Stories Waiting to be Told

This Cambodian Independence Monument stands proudly at the center of Phnom Penh. 

    

There is a park on one side (where I took the photo) and a shopping center on the other.

The serene park, with its lush plants, colorful flowers, and tall, shady trees, landscaped to perfection, seem to deny and defy the violence and brutality that once destroyed this small Asian country, and which are still too raw in our memory (at least in mine).

Here I stood in prayer that the re-emerging cultural, economic, social and political life of Cambodia—which was reduced to almost nothing and is undergoing reconstruction with the help of the UN, and economically, Europe, North America and Australia (and in our own small way, the Philippines)—will grow at a faster pace.

I did not cross over to the side which usually excites me. At that hot, humid hour, shopping seemed like a crime—or too insignificant to consider—in a place that is saddled with issues like illiteracy and poverty.

I had just made friends with a few Khmers whose life stories could melt even the coldest of hearts. I met—and got to know—them through the themes of their writings in an orphanage’s main hall where I conducted a Creative Writing for Children workshop.

Before I set foot on Phnom Penh, I was given a thorough briefing by the organization that invited me. I was to be given two translators to make it through 14 participants—ages 21 to 64. For their privacy, I will not mention names. Khmers are new at writing—at everything—since they are still rising from the ashes of devastation. I prepared a module (translated to Khmer way ahead of time) which was as basic as basic can be: from creation or ideation (as used in the ad industry) to wherever the four full days would take me.

I was prepared—for the worst.

What I was not prepared for was the excitement with which they embraced the idea of writing for children. And their speed in seizing concepts from each lesson. They were bursting with many, many stories waiting to be told. On our second day, they had created big ideas to leap from. And at the end of four days, they each had written a story, complete with conflict, action, and resolution.

I don’t know about their writing skills—for that comes with time, experience, and massive reading. But I know about their heart, which is what creative writing is all about. At the start of the first session, I talked about happiness and how a writer could translate his heart’s joy into powerful prose that touches young readers. Yet, as the day wore on, they wrote about sadness and ache and struggle that tore at their one captive reader: me.

How does one teach happiness? It can’t be taught—not even mandated; it can only be felt. And it will take some time before each of these new writers, some of them orphaned by parents slaughtered in the war, and all of them witnesses to other orphans who live in orphanages (the venue of our workshop included) run by missionaries, would know for sure.

But they know about hope. They believe, as I do, that beyond and beneath pain, there is Something far more important, and that happiness is forthcoming. These are 14 of the very small percentage of Christians in the whole country. Despite the sad tales of their themes, their endings speak of hope; of a Savior who understands because He did feel what they feel.

This is what makes them truly unique and remarkable. And what makes them astounding is the thought that—they are the core group of writers who will inspire young readers through books that brim with hope. It was, and is, our collective prayer that these books will usher in wounded children to a world of joy.

A part of the workshop was to read their drafts or tell their stories to the children in the orphanage. As I watched from the balcony, I could hear intermittent gasps and giggles. And I was, I am, certain that someday soon—when their works eventually get published—the underprivileged children who are their readers, would have more of the brief joy my own ears have heard.

(Last photo shows my foot on Cambodian ground.)

Sizzling Hot

Phnom Penh, Cambodia is at its warmest this time of the year. And I am here. I have abandoned my early morning walk because I don't think I can last the hour. Every day is in the 40's at noon. Don't even try to imagine it, you'll sweat.

But the friendships I am blessed with are even warmer. I may not understand Kmer but I do understand the warm welcome extended to me at every turn. Cambodian food is yummy—just like Thai food, minus the sting.

I have tons of photos in my digicam—I am slowly becoming good at fiddling with it—but I am using my host's computer (a Mac) and I don't quite know how to download them. There is no wi-fi connection so my laptop is sitting on my bed feeling useless. I hope to post a few of them when I get back home.

The creative writing workshop I am conducting is proceeding extremely well, way beyond my expectations. Creativity is cross-cultural and it is enriched by our differences.

I could write more but my sweat is getting in the way. I think this post has to stop here . . . at least for now.

Graduation Blues

For the first time, since I started teaching part-time in a transnational business school four years ago, I missed the graduation ceremony.      

 

I am in Cambodia conducting a creative writing seminar/workshop.

Had I been there, I know I’d feel exactly the same way I did every year. Which is why I am posting the piece I wrote four years ago. Thanks to computers, it’s not rotting or misplaced in some drawer or box. It might have well been written today.

On Cloud Ten

With much interest, I watch the solemn graduation ceremony. Since it has nothing to do with any of my three sons, I am not focused on one face, but a sea of faces.

Edgy and expectant, the mothers (fathers have better muscle control) have their necks permanently cranked in the direction of their son or daughter. Their eyes, shiny and wide, blink rapidly. They are poised to watch their children walk to the last door of childhood, as they themselves struggle to contain overwhelming joy. The diploma is as much theirs as their children's. 

On cloud nine—that's the idiom that best describes this extreme elation. As a race and nation, we put a high premium on a college degree. 

"Education is all I could bequeath to you," is repeated in Filipino homes for generations. 

Even lacking in material wealth, parents work hard to send their children to college. A lot of walls are adorned with diplomas. Parents say with pride, "My children are all professionals."   

       

 

But to some us (okay, me), graduation is the great divide. Before that, our children must toe the line. After that, they can do what they want (read: get married or leave home). Done, finis. 

I have a problem with that. 

In fact, I have a personal metaphor for college graduation. It is a prism through which light passes, then separates into all colors, going in all directions. At least that was what I felt when each of my children graduated. Not on cloud nine, but a bit beyond that—on cloud ten? This feeling includes ardent pleas for grace from our Father—to unclutter my heart with the fear of "letting go"; to help these once tiny hunks continue to embrace the values I would have legislated if I could.  
  

There I am on cloud ten all over again. A good thing I am wearing a bulky toga with a hood that keeps sliding backwards, choking me. It was a welcome diversion, a perfect time to be reminded of God's admonition in Matthew 6:27, "Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?"
 

The graduates, some of them my students, are wearing their best frocks underneath their black robes. Fresh from the beauty parlors of their moms, the girls are in Nine West heels. Wearing their dad's Armani neckties, the boys have abandoned their Nikes. Now clutching the rolled white paper that is their diploma, they display their retainers before the cameras while their perfumed mothers, clean-shaven fathers and bejeweled grandparents (with nurses in tow), grin beside them.

A very special day indeed.

Elsewhere, whether in very modest (or equally posh) surroundings, the same scenes are being reenacted. Having crossed the great divide, the graduates are high in spirits, teeming with smiles. Congratulations have never been uttered with more volume and exuberance.    

On cloud ten I feel all alone. I think none of the mothers in the hall has the same niggling dread about the future their children and they will have without each other.

Surely, they must know that the household landscape will henceforth change and will take some getting used to?

I spot the mother of the most outstanding student. "Your daughter will surely have a great future," my mouth moves on its own.

"You really think so?" she asks, her fearful eyes awaiting reassurance.

She is on cloud ten, I say silently, relieved that I am not alone. 
                                                                        


 

Early Morning Guests

A few minutes before 5 AM, every day, I put on my rubber shoes, sweatshirt and jogging pants.  

 

Then I am off to my one-hour prayer walk. At this hour, all is quiet and dark—the better to enjoy my own sen-surround: the rustling of leaves, the crowing of roosters afar, and chirping of birds above.

Before my hour is up, just when the sun slowly rises, my husband, Tony, goes on his. Unlike me, he likes to dawdle in bed, walk under the rays of the morning sun, and listen to human footsteps. During his hour, he sends off many people to work and greets fellow walkers.

This morning, he meets three children pushing a small cart, rummaging through garbage bins and looking for anything that may still be of value.

As he is wont to do, he invites them over to our home, saying he has a few things for them which may never make it to the garbage bins. When he comes in the gate with three little children in ascending heights, I wonder why the parents of these tiny tots would send them off walking around so early. My children, thrice their ages, won't be up till maybe another hour.

I hear my husband ask, “Have you had breakfast?”

And I hear three small voices reply, “No, sir.”

“Do you ever have breakfast?” I can’t help but come near and butt in.

“Sometimes,” they reply.

We get to work, Tony and I. (These days, we are on crisis mode. Ate Vi is on her two-week annual leave and Jen, with whom she left instructions, is busiest early in the morning.) We prepare three glasses of hot chocolate and make three sandwiches. Then he sits and chats with them in our little garden.

Between the two of us, Tony should be the children’s book writer. He dotes on children, anybody’s children. He hisses, "No child should ever work" whenever he sees street children peddling newspapers and sampaguita. No, he doesn't work for the Dept. of Labor or the Dept. of Social Welfare.

They’re not as young as I thought; their sizes belie their ages. They are siblings: Alberto, the eldest, is 12; Roberto is 10; and Mary Jane is 8. They live in the slums a few kilometers from our place. And they’re working during the summer break to help their parents.

I am getting a little better with my digicam now so I took shots of our guests while Tony gives them a discourse on the importance of education. We can't keep them longer than breakfast time; they’re out on an errand for their parents. And we respect that.

Tomorrow, they may be in another neighborhood, or off to some other errand elsewhere.

But today, the privilege to have them as guests is ours.

It is our early morning grace. 

"One Afternoon of Friendship" Happened!

Yes, “XDYR ROBingo” (Bingo event by friends of Robbie for Robbie) happened—in a magical sort of way. 

Friends of Robbie came in full force—with their families in tow. The babies, whose births and first birthdays we celebrated, and the toddlers whom we used to carry, are now ladies and gentlemen, all taller than we are.

Not many of us are bingo enthusiasts. I, for one, pass by the bingo section in the three big malls in our neighborhood each malling day, but never really give it much thought or attention. If someone invited me to play the game, I’d probably say “No, thank you” and head to the nearest bookstore or coffee shop for a cup of tea.

Playing bingo for Robbie’s sake, however, is another story. I’d slave and sweat over the numbers and patterns, and sit through our emcee’s (I’d mention his name—every person in the advertising industry knows him—but it would be unfair to all the others who remain nameless) call outs, and recycled jokes, even if it killed me.

The organizing committee did a good—no, excellent—job in soliciting really valuable prizes and pledges: huge cash and some appliances. But they did even better in getting together old peers (friends and foes) in one venue to play good-old-bingo. They would have talked those who are abroad into flying in, given enough time.

Why bingo? Fundraising events are not the easiest and fastest to mount. And time is of the essence. The clock is ticking and if we needed to move, it had to be—now. All that was required was a venue, which we got through a benefactor; and prizes, which we got through more benefactors.

What about bingo players? Well, there are plenty of us—who are not necessarily players, but are willing to buy bingo tickets in lieu of a week's taxi ride, or dine-outs, or shopping, or movies; and spend an afternoon together, fiddling with numbered rectangular cards while chatting and eating and laughing and reminiscing the glory of our fevered and competitive youth.

DYR was big on that. We used to brainstorm on the most creative of parties that ended all parties. We could easily re-create one—for a cause.

And we did. One of us prepared a table of the yummiest spaghetti and sandwiches; some carted to the place bags and bags of ukay-ukay (slightly used items), donated by more benefactors; and some went around selling more bingo tickets and collecting loose change to add to the funds. Iced tea and other soft drinks flowed, again from more benefactors.

Aside from the bingo prizes, other goodies were raffled off in between games. And there were four special games—for additional sales. The patterns one had to form were X-D-Y-R (see diagrams). For me, these patterns were excruciating tests of IQ and concentration. My brain has the uncanny ability to shut off when my eyes glimpse numbers.

Finally, at 5 PM, when it was time to vacate the venue, we played the last game called ‘blackout.’ This was a no-brainer; no pattern to form or follow. To win, one had to have all the numbers in his card called out.

And guess who won? You won’t believe this—it’s like someone’s idea of a silly joke: I won. I really did—with two others, splitting the grand prize three ways.

Will I now play more bingo?

No, thank you. But for Robbie, or any XDYR, I will. I'd drop everything for one afternoon of friendship.







Photos by someone we fondly call KO; (above) XDYR family; (below) the Grand Prize winners

One Group, One Letter, One Afternoon of Friendship

Two months ago, I posted an appeal to all my reader guests to please pray for my friend and former colleague, Rob, who was rushed to the hospital because of pneumonia and complications from kidney problems.

He survived that. But not without a price: exorbitant medical expenses, an urgent need for a kidney transplant, and the daily risk of infections and complications.

Like a tap turned on full blast, and not likely to be turned off anytime soon, the price is getting steeper as Rob fights for his life.

Aside from continuous prayers, his former colleagues—who rarely see each other except in blogs and e-mail photo attachments—have decided to be shakers and movers to help make Rob’s (and his family’s) load a bit lighter. Through emails and text messages, plus one or two meetings attended by a motley group of organizers, the move was on—beginning with a letter.

If you are a part of the Philippine Advertising Industry, chances are, you already have a copy of this letter. But if you don’t, please read it though and help us make it happen for Rob.

***

Dear (someone),

Once there was an Advertising Agency named Dentsu, Young & Rubicam-Alcantara (DYR, for short). You might remember it a little or a lot. It's gone now, but the force that drove it (the many people who came and went) is alive.

Now in competing agencies or focused on individual persuasions, we have somehow remained bonded, naming ourselves XDYR.

Cut the bull, you say. What’s the point?

The point is – urgent. We badly need your help. One of our colleagues, Robbie David, has been confined at the Makati Medical Center for sometime now, undergoing dialysis and expensive, painful medical procedures. Doctors recommend a kidney transplant soonest.

We’ve joined hands in mounting XDYR ROBingo! A bingo event by friends of Robbie for Robbie. It will be held at the San Lorenzo Gym on April 15, from 1 to 5 PM.

We appeal to your generous heart to choose from any of the following:

- Donate Bingo Prize(s) for the said occasion;

- Buy tickets;

- Commit to come and support the ROBingo plus other activities during the bingo.

The ROI is way beyond what we can see. As one of us used to say before client meetings, “May a thousand angels light your path.” It is our very same prayer for you.

For and on behalf of XDYR

(Signed, Organizing Committee)

***

I wish I could name names and let you know who did this or who spent for that. But the names are many and irrelevant—as everyone has done something in his own way. Let me then just use indefinite pronouns and identify this group simply as XDYR.

Please take note of the backdrop streamer, which was done by someone, and will be printed by another someone, and as of this writing, yet another someone in the XDYR e-groups shows us updates and status reports of what is happening from different ends. Prizes, pledges, and other forms of help are coming in. It feels as though an event is being mounted by everyone and no one.  

Tomorrow, someone will man an Ukay-Ukay (a flea market of sorts that will vend wares at reasonable prizes) while others will prepare snacks for sale in a food booth. Someone has persuaded professional talents to emcee the affair, and then someone is using his/her networks to solicit whatever there is to solicit.

ROBingo is not until tomorrow but nothing is ever too early to give of ourselves. As early as now, please say a little prayer for its success. Any other kind of assistance will likewise be appreciated.

And if you come, you will see and feel what friendship is all about. I like to think it’s God’s grace shining through all those nameless someone(s)—including you—who have held each other’s hand to make it happen for Robbie.

Blank Sheet of Paper

Among all the messages and commentaries that celebrate Easter, the most eloquent for me came from the mouth of a special child.

Although James was ten years old, he was still in kindergarten. And even in that class, James was not at par with his classmates. His motor skills and speech were way below those of children four years his junior.

That week, James’ teacher spoke to the class about Easter and what it means to Christians. "Jesus rose from the grave," she said. "The only Leader in all the world who did so. He is risen. He lives." She also spoke of eggs, bunnies, the naked cross, and all the symbols of Easter familiar to the children.

At the end of that week, she asked her class to draw anything they can remember about their lesson on Easter. She gave them each a blank sheet of paper.

Everyone went to work with excitement. Except James. He just sat there and stared at the piece of paper.

“C’mon, James, draw something,” the teacher coaxed him. But James wouldn't move. After an hour, the teacher asked the children to explain what they had drawn on their papers.

“Eggs!” one said. “My brother and I go egg-hunting on Easter.”

“Easter bunny!” another said. “It hops!”

"Flowers." "Church." "Jesus." "Cross." "More eggs." And the answers went on and on.

After everyone had explained his drawing, the children all looked at James who remained totally still and quiet. The teacher, concerned that James might be embarrassed, tried to make excuses for him, "Well, class, James doesn’t feel like drawing today-"

James raised his paper and said haltingly, “T-this is Je-sus’ t-tomb. Th-there’s n-nothing there b-because Jesus is n-not d-dead. H-he’s alive!”

What could the teacher say? Nothing more. Nothing less.

Let me end this post with “He Lives,” an old Easter Hymn:

I serve a risen Savior, He’s in the world today;
I know that He is living, whatever men may say;
I see His hand of mercy, I hear His voice of cheer,
And just the time I need Him, He’s always near.

He lives, He lives, Christ Jesus lives today!
He walks with me and talks with me along life’s narrow way.
He lives, He lives, salvation to impart!
You ask me how I know He lives?
He lives within my heart. 

Photo by:  photos8.org

"Eli, Eli, Lama Sabachthani?"

"My God, my God, why have You forsaken Me?" Jesus cried out on the cross (Matthew 27:46 and Mark 15:34).

To unbelievers, this lament proves that Jesus is therefore not the Messiah. For how can God Almighty forsake His only Son? 

In my research before the Holy Week, I was moved, more than ever, over the fact that He who created me suffered and died upon the cross for my sake. There is no doubt in my mind that He is my Savior and Messiah.

Psalm 22, which was written 300 years before Jesus was born, begins with “My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?”

On the cross, Jesus drew attention to it so that we may know that the prophesy has been fulfilled. In verses 11 to 18 of the same Psalm, we read exactly what happens during the crucifixion, “They look, they stare at me. They divide my garments among them, and for my clothing they cast lots.”

“My God, My God” showed that He was totally powerless. Like me, the whole of mankind, when we are in the throes of great pain or problem, we feel that God has forsaken us. This showed His humanity. When He came to earth, He was 100% man who was 100% dependent on God.

“My God, My God” demonstrated an-all powerful God, creator of the universe, who had chosen the way of weakness, so totally opposite of the powers-that-be who live and exercise their dominion over others. Jesus gave up power and defined for me what kind of a God He is.

To many Bible scholars, "My God, My God" illustrated that Jesus was not an innocent victim. He was guilty—He was totally evil at that point because He absorbed all the evils of the world. And in Habakuk 1:13, we read that God is too pure to look upon evil.

When Jesus took on the evils and sins of the world, when Jesus became sin on our behalf, it is possible that at some moment on the cross, God the Father spiritually turned His back upon the Son.

How could the Author of Life, who lived in a perfect place before coming to this insignificant planet, be subjected to the most cruel indignity by the very people whom He created? Unthinkable? He could have unleashed His power and punished all sinners to oblivion.

But He didn’t. He cried, “Eli, Eli, Lama Sabachthani?"—endured it all, and died, so I may be clean and free from the slavery of sin. Unthinkable indeed.

Oh, what grace.

Triple Bubble

It’s incredible how one tiny bubble can ruin a thing of value.    

 

I was once offered a diamond ring for a song. It looked very similar to the other ring the jeweler (a friend) was selling for ten times the prize.

The difference? If you look at the cheapy with a magnifying glass, you’d see a bubble, and therefore imperfect. “And therefore not as brilliant as the perfect one,” she added.

That’s how I felt last month, a stone with a bubble—for three consecutive times.

One after the other, three invitations from different schools in different parts of the country came. They were to be held exactly two days apart from each other. Owing to my experience in children’s literature, these schools wanted me to talk about my journey as a writer to inspire the children.

Similar invitations last year gave me rich and delightful memories of talking to children ages 3 to 6. I cherish those times and given a chance, I’d do them again.

And so I accepted these three invitations. Since I was to talk about the same topic, I prepared only one speech. Out of habit—or what I’d rather call passion for excellence (others call this Obsessive/Compulsive syndrome)—it took me days to write my speech as I researched, revised, rewrote, and converted it to a power point presentation.

From the fonts to the images to the slide transitions/effects and timing, I wanted everything to be just right. Although I usually prefer to speak extemporaneously—and sound spontaneous and informal—the process to get there is deliberate, calculated and long.

First bubble.

I was armed with my thumb drive, a back-up CD, and colored cue sheets. No need for a laptop—I had everything down pat. From the airport I was met with a bouquet of fresh GenSan flowers. During the short drive to my hotel, I found out that the graduation exercises were for grade school not prep school, as I had wrongly assumed! These would be 11 to 12 year-old tweens.

The hotel had a spare computer with hazy monitor, badly needing a replacement; its software had not been upgraded since it was bought in, well, give or take 10 years. All my fonts morphed into Times New Roman, running in all directions. And my carefully-laid out images danced and pranced. I had to revise, edit, and re-layout in record time.

Second bubble.

This time I made sure what level I was speaking to: prep school. I also brought my laptop along, just in case. But when I got there, the program read: guest speaker—Josephine Chiong! That certainly wasn’t me! The reason given was hilarious (I toted my sense of humor along and it came in handy). The person-in-charge was insisting my name was Josephine. Then when I showed him one of my books, he slapped his forehead. It’s the book the school has been using for the kids’ daily devotions for two years! And was I really the author?

They were quick to rectify the error—the big screen was revised to display my name. But I had to alter the first part of my speech to add a joke or two about “Josephine.” This part was totally impromptu—and was rewarded with laughter. Then their computer refused to move.

Third bubble.

I made sure lower grade meant grade school, not prep school. There were two streamers in the school’s two entrances with my correct name on them. A welcoming committee pinned a corsage on my lapel, then ushered me into a gym decked with red carpet and fresh flowers. The principal who gave the welcome remarks talked about “excellence” and “what it takes to win awards.” That should have been a clue to what was coming, but you know how it is when you’re having pre-speaking jitters. You’re not wired to be sensitive.

My speech was impeccable I thought. I got the laughter in the right places and had the audience nodding on every point made. When I got back to my seat, I felt my blood drain and ooze out of my soles.

It was Recognition Day, not Graduation Day! No wonder the almost 200 kids were in all sizes—they were aged 7 to 12! I immediately reviewed my cue sheets and heaved a sigh of relief when I saw no slide with “graduation” on it, but it was a bubble nonetheless.

And I thought I was thorough—absolutely and positively! My son (I can’t remember which one at this point), quickly changed this to “posolutely and absitively” to dramatize my state of frustration.

Are there lessons to be learned from these? Tons, but the biggest one, I think, is the one reason I blog in the first place: grace.

Every speaking engagement is a one-time occasion involving a different cast of characters in a different play on a different stage. Nights and days of preparation do not guarantee a flawless run. Bubbles cam appear before and during the show.

What is guaranteed though is that the message, through painstaking preparation, is a seed planted in young minds. For only by grace can one ponder, examine, and reflect on the words and visuals that make concepts chewable for a young audience.

And as I blog this minute, grace has allowed me to go beyond the bubble and see the remaining facets that shine. On these three occasions, they were the undivided attention, big hugs, cheery smiles, brazen nudges, and light touches from a host of little angels who were my audience.

P.S.

If you see me wearing a sparkling diamond ring sometimes, don't be misled. That's the cheapy with a tiny bubble in it.

You're NOT Handsome

“You’re not handsome” is Dili ka guapo in Cebuano—one of the Philippines’ major dialects (or language, as linguistics students call it because it really is totally different from most of the country’s over 80 dialects).

Dili ka guapo said to someone’s face would be suicide. You’ll get maimed, minced and mutilated. It’s simply not said (keep it in the dark chambers of your thoughts)—not aloud, not even in jest.

But in GenSan (a bustling city in Mindanao, almost at the bottom of the Philippine map), in a restaurant that serves mouth-watering ostrich dishes, Dili Ka Guapo is said with exuberance and exultance, while you dribble and drool, up in the same league as serendipity!

Dili Ka Guapo is a specialty dish. It is a combination of dilis (dried teeny-weeny fish), guaple (giant guava), and pomelo (a tropical grapefruit).

‘Tis a pity I have no photo to brag with, but I can gush. May I?

Imagine a white platter decked with dices of pastel greens, chunks of translucent pinks, and shreds of golden browns. They look like they shouldn’t be together; but you change your mind as soon as you take the first spoonful of the concoction into your mouth.

Pomelo

Dilis

Guaple

And then you think that one without the other would be tragic. Sometimes sour, sometimes salty, sometimes sweet—but always crunchy, juicy, and chewy, all at the same time.

If you are a foodie, you know exactly what I am babbling about. But it isn’t as easy as putting together dilis, guaple and pomelo. The secret is in the type of dilis, guaple and pomelo. In that restaurant called Sixblings, the chef has an exclusive recipe for his dilis; his guaples are handpicked; and his pomelos come straight from Davao (a bigger city three-hour drive away, where the sweetest and juiciest pomelos are grown).

At Sixblings, God’s grace comes in bowls, plates, saucers, and platters, I pondered.

Dili Ka Guapo is just one of the many things I was pampered with by my hosts when I was in GenSan for less than 24 hours. It deserves one post. Other posts, still on GenSan, are on the way.

Oaf

“Oaf” is the three-letter word I write in the tiny squares of the crossword puzzle when the clue says, an inept, clumsy person. Sometimes the clue also says, someone who’s lacking in aptitude and intelligence.

It describes me.

I can’t operate a digicam without: a) erasing all the other photos already there; 2) clicking and the photo gets lost; 3) missing a moment because I am forever fiddling with a myriad of tiny knobs with tiny drawings I can’t see without my reading glasses on; 4) and a lot of other things you don’t want to know.

I was extremely content with my Prima Canon camera even if my children, nieces and nephews laughed at me whenever I used it. I ignored every ribbin’ and teasin’—even sarcasm on occasion. I got all the photos I wanted and I have a cabinet full of spiffy albums and scrapbooks where my photos are mounted. However, those same photos don’t look too well when scanned and sent to cyberspace. But who cares? Photos are all about moments, not composition or clarity, right?

If I want crisp, clear photographs, I have artist friends to borrow from or Getty Images to run to.

But then I got hooked on blog hopping. And oooh and aaah, the photos in other people’s blogspots are simply marvelous, not to mention scrumptious. You can almost taste those delectable dishes; or feel the air in those exotic places; or touch nature’s promises in air, land, and sea; or hear the sounds of cities and ranges wide awake.

And to top it all, my son in the US painstakingly wrapped his first digicam--purchased with his hard-earned money treating patients two years ago--mailed it and bequeathed it to me. What’s a mother to do?

A mother who is also an oaf, that is.

I’ve been to several very important occasions worth a thousand photos the last two months. And I have nothing to show for them! Zilch.

Over the weekend I was in an awesome ostrich farm in GenSan and saw for the first time a lot of ostriches making like they were burying their head in the sand! What I’ve been reading about as a child had finally come true before my eyes. I was also treated to sumptuous ostrich meals in wonderful gastronomic presentations by the chef. And all I have is an ostrich egg which the farm/restaurant owners graciously gave me as a souvenir.

That's what makes my ostrich egg extra special. It now sits in an exotic basket for everyone to see—and with it comes my lengthy live narrative of what would have easily been recorded on digicam!

What’s my family doing to help me in this crisis? They’ve given me instructions over a hundred—maybe a thousand?—times, and well, enough is enough I guess.

Summer vacation has dawned upon us and I vow to make it worth my while. I will pore over the digicam manual and memorize every step.

Failing that, I may be able to visit my friend Robbie again. He is now out of the hospital, after over one month there, and I will ask him if he will be so kind as to show me exactly how he takes those drop-dead gorgeous photos with eyes closed.














(The photos show my precious ostrich egg beside a regular egg from our ref.  Who took these badly-lit shots? Guess.)

Family Gathered, Scattered

Against all odds, the answer is a yes.

Ask the person beside you, “Do you have a relative abroad?” You get a nod, or “Of course!,” or “Yup,” or a show of fingers. At no time in our history has the family been more dispersed and scattered, physically. Hardly do families have a gathering with complete attendance anymore.

My very small family (a husband, three sons, and a daughter-in-law), has not been together for three years. The culprit in this dispersal is not just the call of overseas. It’s having individual lives, chasing individual dreams.

I “lost” my children before they could officially leave home.

Second son went to medical school and it was foolish to cling to home which was an hour drive (barring traffic) to his school in Dasmarinas, about 40 kilometers away.

Youngest son is now in law school and the story repeats itself—he stays in a condo close to Rockwell and comes home only on weekends.

Eldest son is a techie down to his teeniest bone, works on weekdays, and when he’s home he talks to his three computers. 

This situation is replicated in many homes. The photos below show reunions that never happened; just a family gathered, and scattered.  

   

It stands to reason, then, that the one, extremely rare occasion when my family was together moons ago, in one space, I encrypted it in my hard disc; I wrote about it. (If you think do nothing but write, well, kinda’.) To all sons, daughters, fathers, and mothers out there who can't attend a family reunion for whatever reason, you may want to read this with me.

A Circle of Dry

It was almost midnight, it was raining, it was a long way to home, it was slippery on the highway, it was the day the family was in one space in months, it was the worst time to have a car breakdown. Bang!

"We just had a flat tire!" I screamed.

"Naaaah," my husband said, like a tic—when I am in the throes of panic.

Then the car wobbled. The unflappable father of my equally unflappable three sons (unmoved from their sleepy slouches), managed to park the car close to the island.

Kahlil Gibran said, "Our children are not our children." I add, "...after the age of puberty." Before then, they are our children. They want to go wherever we go, eat whatever we want them to eat, do whichever we want them to do.

Unfortunately for me, my three boys, who each have contrasting interests and schedules, are all beyond the age of unreason. So this drizzly night was special. And now a flat tire to ruin it...
Putting it mildly, we were in great peril. My husband Tony was recovering from a quadruple bypass surgery; first son never, ever, changed a tire; middle son was suffering from a shoulder injury; last son was like first son in inexperience. And all of the above had not read the Revo's (a week-old purchase with no EWD) manual; no one knew where the jack was or how to extricate the spare tire from its hiding place.And me? "We could be sideswiped!"

"Call Jimmy Dumlao and request for a highway patrol," Tony tried to distract me.

Jimmy is a friend who heads the Philippines Toll Regulatory Board. Help from Jimmy's traffic men was not forthcoming. Vehicles, with eerie apathetic sounds, sped past us. The rain persisted. My chin shivered from the cold and fright. And right on the hazardous highway, my face was soaked from looking up, from praying for grace.

But opening my eyes, I was treated to images more stunning than the photos of man landing on the moon. Stunning images frozen by my heart's camera in snapshots.

A father's umbrella providing sons (huddled over manual) a circle of dry. Click.

Three pairs of scruffy shoes sloshing through mud in cadence. Click. Three pairs of soiled hands gripping metals and latches in unison. Click. Three pairs of wet arms tensing over nuts and bolts in sequence. Click. Three pairs of eyes focused on rubber and wrench. Click. Three boys alternately conferring with each other, pushing and pulling, and lying on wet pavement together. Click. Click. Click.

I splurged on rolls upon rolls of imaginary film. How often does a mother get a chance to witness a bicker-less event? Not often. Sometimes never.

Common household dialogue: From three sons, "I did it yesterday, it's kuya's (older brother) turn today." "Why does it always have to be me?" "I can't mom, I have homework to do."

From their father, "I'll do it for you. I have no homework, I have no kuya, and I have no choice."

The spare tire now almost in place, Jimmy's men arrived in a patrol car with pulsing lights and piercing siren. They watched my now bedraggled sons finish the job.

My cell phone rang. It was Jimmy. "Are my men there yet?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Were they any help?"

"Yes, thank you again." I was grateful they came late. I was grateful they left us alone.God's grace neither comes late nor leaves us alone. Not even on a highway on a rainy night when our car breaks down. “You turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.” Psalm 30:11.

My Mother's Manila

What was old Manila like? I mean, the Manila before World War II crushed and tore it down. My mother used to describe it, with tinges of regret and much nostalgia, to me and my siblings. It has been difficult to imagine knowing how Metro Manila has become—over 15 million people, cramped with homes even on railroad tracks, along river fringes and under bridges.

“Old Manila was nothing like the Metro Manila you people know,” she said. “No litter on the streets, no graffiti on walls, no jaywalkers, no pickpockets, no slums, and definitely no reckless taxi drivers.” Roxas Boulevard (called Dewey then) was a serene parkway. Manila Bay was a family resort.

The Manila pier was the longest and most modern in the world. And Pasig River? It was a place where romance bloomed. (Maybe a little like Luboc River in Bohol today—clear, clean, and charming.) That era was called "Peace Time" or the Age of Optimism.

My mom’s gone now, but before God took her with Him, she would lament, “You young people don’t walk anymore. All you do is ride the car, bus, taxi, jeepney, tricycle, and now LRT and MRT! Walk, walk, walk!”

Then she would reminisce about her daily brisk walks. (I think I may have gotten my love for walking from her.) She’d walk from Paco, where her parents in the province built a halfway house, to the University of the Philippines, Padre Faura, where she was a B.S. Pharmacy student.

“It was a good five-kilometer distance,” she’d brag, “and I traversed it four times a day!” In those days they went home for lunch.

Well, there were no fumes, dust, smog, sidewalk vendors, or a horde of impatient, sweaty pedestrians—and other obstacles—that make brisk walking in that part of town an impossible endeavor today!

This week, I finally saw and pictured exactly what my mother was talking about and the places where she walked briskly. I found this video taken before we (yes, us, bloggers and surfers) were born.

I invite you to watch and enjoy the Manila that was my mother’s: previous post.

(Video is 6+ minutes. For uninterrupted viewing with music of a bygone era, please allow it to download before playing.)

Manila: A Bygone Era

Read the post on this

Name Dropping

What would you call someone who is closely related to two celebrities and who talks about it?

Name dropper.

That’s what I am, at least for this post. Not because of the glory it will bring me (I am sure none is forthcoming) but for the pride I feel in having them as my niece and nephew.

First, Ali Ewoldt.

Ali plays Cosette in the re-staging of Les Miserables on Broadway! Yes, she’s the daughter of Fantine, played by Lea Salonga. She can sing up a storm—has been singing since she was a toddler.

Me? I can’t carry a tune, even if I keep trying. I love Broadway plays though (I have a collection of Broadway CDs, original soundtrack) and if I were in New York on opening night, I would have been invited to the family night and opening night. Hah!

See? We are related. In her veins run Ilocano blood and values. She is the daughter of my first cousin, formerly Leah Vergara Anolin.

Second, Alvin Patrimonio.

Anyone who knows his basketball in the Philippines knows Alvin. Four-time NBA Most Valuable Player.

He’s a giant at 6’3” and I’m a midget at 5’. I am not into sports (except walking and occasional swimming) and I hardly watch basketball games. But trust me, we are related. Alvin’s the son of my first cousin, formerly Ophelia Vergara.

There are things I know about Alvin that the world doesn’t–that’s the prize of being an aunt. He knows his manners and his values are well oiled.

At age 3, the family predicted he would be a great basketball player. He’d play with anything that’s round (fruits, toys, even a wad of crumpled paper) and make like he was shooting it.

The Vergaras are a closely-knit clan, meeting every single year (62 years now) for a clan reunion.

And we keep in touch all-year-round through a Vergara e-groups and a website, complete with a family tree, consisting of 6 generations! We know what each other is up to.

Ali and Alvin, although second cousins, have not met each other—not yet. Ali still has to visit the Philippines; we’re all hoping she will one day.

Okay, that's about it. My name dropping time is up. I will now go back to my ordinary self—and enjoy the amazing grace God pours upon ordinary lives.

(Photo below shows Alvin, with his tiny aunt [in orange], when he attended the launching of my book, "Gifts of Grace 2" -- where he upstaged me big time. Featured in one of the book chapters, Alvin was asked to pose with the guests for photos, non-stop. The queue for his signature was twice longer than the queue for the author's!)

I Won Big Prizes from Blogging!

When I started blogging, I was writing for my local community, focused on friends and relatives. And, by a stroke of luck, maybe for a sprinkling of Pinoy readers.    

Myopia.

Now what do you know? Just into my fourth month and I receive one surprise (prize!) after another.

ONE, hits from the big, wide world.

After I learned to operate my stat counter and to analyze its facts and figures, I realized that my guests, aside from Filipinos, are people from faraway lands—China, Poland, New Zealand, Chile, Portugal, American Samoa, United Kingdom, Japan, Africa, Brazil, Italy, Canada, Spain, Australia, US (from over a dozen states), and Saudi Arabia?! I thought they might have been misled surfs or errant hits, but their visit duration lasted minutes and hours?!

TWO, friendship with total strangers.

One of my guests asked via email where she could buy my books for her four kids. I named all the bookstores in the country, including those in Baguio. Little did I know that she is from Vermont, USA. She invited me to visit her blog—an intimate diary of a SAHM (Stay At Home Mom), “white European mix” married to a Chinese. She's now my e-pal.

Other emails from virtual strangers, and acquaintances I have already forgotten, also make my day.

THREE, gifts of grace from other blogs.

As I visit other websites, I meet people who, unselfconsciously, let you in on their lives—what they hate and love; their activities and their thoughts; their tears and fears; and how they learned life lessons. You see parallels with your own life and you start feeling better and finding new options which were not in your original limited list.

FOUR, the joy of “throwing caution to the wind.”

Lest that cliché mislead you, let me explain. I come from a generation where writing is sacred. When I was growing up, we had a writing discipline. Before sending out letters, we first wrote a draft, which was checked for errors then copied to a neat stationery. Since internet was still an idea, we diligently researched in the library and wrote our course works with our own, well-crafted words. We read the classics and loved the printed word.

Reviewing my old jottings, however, I found that there are correction marks on the handwritten ones, and liquid paper on the typewritten ones—even in private I was editing my work!

In advertising, every word we wrote had to be justified, and if possible, backed up by market or copy research.

Then I got published. I wasn’t surprised when my publisher assigned me, as a matter of course, two editors: a major one and a back-up one. And are they precise! They see every misplaced apostrophe, cliché, faulty capitalization, overdrawn paragraphs, mixed metaphor, non-space, misquotes (and the sources of the right ones), copyright infringement; yes, every teensy wrong dot and visible pixel.

That affirmed my writing ethic: Every piece one writes, which would be read by a person other than herself,  needs to be reviewed ruthlessly and rewritten endlessly.

A month before November 23 last year, the day I started blogging, I read a few blogs. They were written as though they were spoken spontaneously, sometimes rambling, sometimes babbling, with utter disregard for rules and substance. I read the comments on these posts and no doubt, their visitors, too, were in cadence with them. I said to myself, Why not take on the same attitude?   

Today, I read and revisit maybe a dozen blogs a day, and but for a few exceptions, they have the same cadence. They are what my 18-year-old student told me, “Blogs are self-expressions, not philosophical treatises.”

“Not literature?” I asked.

“Naaah,” he replied.

"Not pieces of art?"

"Nope. It’s kinda’ like . . . well, you know. Wala lang. (translation: just for the heck of it; or, no reason whatsoever; or, it just is; or, no brain surgery needed.”

I have learned that grammatical lapses, or misplaced figures of speech, or flagrant syntaxes, or dangling participles, or typo errors, or even mile-long paragraphs consisting of ten different thoughts, shouldn’t be causes for bursting blood vessels or recurring nightmares.

Ah, the prizes of blogging. They are big, many—and counting!

A Wish: Honeymoon Forever

If my hands were not on the keyboard, I’d be clapping as I write this: One of my book editors and friend, Joan, is getting married in June!

Weddings are always a happy occasion, awaited with bated breath. But because wedding ceremonies are not made with cookie cutters, they take time to prepare. At the moment, Joan (and Nixon, her fiancé) have to see to a million details.

I want to put my two cents’ worth, not on the wedding, but on the honeymoon. I have a place in mind—and it’s no less than a paradise. It’s aptly named one, too: Eden Nature Park, in Davao. I was there in the summer of last year and naturally, I wrote about it in my journal.

What was I doing there? I was invited to conduct a Creative Writing Session for the Leadership Development Program (LDP) of Compassion International during the LDP Congress.

April 3, 2006

The nippy wind stings my cheeks as I breathe in the fresh, early morning air. The sun has not risen and the birds chirp and fly to welcome the new day.

This wonderland couldn’t be anything but Eden, the perfect garden God himself made, and where He created the first man, and then the first woman. And here I am—3,500 feet above the traffic clog and smog of Manila! 

April 6, 2006

At dawn, the place was just beginning to stir. I had just taken a walk with two of the other invited speakers, Sito and Arni. The three of us went up and down hills and narrow lanes, passing through the bushes and thickets, under the tallest pine and palm trees, our eyes feasting on deer, fireflies, and peacocks.

With a full view of Davao below, our rubber shoes crunched on pebbles and got soaked from the morning dew. We looked up and the finest, almost invisible drizzle moistened our faces.

“I wish I could bottle the air and bring it back to Manila,” Arni said, wistfully. His remark we all silently shared. For it seemed like the very same air Adam and Eve breathed in that first garden where they walked with God daily. What place could be better?

The question haunts me as I relish the hours at Eden Nature Park and Resort, a 40-hectare man-made, expensive getaway, which, I know, is just a speck, a billionth speck, of the grandeur that was the real Eden’s. It’s the same question that has kept Christians perplexed over the first woman who turned away from it all because she wanted more.

“Wanting more” are two words which continue to be the bane of man. More money, more power, more prestige, more recognition, more clothes, more shoes, more enjoyment, more happy occasions, more, more, more.

In Christian-speak, more blessings. Truth is, there are more blessings than we can ever acknowledge. On Eden alone, I can write over a thousand blessings, and my list would still be dreadfully incomplete. For the God of the huge universe is also the God of the teeny mustard seed.

I tried to guide the seminar participants (LDP scholars) in writing interesting letters that their sponsors (benefactors) would relish and treasure. One of the exercises was to demonstrate that ordinary information can be said in other ways to better involve the reader.

Fact: “I am now attending the LDP Congress. It is being held at the Eden Nature Park and Resort, south of the Philippines.”

But written from the heart, I said, this straightforward fact takes on a different texture . . .

“Every day, here at the LDP Congress, I walk proudly with deer and peacocks! They roam around in this 40-hectare cool resort called Eden Nature Park.”

and another . . .

“When I look up, I can almost touch the blue sky—as though heaven is within reach. That’s how glorious it is here at the LDP Congress.

and another . . . 

“I am up in the mountains in a place called Eden—where the air is so cool it stings; the trees so tall I can’t see where they end; the grass so green they look like carpet. This is the awesome venue of the LDP Congress which I am privileged to attend.”

and another . . .

“I feel as though God is holding my hand as I walk up and down winding paths, smelling the flowers and chilling from the breeze. He made it possible for me to attend the LDP Congress in this paradise on earth called Eden.”

and yet another . . . 
“I meet God again and again in this breathtaking place He created. Tall mountains and rolling hills, flowers, butterflies, fireflies, and rabbits! Everywhere I turn, I see the spectacle at Eden Nature Park, the venue of the LDP Congress.”

My “students” took it from there . . . but even words (or photos) were inadequate to do justice to the wonders of God’s creation. The closest, I thought, as I filled my lungs with Eden's air (the next best thing to bottling it), was that word: paradise.

I was dribbling with excitement when I got home and described Eden to my husband in picturesque prose, short of being the resort’s publicist. His expected response (he has a penchant for reducing my lengthy meanderings to bare bones): “Baguio, 40 years ago.”

Joan and Nixon, ‘nuff said. May your honeymoon (in Eden or elsewhere) last forever.