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.