A Skype Chat

I had a morning after-Christmas, online chat with my father and my siblings and their respective families. It was all very pleasant. They just had their wonderful Christmas dinner, were trading banter, and preparing for the major part of the gathering, the opening of gifts. My two nephews and niece did what little children are supposed to do: Provide a backdrop of gleeful chaos and the purest, most innocent laughter. I was once a part of this annual event, some seven Christmases ago when I spent my holidays with them. It was a Christmas like all other joyous family occasions; happiness and laughter overflowed, everyone was there (save for my wife and children who were back home), and thoughts of mortality were farthest from our minds.

Our Mom passed away a month ago, and when the idea of a chat was born, and while we were on it, I was asking myself why we didn't do it before when she was still with us. Perhaps we took things for granted, like we do when we feel that things are in their proper places, with nothing amiss. And when everyone was there and alive and kicking, things indeed were in their proper places.

Mothers and fathers complete families, and when one of them is gone, those left behind reach out to fill the void. We reached out today to fill the space Mom left behind, to complete the circle once more. All good, I should say. Oh, Mom always completed the circle so wonderfully! We always felt secure and complete. She was among life's reliable constants. A bit enigmatic at times, but she was always there. I miss her terribly.

Christmases Past

My Christmas this year is mostly reminiscences of Christmases when I was a child, and up to the time I became a young adult. In those days, the family was complete; everyone was there; our cares were few, life was simpler, the future beckoned, but it could wait.

I often tell my own children that a family's most wonderful times are those when the children are growing up, the family kept together by the strong bond of love. These moments should be savored, and then committed to memory; so that when life or death impose themselves upon those we love, we can summon them and enjoy once more the splendor and happiness they brought us.

I'm grateful that as a child I was made to believe in the supposed existence of Santa Claus. Others may argue that the practice is deceptive, but I think it teaches about anonymous generosity. Most people don't want to remain anonymous when they give. They want to advertise their magnanimity. How else can you explain publicity photos of city and town bureaucrats pointing to donated trash bins, or to roads they have interceded for to get repaired or constructed, or those that show them running to the rescue of the victims of natural and mostly man-made tragedies that visit this archipelago? Our inclination is to be generous and popular.

My Santa Clauses (Yes, I had two!) were two selfless people. More than all the toys I received, their greatest gift was the life lesson that genuine giving does not seek anything in return. I shall always be indebted and grateful to them for the gift that lasts lifetimes.

For My Mother, A Poem

You left quietly
on a Sunday,
on your end, as it was breaking,
on mine, as it was coming
to a close.

Always with fondness
will I recall my first
faltering steps; should I
falter now, you won't be
there

To soothe
my hurt pride, to persuade
me to try again, to assure
my puny, fearful soul
of your permanence.

You, as all good mothers are,
were a gift from God,
for children you saw as
heaven-sent, and not
the little devils we truly were.

You were dutiful
in each thing
you did: We had a mother,
a teacher, a friend,
and my father, a wife.

I will miss you
in many things, places, events
from hereon; and
from hereon as well
I will find you in everything beautiful.

A Letter To My Mom

Wrote my Mom an e-mail today. She's been in the hospital for about a month now; been in and out of the ICU, on and off the ventilator; afflicted with complications mostly related to her lungs; their names all terrible-sounding. She also has decubitus ulcers. Things are not looking too good. Here is that letter:


Dear Mommy,

Perhaps you have neither the time nor energy to read this letter now, as you wage a difficult battle against your illnesses. I know it's all uphill, Ma. Maybe at a more convenient time, when you are all rested and refreshed at The Lord's side? I feel that it's near, even without you telling me. I don't ever want it to be near, but maybe you're looking forward to it. You've always kept things like these to yourself.

I will very much miss you when you finally decide to let go. The memories will come in a flood. I will surely be overwhelmed and be left gasping.

You are God's wonderful gift to me, and to all those to whom you give your love. I'm so blessed that you are my mother. You are far from perfect, but I love you just the same. You love me through all my faults and shortcomings, and all the pain I have caused. Who am I to give you less?

You were my very first teacher. You set me off on the path to learning as I took slow, unsure steps. There were times when school was intimidating, and how I longed to be home with you, safe and sound.

You filled our home with the wondrous aroma of your meals. Many of your dishes were your very own. I've never tasted them anywhere else, or had them cooked by anyone else, not even by my own wife. There are rare moments in my life, when I smell similar aromas, and I then remember the wonderful meals we shared together as a family. I remember you, and how you worked in your kitchen. You asked for help sometimes.

I know you need help now, with your pain and labored breathing, but I'm so far from you, Ma. I can only be with you in my prayers, thoughts, and dreams. I can't be there to hug you and kiss you, and wipe the sweat from your brow, as you gasp and cling on to dear life. I hope that I can dream of you each night from hereon, and see your comely face and hear your reassuring voice. I'm physically well, but my emotions are wreaking havoc on me. I feel so like the times when I was thin and sickly, and prone to bouts of fever. Fever made me delirious. I had nightmares. I pulled through each time, thanks to your attention and care. Now you need attention and care, and I can't be there to give them to you. My only hope now is God, and I'm praying to Him that with each labored gasp for air, you will feel His reassuring presence. I may not be with you right now, but God is.

Thank you for always taking me to the movies when I was still a young boy. Those films fired my imagination. I discovered worlds beyond my own world. I may not be much of a movie buff like you've always been, but my curiosity remains deep-seated.

Thank you for the wonderful summers and Christmases of my childhood and youth. Their pleasant memories will be with me until the day we see each other again.

I regret not having hugged you and kissed you as often as I could. The last time was over five years ago. I regret that when I was there for some time, attempting to build a dream for myself and my family, I declined your invitation that we watch a movie together, telling you that I was busy with work and that I had no time. Now that I want to give you all the time that I have available, I cannot, because we are apart. I regret that I have not e-mailed you as often as you would have wanted me to. My life is pretty much uneventful and so I have nothing significant to write you about. But now, I realize you would have tremendously appreciated a weekly (more so a daily) Hi or Hello. I'm writing you this long e-mail now and I'm not even sure you will still be able to read it.

I'm still hoping for the best, Ma, hoping that you will get well. But if not, and you want to move on to the place that we all dream of reaching, then we have no choice but to let you go. We don't want to keep you where you're not happy any longer, and where you are in difficulty and pain. We give you all the love we can give you, and you can either take it with you or give it away. But if I know you well, I'm sure you'll still give some of it away, and some of it back to us. You're a genuinely generous person, Ma.

Take good care, Ma. I don't know when I'll see you again, but I'm sure we'll see each other again.

With much love,

Pompit

How Was Your Day?

It's a question oft asked me by my son when I get home late at night. The question diminishes the day's fatigue and frustrations. It marks my own special place this part of the world. I know I'm home.

I was fortunate to have been raised in a home full of life and love. We were quite a big family of six children. We were not impoverished, but we didn't have a lot either. Just the right balance between wanting and having. It's the balance life should have. Too much of either one leads to misery.

One of life's saddest sights for me is homeless people sleeping wherever and whenever they can. I live in a predominantly working class neighborhood, with a smattering of new affluence here and there. Often on my way home late nights, on foot, I pass by children, old men and women, and sometimes entire families, camped out on a sheltered part of a sidewalk, or in front of shuttered shops, with flattened cardboard boxes as their makeshift beds.

I'm tired at the end of my workday. I grumble sometimes. My life lacks a lot of conveniences. And there is the matter of my decrepit dreams, which I've begun abandoning, not out of a lack of determination and commitment, but because life continues to be unfair, keeping many things out of my reach and control.

A meal awaits me at home after a long day. A sagging mattress is ready to receive my fatigued body, and a lumpy pillow, willing to cradle my head. I'm wealthy by the standards of those who sleep on cardboard boxes.

I still weave dreams in my home, but they're more like daydreams now, without conviction and resolve, as if just to while my remaining time. I've grown tired of the fiery, almost rabid dreams of my past. Successive failures and the ensuing hopelessness have doused the fire. I now live between my dreams' demise and a clouded future. I prop myself up with bits of pleasantness I manage to scrounge from here and there. And with some random, leftover hope, I try to muster courage to craft better tomorrows for those whom I love.

And so I respond to my son's question, "My day was okay, my son. It was fine."

Moments Magical

I am lucky tonight. By chance, I tuned in to a radio station playing lovely, poignant piano music.

Whenever I hear lovely music, I'm in a world all my own. I become oblivious to situations around me. Sometimes, I am taken back to times tucked away in my mind, to happier days, more courageous dreams, lost loves, and days of grandeur. At other times, I imagine myself as some person with magnificence and power, very admirable, and doing only good. Such is the sway beautiful music can have on me.

Another magical moment for me is during the rare occasions when I can take a nap in the afternoon. When a week's worth of fatigue overwhelms me, I seek the solace of a quiet corner and sleep on the floor. At that point between wakefulness and slumber, random scenes, emotions, and aromas of lost years play out before me. The sensations are so intense that they jolt me to consciousness, after which I regret that they can only be so fleeting.

Of course there is a rational explanation for almost everything. A rational explanation is one of the ways by which we battle the unknown, which we instinctively fear. There could be rationalizations for my magical moments, one of them being my foolish sentimentality which I find so difficult to put in the sidelines. Another could be that I may have been destined to have a short life, or to be afflicted with dementia, and so I may be unconsciously making the most of my limited time with all manner and kinds of recollections.

Rationalization will take the magic out of my moments, and so I'm not interested in them. I want to have my magical moments as long as I can.

A Whiff of Fresh Air

I attended my very first prayer meeting yesterday with my wife and son. When we arrived at the venue, people were singing and motioning with their hands to the beat of lively, contagious music. My son looked perplexed, and I called my wife's attention to it. But if truth be told, I was more perplexed than my son, although I've always been good at hiding puzzlement and surprise under a facade of calm and cool disposition, one of my survival skills.

I've been quite un-spiritual for quite some time now, relying on my abilities and luck to get by. Prayer has lost its attractiveness, usefulness, and meaning. My prayers were, for the most part, unanswered. Only the prayers of my so-called religious fanatics, some of whom are people my wife and I know, deserved a response from Heaven. I felt betrayed, like an outcast, unworthy of divine favors. My assiduous pleas to Heaven, which were never self-serving as they were dedicated to the welfare of my loved ones, went largely unrequited.

I've misjudged many of my goals, and the time I need to reach them. I thought that they could wait, and that I could live forever. And now that I feel pressured to do so many things in just a short time, I feel miserable. I never will be able to do them all. Infirmity and death will overtake me.

I've never been given to religious fervor or fanaticism, but in the prayer meeting, in the FEAST as it is called, I felt the inspiration to pursue my dreams anew. It gave me hope, an additional lifeline. For the desperate, these are priceless things. I don't expect miracles to happen overnight, but I've come to believe again that they can and do happen.

FEAST preachings go straight to the core of everyday life. They embrace the mind, body, and spirit with warm commonality. I felt immediately at ease and at home, rejoicing with kindred spirits.

An Exchange of E-mails

Writing e-mails is so common today that I don't put much stock in those that I write and have written. It is part and parcel of my daily life. A means to an end. It is like breathing.

I despise it when I have to write one to explain myself, or to complain. Explaining and complaining waste my precious time. The former presupposes that I either did something wrong or failed to do something right; the latter, that someone failed to give me my due, requiring of me to raise hell.

And when I do (raise hell, that is), I delight in composing something that lambasts someone, reducing the person to a lifeless, quivering blob. Unfair treatment begets my rudeness and inconsideration.

I find pleasure and challenge when I have to write one to obtain something that I need or want, and then wait for the words to do their magic. I have my fair share of both success and failure. If I were younger and still very adventurous, I'll definitely use them to further my love affairs.

I've received those with good tidings and were well-meaning; as well as those that either accepted or rejected my proposals or pleas; and those that reduce me to helplessness, as in my sister's recent e-mail and my consequent reply:



Hi Kuya,

Sorry haven't been able to email lately. Just been busy at work and the kids. Eric's Dad finally pulled through and is now in a rehab center. The doctors recently revealed that he almost died which I had already suspected, but with some miracle, he made it through this time. He had some delirium at first, but all the chemicals they pumped into him is finally leaving his body, so he's becoming more aware of reality. He is still extremely weak, so they're having him go through a physical therapy regimen.

As for our Dad, he is doing good and per usual always in good spirits. His prostate procedure is on July 29 and shouldn't last no more than 30 minutes. Nothing really to worry about Dad. He has medical problems, but he always stays on top of it by going to his doctors regularly. He never waits until it gets worse. You are right about Mom though, we will never convince her to see a doctor. This past year, she has gotten more frail and you can hear her breathlessness. Whenever we visit over to their house, she always falls asleep now in the sofa unlike before. She can't even carry the babies anymore. She gets bruises all over which she tries to cover up. Benson suspects it's diabetes. I try to visit there as much as I can since I don't really know how much time we have with Mom or Dad, but most especially Mom. I try to make time for my kids to see them, so they can have some memory of their grandparents like we did with Nanay and Tatay.

Anyway, I'll be on vacation next week from work. Finishing some home projects and we'll be going to Las Vegas for some R&R with the kids for a couple days. I'm looking forward to that. I will try to get the letter out by this Saturday. Ordinary post is about 10-15 days I believe. I will send you an update email when I send it, so you know when to look for it in the mail.

Love, Bel



Belinda,

Your e-mail sort of drove home the point that I may not be able to see Mom and Dad in the flesh again. Of course, this thought has always been considered, but at all times relegated to the subconscious because of its unpleasantness. And now it has resurfaced.

I sort of envy you guys because you can see them whenever you want to. Spend as much time with them because we never know when. You know what I mean. Life's like this. This is why we make the most of the time that Denise is with us. Lots of things may happen when loved ones are apart.

You are right in making the most of your time with your children. The happiest times are when the children are still under your wings. If you will recall, we were one big happy family at Philam. We had difficulties, but still we were all together. Times like these fly like the wind. Before you notice it, the children will have gone on their own separate ways, chasing their own dreams.

Love,

Kuya

P.S. What happened to Eric's dad, by the way? Your e-mail was not that clear to me.

Adjustments

I choose my love stories discriminatingly. I reject those that are teary, very contrived, and melodramatic; with dialogues so unnatural, they could just as well be reading straight from script, uttering words one normally does not utter, even when in love. I like those that are out of the ordinary, the ones that are not commonplace, almost out of this world. Yet, they bring out love's strongest arguments. Like David and Elise in "The Adjustment Bureau."

A long time ago, I had thought that a single point in time may proceed to an infinite number of points, with each point being a "possibility," and each possibility may then proceed to its own infinite number of possibilities, and so on. It was an insight that came out of nowhere, and it gave me inexplicable joy.

I liked David and Elise's possibilities, the apparent randomness of it all; and, yet, predestiny always seemed to dictate that their paths crossed. It reinforces my belief that people were born either for greatness or mediocrity, either for joy or sadness, either for success or failure. Neither prayer nor saintly intercession would help if we had been doomed from the start. And neither calamities, man-made or otherwise nor other people's ill will would keep one from success. From the womb, one is ordained for any of these destinies.

If there were an Adjustment Bureau, then I hope they find my life worthy of some adjustments and fine tuning. My life has, so far, been simple and wonderful. I can't complain. But I am at a point that is like some dead neuron or synapse failing to connect to the other side. A jolt may be required to restart the progression to my infinite possibilities. The Bureau put David back on track. I wish it would do the same for me.

I liked David and Elise's doors which opened to surprise destinations. I can only imagine how it must feel to be able to open doors to possibilities. I haven't had that many doors in my life; or maybe I just did not see them. Maybe too many mundane concerns preoccupied me. And now, the doors have become more and more infrequent. How many more doors have I left? Or have they already run out?

Memories

They are rather magical, lively things. They often, for me, come without warning. Like when I'm doing a chore, or listening to music, or reading a book; and sometimes, at some instant when I've tasted a particular food, or smelled a particular odor, they suddenly become alive, each springing from a hidden recess in my mind.

Some of them come in manageable bits, which I can either encourage or suppress, depending on whether they are pleasant or otherwise. And some come in overwhelming torrents, leaving me with no other choice but to just hold on tight, and allow them to take me wherever they may fancy. I shed a tear or two at times, or else enter a trance-like state, oblivious to everything around me.

As I am trying to rid myself of excessive sentimental foolishness, including outdated, blind beliefs, and some useless parts of my conscience even, I consider memories as incongruous inconveniences, like specks of dust in my eyes, or a useless body appendage. They do nothing but add to the burdens of everyday living.

I started life on a happy note, in a family which is among the kindliest in the world. Hence, there isn't any direction left to go to, except toward atrophy; you know, like from bad to worse, plenty to poverty, healthy to ill, happy to sad, life to death. It is unstoppable. And memories merely serve to make more pronounced the rancor.

If I had no memories to drag along with me wherever I may go, then each day will be new. I can start fresh every morning, brimming with hope and anticipation, my vision unclouded by regret, or remorse, or fear. I can realize my full potential, without being weighed down by emotion or conscience. I may then become despicable to some people, a self-centered, ungrateful slob. But in reality, I will have become the perfect organism for life's largely unforgiving conditions. If there were no memories, life will become very tolerable, and will proceed mechanically, efficiently, profitably, unhampered by notions of right and wrong.

But memories are like addictive drugs. We crave them. We are enamored by them. They seem central and essential to our existence; as when we glamorize and exaggerate our lives through tales of our exploits, our conquests, and other largely misguided adventures and activities; as when we would rather waste our time reminiscing unrightable events, and other scenes steeped in inane nostalgia. This option is attractive enough, though, as it offers some sort of respite from the sustained banality of life.

When work does not occupy me, I lose the battle against memories. They dart from here and there, from different points of time in my life. The rational in me abhors the exercise; the emotional finds it delightful.

An Old Woman

On my way home tonight, I was stagnant, with dying dreams in my head. The cold air was heavy with filth and fumes, and I passed by houses hollowed and abandoned by memories both happy and bitter, its people moved on to fabled lands, while I remained, and hoped, and dreamt, and planned, and lost; consigned to the torture of reminiscences, forever in the limbo between failure and hope.

Then she was there: On a sidewalk, exerting her dominion over tattered treasures, oblivious to concepts of dignity, focused on surviving, making my whimpers apparent and embarrassing.

When I left, she was still there, and the forlorn, hopeless sight lifted my spirits up a bit. Though tinged with cruelty, the miserable among us find perverse comfort in the sight and smell of the hopeless.

Beginnings

We're done with the rituals of welcoming yet another year. I personally feel that a new year starts off as somewhat sluggish, probably from the daze and hecticness of the holidays that immediately precede it. Then, it slowly reclaims its lost pace, the swiftness by which the alternation of night and day becomes mechanical and unforgiving, never stopping for love or happiness or death or grief.

Time's unstoppability exacts a toll on my dreams. I have finite time and limitless dreams. I know I should move faster and do more, but while time moves forward in a straight line, dreams, or mine at least, flit and glide and fly to each and every direction they please. Chasing them sometimes throws me off-paths, and occasionally I get lost, losing precious time in the process.

I begin another year because time commands me to. I breathe under its dictates. It allows me bits of pleasure, though: Reminiscences of moments of love, moments of inexplicable insight and joy, of faith and hope. It'll keep me in suspense each day, bringing both strange and wonderful things to my doorstep. It will, at least, allow me beginnings.