I Wasn’t Aware That He Wrote About Mushy Stuff

 

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.

- C. S. Lewis

Weekend Musings: 9.23.12

 

“There's a place you can touch a woman that will drive her crazy …” so the famous line from the movie “Milk Money” goes. That was a line I gave a male friend asking for tips to keep a newfound relationship smokin’ hot. Then I told him to go figure the rest out.

Physically, emotionally, or even sexually? – the barrage of follow-up questions came.

I silently reflected on my experiences. Having been emotionally emancipated from a failed marriage for almost three years now, I have become content to remain in ‘single blessedness’ for a while longer.

How wonderful it would be to bask in the feeling of newfound love ---  much more, to even find someone as smart, sensitive, and talented as the guy asking me these questions. Meeting that someone who would touch me in a way that would drive me CRAZY would be a cosmic event that would definitely rock my universe.

But knowing I didn’t even have enough background information to fuel the chemistry between a once divorced 30-year-old guy dating a (am assuming single) 26-year-old, I resorted to sharing from conventional wisdom.

Bio clock is going tick-tock, I added.

So what is important at this age? Is the sex drive high? he wanted to know. I didn’t think insights from the cougar revolution would be relevant to the discussion at this point so I plainly answered:

Know what she needs…and expects from you, I advised.

Love is what I figured, came the reply. Kudos to my beloved friend, who has gotten himself back on the horse.

So much for words of the wise(ass). It has taken me a while to figure out what I’d need to stay happy…happily uncomplicated, that is.

Walking in Mary Embry's Shoes

I had to look up this name using Google to identify the suburban housewife played by Charlize Theron in the movie "Hancock". Not only was I drawn to Theron's stunning kind of beauty I was also fascinated by the superhuman powers secretly possessed by this character. Talk about a powerful being whose anger could conjure a twister and could crush boulders as if they were lumps of sugar.

The actress once described Mary this way,

"She makes this conscious decision to live in suburbia and be this soccer mom to her stepson and be the perfect wife—she lives in this bubble. But when people do that it usually means they are hiding some characteristic inside themselves that scares them. That is Mary's case. She knows who she is and what she is capable of."

However, it turns out that she loses her powers whenever she is close to the lead, Hancock, who likewise becomes vulnerable under the same condition.

Women seem to be at their weakest when they are with the men that they love, easily hurt and wounded whenever they are attacked. And though men, like Hancock, instinctively protect, they do not seem to realize that it's their presence in women's lives that make females feel more defenseless.

And while it seems that we women may learn how to fight battles better in the absence of men, it is not expected that a woman is applauded for bearing arms if it made her male partner look like he failed to keep her safe.

Maybe the story has a hint of sexist overtones. Or maybe not.

It's just that, the part about Mary possessing all of her strength when she is distant from her destined mate got me thinking. If that is the case, then why is it necessary (at least, why do I think it is) to ever feel like we need a partner to feel safe?

The Beauty of Mt. Pinatubo Crater Lake

With its turquoise and emerald placid waters, the majestic view of the 800-meter deep lake found in the caldera at the summit of Mt. Pinatubo will make any visitor forget the three-hour traverse on rough terrain that is required to get there. One can only be amazed at how a destructive force of nature can produce something so breathtakingly beautiful. Despite the aftermath of the volcanic eruption in 1991 and its staggering impact on the environment as well as the global climate, the crater lake became a popular destination for trekkers more than a decade later.

Day trekkers, who are either in it for the bragging rights or the change from the usual forested mountains, would roll in as early as 7 am on any given day. They start their journey with an hour-long dust bath through a dry, stony river valley by 4x4 jeeps and then continue on foot in the searing heat. There is no comfort in this wilderness of sand and pumice rocks, steep lahar hills, and orange-streaked sulfur streams, yet the visual intensity created by the sky and sparse greenery would surely keep the photo-lovers engaged.

Only a few people do realize that Mt. Pinatubo is mercurial as much as it is approachable.

Sweating It Out on the Anti-Aging Treadmill

"You're not 40, you're eighteen with 22 years experience." -- Anonymous

I am at the gym, listening to the thump-thump of my feet as I am running 7.8-8.0 mph on the treadmill. To my right is a fragile sixty-ish woman sweating profusely as she briskly walked while keeping her back straight. To my left is a bursting bundle of energy in her early twenties, ponytail whipping madly behind her and moving as if a spring went with each step.

Though my breathing and heart rate are even, a dull pain is starting to grip my quads. I focus on the dashboard, calculating how much time was left until I hit the 3K mark. I usually don’t like doing the same routine in one place. I could be better off being in the zumba or yoga class today, but I particularly chose this exercise to be prepared to join a fun run a couple of weeks from now (I am convincing myself that it would be FUN).

I have never joined a marathon (do TV series marathons count?) before. Well, there was this sports fest in third grade when I stumbled the moment the race started. I remember getting up, scraped knees and all, and tearfully going back to the starting line where I waited until the event was over. Never liked jogging, either, since I used to experience some slight pain in the knees and up to this moment I tell myself that I am not cut out for this sort of thing.

My red-hot iron will is what’s making these legs submit as I am dreaming to be among the top 100 runners of the upcoming event. A medal (better yet, a great snapshot of ME holding up a medal) at the end of the day will be evidence that I still have the upper hand in this fight against aging. Another badge of achieving a physical feat(only in my dreams).

As my attention shifts between my fellow female gym warriors and the blinking dashboard, I glance at the mute flat screen TV monitors showing Tyra Banks’ Next Top Model and the movie She’s Out Of My League. The scenes of the insecure youth taking the condescending remarks of fashion critics or searching the missing pieces of the romantic puzzle hardly pique my interest at the moment.

As I think about when I can squeeze pole-dancing lessons and radio frequency slimming visits in my hectic schedule, I find the real life story of the 40-year-old urban working single mom bending the aging curves of impending decline much more entertaining.

The Accidental Coach

Someone I know who was very close to me asked to meet up after work to confide a nagging worry.
The conversation promptly opened with a question that almost ruined my composure: "How did I know for sure that my then-husband was having an affair?" It wasn't that my friend wanted to know my answer. I've known this person's family history well enough to anticipate the direction her inquiry was going to take.
I listened as she poured out the details, that all-too predictable plot we normally see played out on nighttime soap, of her spouse keeping secrets and talking on the phone in hushed tones, of my friend fishing for signs of extramarital activity among his personal belongings, of heated arguments and the stony silence.
Here was a woman holding herself together --- a mother whose youngest child was a couple of months old, thinking of her own mother who fell ill just recently, recovering from an unexpected passing away of a sibling, at the same time struggling to stay in the marriage as well as keep the peace with in-laws within the confines of an extended household --- by the last few threads of her eroding sanity.
The stream of tears that was broken by sobs coming from her shaking body, however common as the story itself may be, struck a disturbingly familiar chord.
Recalling my own episode of dealing with the frustration, anger, and helplessness I felt when the love my ex used to have for me had gone cold, I could only offer some practical advice that would prevent the situation from turning her into a madwoman.
Turn to a marriage counselor? Why invite a witness to potential dead-ended discussions who might just assure them that when the husband tires himself of the affair, he will certainly find his way back into the arms of his persevering faithful legal wife?
Turn over some stones in the hope of exposing the identity and whereabout of the 'third party' involved? Why should she dig deeper when rodents would only hide themselves further in their burrow? All she would find was more dirt. I explained that a wife could not expect a husband to own up to his infidelity and surrender his prized mistress (while I mentally swore death to every home wrecker alive ).
When I sensed that my friend was reaching a critical point I persuaded her to heed to her self-preservation instinct, that is, literally move herself and her children away where she can buy enough time to carefully think through what she wants out of this mess while there's STILL a measure of control left.
It may not the most encouraging thing to say to her, I know, but her staying put could only disable the defenses she had left and reduce her to a martyr. That sort of assurance comes only from well-meaning sympathizers who think situations like these go away on their own.
In my version of the story, when I decided that I was far worth more than the regard my ex-husband was giving me, that I was MORE than HIS wife, I realized wanting out meant salvaging my damaged self-respect, which was crucial if I were to regain myself, as if it were like growing back the rest of me that was somehow lost in the union.
Betrayal is a B*TCH, indeed. But even if time can graciously allow a woman to learn to love again, there is much, much more required is she were to learn to love HERSELF all over again. But she must first believe that no man is ever worthy of occupying the center of her universe.

El Nido

Day 1: The Arrival

It was past midnight when we arrived in El Nido, Palawan. The crashing of the waves broke the silence and dissolved fatigue from traveling and waiting almost all day to get there. It was a twelve-LONG-hour journey, starting from our arrival at the domestic airport in Manila at 1 pm, then waiting for a couple of hours to pass after our 3:30 pm flight was delayed by bad weather, boarding the plane at past 6 pm and arriving in Puerto Princesa more than an hour later, and continuing to travel 270 kms for 5 hours in a hired van. Though rough and travel-lagged, we smiled in relief that the long-awaited beach and island-hopping getaway we planned more than 3 months ago finally happened.

After settling in, we found a food place that was still open at this unholy hour. Over a meal of 'tapsilog' (it would be morning in a few hours, anyway) we planned our activities over the next 2 days of our stay.

Drifting off to much-needed sleep, we were well on our way to getting acquainted with El Nido by morning.

Day 2: Amidst the Tempest


Perhaps Nature thought of playing a joke on us by bringing the rains to our piece of paradise. The next day the sky was overcast, and I had to wrap my camera to protect it from the drizzle as I was taking pictures. The idea of the photo shoot was blown away along with the rain clouds that zoomed in the sky. I resorted to meandering along the damp beach to look for anything that caught my interest.

And that was where I discovered the peaceful beauty of El Nido. The limestone cliffs were thinly veiled by a fabric of clouds. The waters of Bacuit Bay were still, reflecting the dull gray sky. Without the wandering tourists and peddlers, the deserted beach became a curious place to explore. There was a quietness that wove through every fiber in my being,  as the sound of gentle waves and the patter of rain hushed my thoughts and melted my temporary frustration into exhilaration.

The hours of seemingly aimless roaming passed, but I was reveling in simple joy of watching the so-called ‘UNevent’ unfold. The satisfaction of doing practically nothing started to grow as a new realization set in: even when bad weather thwarts your plans, there may be priceless discoveries waiting if you are willing to enjoy nature on its own terms.

My Beach Finds

 

I was de-cluttering some of my drawers when I found a small Gerber jar of shells I collected from a beach trip I made a long time ago. I held a tiny piece in my hand, trying hard to remember when or where I found this cluster of dusty brown-colored whorls. Soon after I unearthed some dried sand dollars, taking note of their smooth, chalky surfaces and then remembering the live ones I picked up from an island tour in Palawan more than 2 years ago.

There are other treasures stored somewhere in the house: a medium-sized starfish, bought from a souvenir shop somewhere in Cebu in ‘04. It used to be deep blue, I remember now, because I tried to take a live one home to dry but it gave off such a horrific smell that took weeks to go away. I also have handfuls of sand, of varying shades and textures, stored in glass bottles, some of which are still unlabeled even though years after the trip I can still remember the names of places where I spent the holiday.

Memories of frolicking among the waves or the colorful sight of marine life spring up as I hold my shells, pebbles, and bits of corals or driftwood that had been added to my still growing collection.

Nasugbu…Ilocos Sur…Cebu…Camiguin…Bataan…Pagudpod…Bangui…Boracay…Palawan…and decades earlier, even Redondo Beach (CA), Ocean City (MD), Panama Beach (FL) and some beach in Sabah, Indonesia whose name I can no longer remember --- a city-born/urban-dweller like myself should be so fortunate to have these places to visit and unwind.

The exhilaration of looking out into the still horizon slicing the colorful sky and restless sea, and thinking of what lies ahead, is that single common thread that pulls these places together.

I took a smooth, round pebble from a still unsorted lot in a plastic bag,  and at this instance I recall the ones embedded with fossils that were inadvertently given away to a friend. I sighed, wondering if I can find some more of these fossil pieces if and when I decide to go back to Tagudin. In the same way, I think of numerous trips to other places I have yet to see.