More Shameless Plugging

Big Brother, a story of two brothers (one with Down Syndrome) will also be available for the first time at the International Book Fair. Palanca award winner. For children ages 8 to 80.

Come to the OMFLit booth for big discounts even on new titles.

See you there! September 12-16, 2008. SMX, Mall of Asia.

Book signing and book reading:

* September 14, from 2:30 PM
* September 15, from 10:00 AM 

Shameless Plugging

Here I go again inviting everyone to come to the International Book Fair (Sept. 12-16, 2008) where my new books will be released for the first time.

Two days to go! I am resisting the call to be modest at this time, mea culpa. I am posting a portion of the header of my publisher’s website.

Gifts of Grace 3 Is Born!

Joins 1 and 2

My third book in the Gifts of Grace series will be off the press in time for the International Book Fair on September 12 to 17. It went through the eye of a needle.

Let me change that to a metaphor that is closer to home: It’s like giving birth to a child, thrice.

First, writing. You go through months of uncontrollable writing—akin to an insatiable food binge. Everything seems scrumptious and you can’t pause lest you miss out on the whole spread. In the case of Gifts of Grace 3, there are chapters that have been written and re-written for years. Finally, after the last chapter is done (deadline, not appetite, completes it), you send it to your publisher.

Second, publishing. In the publisher’s office, the manuscript goes through review, review and more review, then finally, editing. The details you are not privy to, but you know. The references have to be triple-checked, and the subheads, blurbs, and paging have to be just so. And the cover! The templates, the photos—they need to be re-worked and re-analyzed and researched by committees. Before it goes to press, there are four to five layers of proofreaders, including you.

Third, launching. Here, a marketing guru, or a magician, has to have his head on broad shoulders, not necessarily his. He has to have a magic wand. Books are unlike your shampoos and soaps which are part of the repertoire of daily living. Books are, well, books. Out of 85 million Filipinos less than 2% read them on a regular basis.

And so here it is! Together with its soft launching at the fair (there will be a scheduled formal launching, to be announced later) is the re-launching of Gifts of Grace Books 1 and 2:

Published in 2002 and 2003 respectively, they will sport a new look and a new section called “Reflections.”

"How does it feel to have a book published?"

Ask any mom about how it is to give birth to one’s precious child. Now, triple that wondrous, glorious feeling! Why, it calls for a triple thanksgiving. Please come to the Book Fair and celebrate with me.

ooo

For more details please check out the announcement at omflit.com. Let me post the ongoing promotion of OMFLit’s new titles:

Just post this image in your blog, Multiply, or Facebook with a link to www.OMFLit.com and send the webpage link to Promo@OMFLit.com.
 We'll randomly select 5 winners who will each get to pick one newly released book of their choice.

How Not to Get a Passport

From green (old) to maroon (machine-readable, new):  

It wasn’t going to be an easy day. I’d be dealing with the government—the Department of Foreign Affairs (DFA). I had to renew my passport, the one that got hacked in Philippine Immigration during my last travel abroad. It therefore needed changing. A new system required one to appear personally; I prayed for a good amount of grace to sustain me.

(For the record: I am a good citizen. I pay my taxes, vote, and rise when the National Anthem is sung, cross the street only on pedestrian lanes, and don’t badmouth my government among foreigners or in foreign countries.)

I donned my crispiest blazer. By experience, if I dressed up like a CEO, the usually grumpy guards doffed their hats, stressed salesgirls smiled, and taciturn tellers said, “Ma’am.” True enough, the guards didn’t inspect my bag and I was ushered to the right gate.

The DFA building is old and decaying, and always packed with a sea of humanity. With or without blazer, one isn’t spared of the heat and crowd and the musty smell—a lethal combination of dust, sweat, damp rag, and toilet bowls that don’t flush.

One is also not exempt from the three long rows of creaking, chipping chairs reserved for passport applicants.

My travel agent was solicitous, totally deserving of his fee. He reserved a seat in the middle row. Then like an explosion, an old man, directly behind me, started berating the young man in front of me. “I don’t owe you anything! I don’t have to do this! I am only doing it because of your grandmother! You are taking too much of my time. And you don’t deserve it! Bang, bang, bang!” He seemed ready to run amok.

The young man blanched and said humbly, “Yes, I’m sorry sir.” But the older man spewed more lava like a raging volcano that had been dormant for a hundred years. I rose and moved as far away as possible. My agent ran after me and begged, “Ma’am, please stay in line. It’s almost your turn.”

When my name was called, despite my blazer, the document officer behind the jail-like bars said very respectfully, “Sorry, Ma’am, your passport photo is unacceptable. Your bangs are covering your forehead.”

Of course! They’re called bangs, aren’t they? I’ve been wearing bangs since the creation and now you want to get rid of it! I screamed, silently of course.

My agent quickly said, “I’ll go with you to the Rush-ID booth, Ma’am. It won’t take long.”

Inside the Rush-ID booth, there were more people than there was room. Soiled, once-dark blazers hung from nails for those who didn’t look like a CEO. I refused to do anything with my bangs—the photographer patiently brushed them up. And as coup de grace, he said, “Please take off your earrings, Ma’am.”

First my bangs and now, my earrings!—the two things I can’t leave home without. And the horrid photo cost twice that of my original photo with bangs.

Getting out of the booth was harder than getting in. I was shoved and pushed by now fellow CEO-looking frantic passport applicants chasing deadlines. My sneezing fit had gone from worst to impossible.

A-choo!

At the finish line one hour later, I peered again at the face in my new passport photo and I knew I had lost me. Someone said, “Ma’am, your new passport will be ready in ten working days.” That important little book, which will take me outside the country, doesn’t have me!

A-choo!

“I’ll see myself out,” I told my agent who couldn’t keep up with my brisk pace, the result of daily morning walks.

A-choo!

I had to break free from that torture chamber masquerading as DFA.

By grace, I lived to blog and laugh about it.

Duck, Cover, and Hold!

I am no stranger to earthquakes. This country has had so many of them—small, medium, large—during my lifetime. By grace, the devastation doesn’t overstay.

But I am a stranger to earthquake drills!

So when I get this one-page “Job Responsibility” for the faculty one day this month, I read it over a dozen times.

I am to instruct my one dozen students to “duck, cover, and hold” once the bullhorn sounds (the start of the make-believe tremor). Then I herd them down from the 5^th floor (top floor in our school) to safety—in the parking lot in two minutes, or less.

We are the last priority. We have to wait for all the students in the lower floors to go down before we do.

How did it go?

Well, the power shuts off on cue. But instead of cries of dread, I hear cries of delight. Not one cowers in fear; everyone swaggers with cheer. All, including me, defies the order to “take off your shoes!” High heels click in lazy cadence as though they are headed to a ball not to safety. Indeed, the world of make-believe is blind to fear and dread.

We make it to the open space in six minutes, triple the original intended time. If we had a real earthquake, we would have been buried in the rubble.

So everyone gets to the parking lot under the bright morning sun. The fair-skinned ones immediately get a tan, while brown-skinned moi rushes under the nearest tree.

It takes a while—a lot more laughing, chattering, and ribbing—before the building is “declared safe” and we file in, exactly the way we strolled out, my students and I tailing the boisterous pack.

Duck, cover and hold? It was more like shake, rattle, and roll!

Last Salute

From the General's daughters, his faithful driver while still in the service, and fellow generals, one last salute.

 ". . . even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ— by grace you have been saved—" Ephesians 2:5 (ESV)

March on, General

Our well-loved cousin whom we simply called “The General” (aged 80) accepted his marching orders from our heavenly General (“The real General,” he used to say), a few days ago.

A man of God, he was interred today with full military honors at the Libingan ng mga Bayani (Heroes’ Cemetery).

Survived by his four daughters and their families, he was a hero in combat as well as in peace. And he had medals of valor to prove it.

More than these decorations and distinctions, The General was a gift of grace to many people as I witnessed with my own two eyes in his three-day wake. Together with relatives and friends, burly soldiers wept openly and saluted crisply.

As JC (who looked up to him greatly)—and I guess all his comrades—would say, “Mission accomplished, sir.”

Alone Again and No More

I wrote about this lovebird sometime ago, about how it came rapping at our chamber door and refusing to leave. Tony went out of his way to buy this lonesome yellow chirper a partner and a complete supply of birdseed.

The pair became a source of shrieks of delight from our household. But after a few weeks, we found its partner dead, just like that. We didn’t know what happened and we went around with sad faces for two days.

So this yellow lovebird was once again alone.

Months passed by and one day, we found it also unmoving in its cage. It was gone as well.

A bird expert said our yellow pet was bound to die, it was too old.

Now we know why it never wanted to fly away when we saw it rapping at our chamber door. It had no energy to flap its wings anymore. And all along we thought the bird loved us so much it stayed.

I am back to watching the many brown birds that land and chirp on the plants and grass in our garden every day. They make me praise our Creator for making so many of them (of varied kinds) up in the sky.

They make me look up and thank Him for granting us grace even before we could ask.

The Theatre I Missed

Once upon a time, many lifetimes ago, I was into theatre. I feasted on Konstantin Stanislavski, Bertolt Brecht and Eugene Ionesco.

To graduate from the Goodman Theatre (Art Institute of Chicago), I had to direct several plays, one of which was Samuel Beckett’s “Waiting for Godot,” a play about waiting . . . and waiting, and hope.

Those who know me today would raise their eyebrows and say, “Really?” For there is no trace of the theater in me. Let me revise that statement: there is seemingly no trace of the theatre left in me.

The Lord had led me to a different path, a path where a young, wide-eyed girl will not starve or end up bewildered. He showed me the way to advertising where I trained to do what I do today, late in life though it may be—write.

But once in a rare while, the familiar burst of sunshine in my middle when we were rehearsing backstage, or stage managing a play by the theater wings, or hearing the audience’s audible sigh or laughter, springs back.

Mama Mia! did just that.

And then once more over the weekend when I watched two DVDs in a row: Passion (2004 Tony Award for Best Musical) with its original Broadway cast; and Being Julia, a movie about theater people which won for actor Annette Being tons of nominations and awards.

Two lines struck me from Passion and Being Julia.

"I didn’t choose to love you—love knows no reason."

And, "The stage is all there is; the outside world which people call reality does not exist.”

These are what theatre people feel. These are what make them stay there for life.

Why did I stay away? We’ve heard it all before: life is about choices and I have chosen other things. Maybe I was not as in love with the theater as I thought I was. But I shall always hold in deepest esteem theatre people in whose circle I no longer belong.

It was grace that allowed me to briefly embrace this consuming world of theater, so that I can relive the experience sometimes, and use it to power up what I love doing today.

Painting on a White Board

Our Medical Transcription School has this huge white board which looks impressive if it faces you. But the minute you turn it around, the back part shows uneven wood that is so ugly it should always face the wall.

Unfortunately, this white board has to be moved around now and then and there is no way one can hide the back side.

So last Saturday, I decided to paint over the unsightly back expanse. I opted for one of God’s most beautiful creations, calla lily. But good intentions don’t always make good endings. This is the result of a four-hour painting session.

It isn’t finished, and it’s nowhere near a calla lily, but the white board looks infinitely better than how it was before I started slapping my paints over it.

Why am I so bold as to be posting an unfinished painting? Well, I guess I want to be affirmed that I still have the spirit (and the gall) to effect change; and more importantly, to be reminded that I have unfinished business, which I can finish only with the boost of grace.

I sometimes (okay, often) fall into the manana (tomorrow) habit. By having this not-yet-a-calla-lily here for all guests to see, I should be pressured into making it look like the way it was created—soon. And hopefully break my predisposition to procrastination.

"Teo's Cockatoo" Reviewed

My 10th book in the “Oh, Mateo!” series was recently reviewed by an 11-year-old reader, Alexia Bejasa, in the Junior Inquirer Magazine.

It was a peaceful Sunday morning—I was quietly reading the dailies—when I came upon her review. Without warning my heart went boing, boing, boing, and the silence was broken.

My pulse always goes berserk when I get feedback from readers. Aside from the euphoria I feel over unexpected grace, I am always amazed at the insight of children.

Alexia’s review:

"The remarkable storybook adventure is a fictional tale about a cockatoo with a lovely yellow crest that was caged and maltreated for a very long time. Its owners, Puto and Pako, were very mean and would always make fun of the cockatoo.

"Luckily, a day came when Puto accidentally left the cockatoo’s cage open. The bird flew to Teo, a kind little boy. Teo taught the bird how to say good things and how to be polite. Towards the end of the story, the smart cockatoo proved to be a big help for the whole barangay!

"Teo’s Cockatoo teaches a lot about caring for pets and treating them well. This story affirms that our pets reflect who we are.

"I enjoyed reading the book because of the descriptive style of the author. She characterized the two owners very well and gave a clear picture of how the poor cockatoo stayed still in his cage.

"Artist Beth Parrocha-Doctolero’s illustrations were creatively done, as she used all sorts of shapes and colors to enhance the scenes. My favorite drawings were of Teo and the cockatoo spending time together.

"Although the book may have some nasty words, I would still recommend it for children my age. Another good thing about the book is that it contained a Filipino translation of the story which would help readers appreciate and understand it."

There’s that noise in my heart again—boing, boing, boing!

Thank you, Alexia. 

(Published by Hiyas and illustrated by Beth Parrocha-Doctolero) 

My Mateo

Mateo, eight years old, has one surviving parent—his father, a poor farmer in the province of my youth, Pangasinan. But he has five energetic lolas who dote on him.

Despite his hard life and the early death of his mother, Mateo is a kind-hearted, happy boy. He is inquisitive and creative, traits which take him to many adventures and relationships children his age don’t even glimpse.

How does one meet Mateo?

He’s in 11 books of the “Oh, Mateo” series published by Hiyas, an imprint of OMF Literature.

I actually just made him up (exactly eight years ago) when I wrote the first book in the storybook series. Beth Parrocha Doctolero, a deeply imaginative artist, gave him a face—and both image and words brought Mateo to life!

Now Mateo’s one of the “25 Best-loved children’s book characters” as chosen by hundreds of Filipino school children! These 25 characters were exhibited, in sculptures bigger-than-life, at the Cultural Center of the Philippines in celebration of the 25th anniversary of the National Children’s Book Day in July.

The art exhibit, which lasted one week, was jointly mounted by the Illustrador ng Kabataan (INK), an organization of children’s book illustrators, and the Philippine Board of Book for theYouth.

Mateo has always been—to use a cliché—my pride and joy, and my continuing gift of grace. I join his many adventures and I get to enjoy the unusual friends he meets and keeps.

Mateo also makes me seek and hang on to the child in me. He will forever be my eight-year-old, and I am delighted to share him with the hundreds of children who already love him, and to the many more children (and children at heart) who still have to meet him.

Mamma Mia!

Nobody could have predicted that Abba’s timeless songs would create a phenomenon years after their heyday. When Mamma Mia! (based on Abba’s tunes) premiered at the West End on April 6, 1999, it became the biggest smash hit musical in almost 20 years!

And wonder of wonders, I happen to have a CD of the original cast recording.

I  plead guilty to one vice—collecting original cast recording of stage musicals (either Broadway or the West End, depending where the musical was first staged). To date, I have close to 300 CD’s, a lot of which are gifts from Minna, my best cousin who lives in New York. I think it’s apt to call her now Minna Mia!

When Minna Mia! learned of my collection years ago, she’d send me the latest musicals through friends who’d fly in to the Philippines. Over the years she’s also been sending via balikbayan (back-to-the-country) boxes or cart them herself.

So five years after its premier, Mamma Mia! became the world’s no. 1 musical show, with more productions playing simultaneously worldwide than any other.

And now Mamma Mia! the movie. The musical arrangement is so much more spirited, more vibrant, more unpredictable than my CD’s. The storytelling and musical numbers are fast-paced, like an MTV, lighthearted and oftentimes deliciously silly. The movie doesn’t take itself seriously and neither do the excellent cast. Meryl Streep, Pierce Brosnan and the rest amuse, tickle, and cheer. The movement is fluid, constant and bursting with energy.

Abba’s music! It’s perfect on a fantasy Greek Island, where the movie takes place.

Unfortunately, there was only one other couple (aside from Tony and me) in the movie house at the last full show. Humanity missed half of its life; but two couples had the whole theater all to themselves to sing and dance in their seats. It was a raucous night.

Mental note: I should buy the movie soundtrack recording. 

Then surprise, surprise, my friend Lucy from Palm Springs, California (Lucy Mia!) hears my thoughts and sends me the soundtrack.

Grace, grace, it’s everywhere.

How to Wear Your Sunglasses

1) Hold them firmly with both hands.

2) Put them up on your mouth and pause a little.

3) Try hard to get them past your upper lip.

4) Make them settle on your nose as they cover both your eyes.
 5) Voila! Smile for a job well done.

It’s been three months since Adrian’s two-week visit to the Philippines. I am surprised at how many more teeth he has and how his motor functions have developed. He's all of 14 months.

Poring over his photos—and sharing them with cyber friends—is the next best thing to watching him grow up in person.

Adrian’s photos are not only posted on Leaves of Grace, they are stored in the hard disk of his grandma’s grateful heart.

Five Unsolved Puzzles

Mornings are always a puzzle, five puzzles! I get to solve five crosswords in a row—after finishing my 7,000-step walk and before breakfast. I do this from one half to one hour in our veranda while the rising sun rouses the neighborhood.

Every weekday, Tony brings home from his office five dailies (The Phil. Star, Phil. Daily Inquirer, Business world, The Manila Bulletin, and The Manila Times). They all have a crossword puzzle. He attempts to solve all of them between his meetings and work. But that’s about it—he attempts. He has yet to finish one.

The leftover blank boxes—which are many, on good days—are mine. The wrong entries—which are also many and which take some brain twisting to undo—are also mine. Although I find much pleasure in filling up the blank squares, I find much more joy in undoing the wrong answers. More challenging!

What a mundane activity, you might say. Well, as I have experienced, it matters not how mundane or how spectacular an activity is. What counts really is the amount or quality of fun you get from it.

Reflecting upon God’s grace on this blog and my books, the most mundane tasks are often those that allow me to feel the vastness of joy.

I am grateful that I have not turned callous and cynical in my olden years.

On the contrary, I have become less of a perfectionist and now delight in the mundane—such as five unfinished crossword puzzles at sunrise!

Birthday Blessings

Through loved ones, family, friends, friends, and friends in all of 366 (2008 is a leap year) days since my last birthday, grace had been at work.

Now, what about the next 365 days? Hey, let’s take it one day at a time. I look forward to growing in years and in faith, and discovering more ways of investing the rest of my days in writing about life's chiaroscuro.

Today, I thank my friends for their email and text greetings. I also thank Tony, JC, JB, Gianina, Adrian, and JR for these surprises:                           
          
A chatty dinner at Circles, Makati Shangri-la. The boys thought Chinatown food is infinitely yummier. Well, they could say anything they wanted, I was determined to enjoy every morsel.

Appetizer or main course? For me, nothing beats juicy, fresh oysters anytime of day. We used to have them almost every day, fresh from the sea, in the town where I was born (Agoo, la Union) for free. Tonight, the boys just had to pay for them through their teeth.                                                 

Lamb chops with mint jelly, main course or appetizer? In the town where I grew up (Umingan, Pangasinan), we had goat meat, cooked in five different ways. We had boggoong (fish sauce) instead of mint jelly.

Dessert? The raspberry jelly is sugar free; the rest, well, I allow myself some guilty pleasures one day a year, the 20th of this month. The photo does not include a tall glass of halo-halo (mixed native sweets with crushed ice). We had no chocolate fountains in those days but we sure had the best halo-halo under the big tamarind tree in the wet market.

I have been around so long, times and foods have changed!

“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with Whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.” James 1:17

My Messy Bed

This mess is heaped upon my bed once a year, at least. Those multi-colored thingies are clear books—you know, folders containing plastic pockets where you can file photos and documents.

No table at home is big enough to carry this mess. So I lock up myself in the bedroom all day—taking a short lunch break—and organize my writing life in these bright memory filers.

There have been heaps of photos, documents, and press clippings since I started writing. In the beginning I simply threw them inside a cabinet.

A year later, however, I met a lady who wanted me to write about her sterling career that had ended. I hesitated. But when she showed me her color-coded, chronologically-filed photographs and documents—wow, a writer’s dream! The complete collection was so impressive I said “yes” to doing the project.

While writing her book, I saw why she documented everything. This career had her heart and soul.

That spurred me to dig up my own writing mementos and started storing them in these folders. Nothing fancy about my filing—no artsy labels or witty captions. I simply arrange them chronologically, scribble the dates, and put the items in the pockets. For easier filing, I have color-coded these folders: one color for each book.

When I am gone, these will interest no one. My boys will not throw them away (in deference to their mother); they will enshrine them in some space where dust will gather.

Well, I am not doing these for them. I have done enough—kept for each one in albums his photographs from the day of birth to college graduation.

I am doing these for me. While I arrange and review this colorful mess, my heart leaps at how grace has steered me towards a writing career—one that gives me so much enthusiasm and energy I never thought I could ever have.

Work of Special Hands

Eleven Million people were murdered in the Holocaust, that’s what history tells us. To this day, I can’t imagine how such a genocide could have happened in such a manner. The murdered people came from different parts of society—one of which was the disabled.

My sister Aie brought me home from Germany—where she attended a three-week conference—a special pasalubong (arrival gift). It’s a cell phone case.

What is so special about it? It looks like a fabric pouch anybody can make.

Well, it was not made just by anybody. It was made by special hands—hands of people with Down Syndrome. They (and other disabled people), Aie said, are very important in Germany and are part of mainstream society. The government takes care of them so they could be as productive as any citizen. They are nurtured, schooled, trained, and employed!

Knowing I am writing a book on people with disability (PWD), Aie bought my cell phone case from a place called Werraland, where all the workers have Down Syndrome. Those she got to talk to were conversant, adept at, and mighty proud of what they do.

Germany today has many factories or plants that employ only PWD. These shops are suppliers to big companies. Yes, workplaces for PWD are institutionalized. And the working conditions are tailor-fitted to their needs. However you want to call it—reparation, atonement, guilt-trip, or apology for what was done during the Nazi regime—it is something other countries, ours included, need to emulate soon.

I will keep this treasure within touching distance as grace enables me to continue writing about the PWD, their needs and their right to the same quality of life able-bodied/normal people enjoy.

When I Am an Old Woman

I Shall Wear Purple 

This yellowing, tattered book sat in a small second-hand bookshop in Bohol, where I was conducting a creative writing workshop, as though whispering in my ear, “Buy me, I am yours.”

Ok, it’s mine now.

It reminds me of my mother. Through my eyes as a child, she was always old; and she often wore purple. When she passed on, we knew what she’d have wanted to wear for the last time—a purple chiffon dress with a matching scarf to cover the goiter that came with her twilight years.

But reading the poem, which is the title of this book by Jenny Joseph, I now know it also speaks of me:

When I Am an Old Woman
When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple,
With a red hat which doesn't go and doesn't suit me . . .

Happy colors I’ve always loved on today’s clothes and accessories. Unlike some people who choose an era and stay there, I like being in the current era. That’s why, today, when friends see clothes, bags, shoes, and blings in malls, they say, “That’s very Grace.”

When I was younger, nobody really cared about how I dressed. But as I age, I hear words like “Bizarre” “Flamboyant” “Loud” and “Ano ba yaaaan!” (Translation: What on earth are you wearing? Are you mad? Act your age!) They exaggerate.

I guess people have boxes in their minds about clothes: people of different ages should dress differently. And purple is not for aging women.

Well, it is for Jenny Joseph. And it is for me. I shall wear purple and all the colors of the rainbow (plus gold and silver) here, there, and everywhere. (Now you know why this site has such audacious colors.)

Call it defiance, as what this book seems all about, but I call it . . . the way I am (?) or maybe, aging with grace.

Any problem with that?

My July 4

The crossword puzzle in one of the dailies today had this clue: Today. It called for 15 letters. A tough one.

I moved to another clue somewhere in the middle: Honoree today. It needed another 15 letters. It got tougher.

And the last clue for the same number of letters at the bottom of the puzzle: Colors of today.

I finally got it. Red white and blue!

Today of course is Independence Day. And the honoree today is? You guessed right, United States of America.

I could have easily guessed it myself. On July 4, (Philippine-American Friendship Day in our country), Tony and I commemorate our wedding anniversary. But then again, it wouldn't have dawned on us early enough. Hadn’t our son JC greeted us at the breakfast table, Tony and I would have had to wait for more clues to remember.

Someone would remind us during the day, that’s for sure. Our pastor sent me his greetings one hour later through a text message, which I forwarded to Tony. From son JB, wife Gianina and grandson Adrian, we got gift certificates later in the afternoon for dinner at the Makati Shangri-la.

People remember, friends and loved ones remember. Now, why do Tony and I forget?

I guess that after years of marriage, which saw us through many tragedies—deaths of both our parents, our son Adrian, his only sister and only brother, loved ones, and close friends; sicknesses—not to count Tony’s bout with colon cancer which would have cut short his life fourteen years ago, and again a heart quadruple bypass four years later, my three surgeries, and many, many more crises, every day is a celebration.

Every morning when I open my eyes, I am thankful for another day of grace. Among our manifold blessings are three sons who grew up (despite their mother's motherly ineptness) to be fine young men who love God, in a richly textured life filled with life lessons that I write in books and blogs.

We don’t and can't wait a year to celebrate—a new day is always the best time for thanksgiving. And July 4 (without meaning to diminish its significance) is one of God’s grace works, as important as yesterday, and all the 365 days of the year.

So Long, Sonia . . .

Sonia was my sister in everything but blood and genes. She lived a life that taught me many things about growing in faith.

I will allow myself to grieve. But, as Sonia used to say, “In adversity, always be on the lookout for grace. Grace makes everything that seems unbearable bearable.”

May we—the friends she left behind—continue to be faithful.

Unfair Comparison

Our president, Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, is now in the US for a working visit, with an entourage of over 50 politicians and high-ranking government officials. Barely had she warmed her seat in that part of the globe when typhoon Frank battered and unleashed his fury on our helpless country.

One of the worst maritime tragedies happened with over 700 people perishing on a sunken ship engulfed by the tumultuous tides caused by the typhoon (as the search at sea continues, more bodies are found floating every day). Almost three million people have been rendered homeless and displaced by floods and winds. Newspapers place the damage at close to P6 billion pesos.

These are troubled times.

Many journalists have commented that Pres. Arroyo is like Emperor Nero. She played the fiddle while "Rome" was burning.

It seems an unfair comparison.

For one thing, fiddle wasn’t invented till the 15th century. For another, Nero hurried back to Rome from his seaside holiday home when the fire broke out. It is documented; he took charge of the firefighting efforts.

Our country is burning with troubles, yet if we are to believe reports, our president is in no hurry to come home till after the Manny Pacquiao/David Diaz boxing bout on the 29th of June.

Well, whatever.

We are assured in the Scriptures that during troubled times, grace comes rushing to bail us out.

“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way, though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble at its swelling.” Psalm 46:1-3

No and Nothing

My doctor was more than one hour late. In the clinic’s receiving room, I sat with other patients waiting for their doctors as well. Two yayas (baby sitters) had each a kid about four to five years old who didn't know each other, but had started playing with what seemed like bugs.

Kid 1 (to kid 2): My father works very hard. He helps my mother with all her work at home. How about your dad, does he work?

Kid 2: No.

Kid 1: Your dad doesn’t work?!

Kid 2: No.

Kid 1: Is he looking for work?

Kid 2: No.

Kid 1: What does he do?

Kid 2: Nothing.

A man, dressed in coat and tie and carrying a leather brief case, arrives and hugs kid 2.

Man: Hi, son!

Kid 2: Hi, dad!

Man: Have you seen your doctor?

Kid 2: No.

Man: What have you been doing?

Kid 2: Nothing.

Man: (Sees me gawking; smiles.) My son has two favorite words these days—“no” and “nothing.”

Me: Oh, those are my favorite words today, too.

Earlier, I had in mind to leave and never come back. But no, I didn't. I was sent, just in time, grace to be patient. So what have I been doing while waiting? Nothing.

Well, that’s not exactly true. I got to enjoy listening to two kids talk about “no” and “nothing.”

Loooooooooooong!

I first saw this awesome bridge when I was watching Mr. Bean.

I wondered if it were real or if it were just the handiwork of computer graphics artists. I was suddenly interested in it more than I was in what was happening to Mr. Bean.

Viaduc de Millau is extraordinarily looooooooong and tall! It is is indeed an engineering marvel, currently the longest cable-stayed bridge in the world at 2,460 meters long!

Also tallest in the world and taller than the Eiffel Tower, Viaduc de Millau is slung across the valley of the river Tarn in Southern France. Designed by the structural engineer Michel Virlogeux and British architect Norman Foster, this viaduct certainly shortens a journey and decongests traffic—the two reasons why it was built.

The photo of this human feat becomes even more awesome as I look above and below it. Beneath and beyond the bridge is the wonder of God’s creation—the firmament where billions of stars hover about and the land where billions of living things abound.

Colossal monuments made by human hands such as this bridge, the pyramids of Giza, the great wall of China, and many more, are but a teeny-weeny facet of the greatness of the One who made us. The magnificence and majesty, grandeur and glory, splendor and spectacle of God’s creation is loooooonger than anything we have ever seen, or could imagine.

And the wonder of wonders is expressed in Psalm 8:4 and Hebrews 2:6: “What is man that You are mindful of him, and the son of man that You care for him?”

The answer can be expressed in many wonderful words. One of them is: grace.

What Goes on in Faculty Meetings?

As a student, I had often wondered whether my teachers talked about me in faculty meetings.

Now as a teacher I know they actually did! Faculty meetings are all about students.

Teaching is serious business. I can never be a Plato to an Aristotle, who journeyed together as teacher/student for 20 years, but I see these men as my benchmarks.

Teachers have a roomful of Aristotles, malleable minds which need extra caring so they can take on different shapes, according to their individual calling. I am not talking about treating students with kid gloves, I speak of a teacher’s commitment to teach which, in my case, begs for daily grace.

And this is what I see as the purpose of such meetings. Our first agendum at the first faculty meet this school year was the mentoring program, which is what charms me, among others, about the university where I teach.

It was my misfortune not to have gone through a formal mentoring program in the schools I attended here and abroad. I would have had less academic and corporate mishaps, which I charged to experience in the absence of a mentor’s wisdom. This unique program is a venue for mentors and mentees to learn from each other and jointly raise the bar.

Other parts of the agenda usually include improving systems, discipline, teaching methodologies, standards of affiliate schools abroad, activities—all focused on the student, with the university vision/mission as guidepost.

Being serious, however, doesn’t mean the absence of fun. Teachers are, fortunately, humans too (perpetual students and children at heart) so we exchange stale jokes and laugh as though we’re hearing them for the first time.

While every teacher has her own teaching style (mine's very interactive), we are of one resolve: To equip each student with the ammo to take on the real world as he leaves the university.

A faculty meeting, in a nutshell, affirms our interdependence on one another.

It also validates a teacher’s independence in bringing his unique career-and-life blessings for the students to learn from—so student and teacher can journey together as Plato and Aristotle did, albeit in fewer years, and a lot of help from the internet!

Happy Endings

I write a regular column tagged Happy Endings for Moms and Kids Magazine. Let me share with you the first one. Since the fonts are too small to read, I am posting it in full.

TEN THOUSAND STEPS AND COUNTING

I believe in happy endings.

This belief teeters on two sides of the spectrum.

On one end, by faith I believe that life does not end in earthly death.

On the other, by budget I refuse to pay good money to watch a movie that ends with the protagonist vanished or vanquished.

Friends laugh at the second one and call me an incurable romantic, or worse, a veritable escapist.

Okay.

ooo 

As I was scrounging around for a title for this column, I remembered the series of seven novels by Jan Karon, one of my favorite contemporary authors. In the small town of Mitford, where the stories take place, is a quaint bookstore called Happy Endings. I’d frequent that bookstore if I could and name mine the same—if I owned one.

ooo

Moms on one hand and Kids on the other—they belong to both sides of the spectrum. One couldn’t live without the other.

In arts and literature, mothers are the most glorified creatures that walk the earth. Much has been said about a mother’s love being closest to God’s love.

George Washington, the first president of the USA said, "My mother was the most beautiful woman I ever saw. All I am I owe to my mother. I attribute all my success in life to the moral, intellectual and physical education I received from her."

ooo

This creation called mom, although immortalized in reams of poetry and essays as a miracle worker, needs caring—maybe not as much as her kids do—but caring nevertheless.

To stay fit and healthy for her multi-textured tasks, she needs exercise. She may spin like a top and hop about all day, but exercise is a regimen she ought to find time for. My doctor’s words, not mine.

ooo

When I settled into the sedentary life of an author, after a long stint in the business world, my weight went through the roof. I started feeling all symptoms of every dread disease. My doctor prescribed one word: exercise.

“Walk briskly for one hour every day,” he said.

“For how long?” I asked, dreading routine.

“It’s all up to you,” he shrugged. Meaning, I should not quit till the excess weight is gone for good.

ooo

That first day—at five AM—was dreadful, boring. I considered running back home to do other things after the first five minutes. But a believer of happy endings, I took more steps. Within the hour, I discovered the magnificence of solitude. I inked this moment in my book “Gifts of Grace” (volume 1). “… I could hear nothing but my footsteps. In the silence, I sang an old hymn, ‘Count your blessings name them one by one. Count your blessings, know what the Lord has done.’”

Six months later, I was back to my ideal weight, and in all of seven years that I’ve been walking, I am still counting my blessings—with my occasional blood tests showing normal results.

ooo

Regular physical exercise, my doctor patiently explained, is an activity that develops or maintains physical fitness and overall health. Everyone should practice it to strengthen muscles and to keep the heart pumping regularly.

Exercise also boosts your immune system and improves mental health. It increases the blood and oxygen flow to your brain, making you more alert and sensitive.

ooo 

I half listened to his treatise but stood in rapt attention when he said, “If you don’t exercise, I will put you on a low-salt, low-fat, low-carb, low-sugar diet.” Now, that would be killing me softly.

I’ve since discovered that there are many conflicting views on the kind of exercise one should have—aerobic, anaerobic, strength training, agility training, and a few more.

But I am focused; I walk. Although we have a small gym at home, which my husband and sons use regularly, I don’t go there, except to wipe the dust off the doodads.

ooo 

My second son, an internist, insists I need not walk everyday (on rainy days I carry an umbrella) for as long as I make 10,000 steps a day. What does he know? My husband gave me a pedometer for Christmas so I could tie it around my neck while it counts my steps, proving that I make 10,000 steps a day even without my dawn regimen.

I wake up at five AM and walk.

ooo 

Beginning to exercise is the most difficult part. Past that stage, it’s a piece of cake (reward yourself with a real one, not the no-sugar variety), easy as pie (choose peach, topped with cheese), and a walk in the park (literally).

You’ll see, it will all end happily ever after.

The Bird That Wouldn't Fly

This poem by Edgar Allan Poe came to mind when Ate Vi showed us the yellow bird over our chamber door (well, back door actually):

While I nodded, nearly napping,
suddenly there came a tapping,As of someone gently rapping,
rapping at my chamber door.

The bird isn’t a raven, though. It’s a lovebird (scientific name, Agapornis).

We shooed it away so it could freely fly but it wouldn’t move. We had to put it in a cage (empty since I wrote a book on flighted pets) so we could feed it properly. Though we kept the cage door open, it seemed to chirp, “No, I am staying.”

Tony drove to the nearest pet shop and bought some seeds. Our collective worry was that it might die of loneliness without a partner (a myth, I just found out!). But three weeks passed by and it was as alive as ever. Tony didn’t believe in myths so he drove to the pet shop again and bought it a spouse.

With a pair of lovebirds in our hands, we are kept busy feeding and playing with them. They must like the cage so much they are still there, two months now. Now I can’t boast of having flighted pets.

Lovebirds are escape artists but these two are made from a different stock. They are happy where they are. And we are too.

Every morning as they chirp, they remind me of all the beautiful birds up the sky made especially for us by the generous Giver of grace.