off-white dress of her dedication, and her first toys.
Several other firsts followed: the trip to the beach out of town, buying her movie CD, alphabet book, and teaching her to write her name (which I did only ONCE, as she picked up really fast and became efficient at it ever since).
There was kindergarten, during which she was given a little trophy for being the Best in Singing (you should hear reach high pitched notes with her angelic voice), baby ballet class (though no recital) and the first time she learned to float and flap her arms in the pool.
She never went through Preparatory Level, but moved on to First Grade, which required a lot of adjusting and overcoming fear (hugely on my part). And just this week, I rejoiced at the news that she will be receiving some kind of recognition at the end of her school year.
My six-year-old now aspires to be a lady as she dons my gold ballet flats (her favorite), and prefers dresses to wear at home rather than tops and short pants, and traipses around with her plastic tiara. She has moved on from Winnie the Pooh to Princess Rosella (Barbie), though at times, she would pop in a Barnie movie CD for old times' sake.
She squirms from my mother-bear hugs, then when I pretend to get upset, she agrees not to let go. Though I notice that she returns the gesture, that when we are alone by ourselves she would reach for my hand or sling her arm when we sleep side by side. She tells me "I love you, Mommy. You're my best friend."
These are truly moments that I cherish. I would not give up hours of helping her with schoolwork (even after I have not quite recovered from my graveyard shift) over a hefty-paying executive's day job.
In five years or so, when she starts to grow curves and I would need to buy her first bra (for now she pretends and puts two fists on her flat chest, heave up her shoulders while saying "boobs!"), she will start having other friends that she will share her secrets to.
When boys start to take notice...hmmm, I wonder if they'll slip love notes? Maybe they'll be texting her constantly, I would then know that her world would be her own without Mommy being at the center.
She will be seven this year. As modern customs dictate, she will have a special 7th birthday party. Knowing that she would want a princess theme, I can definitely grant her the gown, but I am not so inclined about ceremonies that include "Seven Roses" or "Seven Wishes". Somehow I cannot imagine her just left sitting in some special "throne" as an observer.
As I muse over these things, I feel compelled to run home, embrace her with a squeeze and press my cheek against hers. I know that each day means one less embrace of this sort for my very special treasure.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Remembering Sis. E
I had quite a shock when I learned, two days ago, that a lady that my mother and I knew more than ten years ago back in Gaithersburg, MD had passed away. What a strange way for me to have discovered this on the web when I was searching for an online photo gallery that belonged to her younger brother, J.
In 1994, I flew to MD to join my mother who was staying with this family who then recently emigrated from the Phils to fulfill a mission in the United States. Their two-story home was a temporary place of shelter for me more than month.
Sis. E was a petite, soft-spoken wife of a pastor and a mother of two daughters and two sons. She had three other siblings living, each living independently, in the same state. I came to know much about her family and relatives to observe that they were a closely-knit clan that dwelt on traditional (Filipino) family values.
What sacrifices they must have made to follow the call to the mission field, leaving prominent jobs in their homeland. From what I recall, both Sis. E and her husband were practitioners of chemical engineering. Highly educated and accomplished, there was no doubt. Yet in MD, they shed the trappings of their careers and took on the roles of God's servants. In so doing, they welcomed many newcomers such as myself to their homes, even chauffeuring some who didn't have the means to pay a cab to get around. Blessed with such a generous heart, they offered counsel and company to Filipinos who were living far from across the globe.
She might have had her nails or hair done professionally for some special occasion, but I have no memory of it whatsoever during my stay there, as her busy hands worked night and day to attend to chores, whether home or church matters. The line drawn between the two had always seemed hazy a lot of times.
Sis. E's weekly routine was as typical as any pastor's wife could get. Carpooling, visiting with members of their small congregation, typing the church newsletter, playing the piano during the service, and yes, even baking and decorating birthday cakes and giving piano lessons to her nieces.
In spite of the "proverbial woman's" qualities, her gentle demeanor, in fact, concealed a strong individual that her spouse, children, and intimates could lean on. Her quiet tones could move a boulder with the strength of her convictions. I've had my own encounter with this force of a woman who, to me at that time, acted like a self-appointed maternal figure during a very confused time in my life. Her motherly approach was tactful yet firm, though I responded with a resigned stubborness. It took years before the stun of her rebukes finally eased. I realize that as I matured later on, her wisdom became priceless gems.
Almost thirteen years after leaving MD, my recollections of Sis. E and her family linger with memories of her spouse bringing her flowers (which came with a peck on the cheek) every week after buying groceries, of one evening when her gushing 16-year-old (now married) was getting ready for her prom and sharing this insurmountable excitement with her, of her 5-year-old (now in college) riding piggy-back on his way to being tucked in bed by her, and of her kneading petals and stems made from fondant along with her daughters.
The uncanny moments, meanwhile, include seeing her one morning when she emerged from their home office with yesterday's oil-soaked makeup caked on her face because she labored all night on the church newsletter, and that after-midnight episode when, in a fit of self-abandonment, she decided to play a mini concierto on her beloved grand piano while the rest of the household was asleep. In my head I would never forget the lilting accent of her native dialect that she used when speaking with her family. There was hardly a note of harshness detected in that language that I so often heard but never fully understood.
Though her husband, the pastor, usually discussed the Sunday sermon, whenever people listen to insights shared by Sis. E, it was as if she had her own invisible pulpit what with the attention she commanded from her audience. Her family never had to ask her to repeat for they were all ears when it was her turn to speak.
The last time I met Sis. E and her husband was, I think, two years ago. I stumbled upon her brother, J, at a church service, that I happened to be attending in Cebu. To my surprise, I found out that they were vacationing in the country at that time. I dialled the number given to me, and it was Sis. E who I instantly asked for. I went to see them that night. I showed them pictures of my family. And as much as I was ecstatic to see them again, I strained to find the moment to make amends for whatever misunderstanding we had had way back during my "confused time" in MD. Courage failed me, however, because I felt that the reunion was better off without going over moments we both regretted back then. Sis. E showed me the web site of her brother J's photo gallery while chatting with her kids online. She had always been the computer aficionado all these years, so it seemed.
Through J's site, I was able to catch up on more than ten years of not seeing their family as I saw images of their grown-up kids and the other relatives I met back then. I remember writing down their contact email once, but to this day, I had not been able to keep in touch with them.
Two days ago, I thought about looking up J's site, but I couldn't find it anymore. Just like stumbling upon J at that church service in Cebu, instead, I came upon the news of her passing away. She died of cancer more than a year ago. My mother was shocked when I called her up about it.
As of this writing, I am still hunting for an email address so I cound send my condolences to the family.
This post was not written without tears. This is my means of paying respects to that dear woman, a gesture to honor the love, friendship, and kindness that this wonderful family had shown my mother and me.
In 1994, I flew to MD to join my mother who was staying with this family who then recently emigrated from the Phils to fulfill a mission in the United States. Their two-story home was a temporary place of shelter for me more than month.
Sis. E was a petite, soft-spoken wife of a pastor and a mother of two daughters and two sons. She had three other siblings living, each living independently, in the same state. I came to know much about her family and relatives to observe that they were a closely-knit clan that dwelt on traditional (Filipino) family values.
What sacrifices they must have made to follow the call to the mission field, leaving prominent jobs in their homeland. From what I recall, both Sis. E and her husband were practitioners of chemical engineering. Highly educated and accomplished, there was no doubt. Yet in MD, they shed the trappings of their careers and took on the roles of God's servants. In so doing, they welcomed many newcomers such as myself to their homes, even chauffeuring some who didn't have the means to pay a cab to get around. Blessed with such a generous heart, they offered counsel and company to Filipinos who were living far from across the globe.
She might have had her nails or hair done professionally for some special occasion, but I have no memory of it whatsoever during my stay there, as her busy hands worked night and day to attend to chores, whether home or church matters. The line drawn between the two had always seemed hazy a lot of times.
Sis. E's weekly routine was as typical as any pastor's wife could get. Carpooling, visiting with members of their small congregation, typing the church newsletter, playing the piano during the service, and yes, even baking and decorating birthday cakes and giving piano lessons to her nieces.
In spite of the "proverbial woman's" qualities, her gentle demeanor, in fact, concealed a strong individual that her spouse, children, and intimates could lean on. Her quiet tones could move a boulder with the strength of her convictions. I've had my own encounter with this force of a woman who, to me at that time, acted like a self-appointed maternal figure during a very confused time in my life. Her motherly approach was tactful yet firm, though I responded with a resigned stubborness. It took years before the stun of her rebukes finally eased. I realize that as I matured later on, her wisdom became priceless gems.
Almost thirteen years after leaving MD, my recollections of Sis. E and her family linger with memories of her spouse bringing her flowers (which came with a peck on the cheek) every week after buying groceries, of one evening when her gushing 16-year-old (now married) was getting ready for her prom and sharing this insurmountable excitement with her, of her 5-year-old (now in college) riding piggy-back on his way to being tucked in bed by her, and of her kneading petals and stems made from fondant along with her daughters.
The uncanny moments, meanwhile, include seeing her one morning when she emerged from their home office with yesterday's oil-soaked makeup caked on her face because she labored all night on the church newsletter, and that after-midnight episode when, in a fit of self-abandonment, she decided to play a mini concierto on her beloved grand piano while the rest of the household was asleep. In my head I would never forget the lilting accent of her native dialect that she used when speaking with her family. There was hardly a note of harshness detected in that language that I so often heard but never fully understood.
Though her husband, the pastor, usually discussed the Sunday sermon, whenever people listen to insights shared by Sis. E, it was as if she had her own invisible pulpit what with the attention she commanded from her audience. Her family never had to ask her to repeat for they were all ears when it was her turn to speak.
The last time I met Sis. E and her husband was, I think, two years ago. I stumbled upon her brother, J, at a church service, that I happened to be attending in Cebu. To my surprise, I found out that they were vacationing in the country at that time. I dialled the number given to me, and it was Sis. E who I instantly asked for. I went to see them that night. I showed them pictures of my family. And as much as I was ecstatic to see them again, I strained to find the moment to make amends for whatever misunderstanding we had had way back during my "confused time" in MD. Courage failed me, however, because I felt that the reunion was better off without going over moments we both regretted back then. Sis. E showed me the web site of her brother J's photo gallery while chatting with her kids online. She had always been the computer aficionado all these years, so it seemed.
Through J's site, I was able to catch up on more than ten years of not seeing their family as I saw images of their grown-up kids and the other relatives I met back then. I remember writing down their contact email once, but to this day, I had not been able to keep in touch with them.
Two days ago, I thought about looking up J's site, but I couldn't find it anymore. Just like stumbling upon J at that church service in Cebu, instead, I came upon the news of her passing away. She died of cancer more than a year ago. My mother was shocked when I called her up about it.
As of this writing, I am still hunting for an email address so I cound send my condolences to the family.
This post was not written without tears. This is my means of paying respects to that dear woman, a gesture to honor the love, friendship, and kindness that this wonderful family had shown my mother and me.
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