III

A common complaint - or excuse - is that we just can't find the time to write. For this exercise, you will need a clock with an alarm, or a kitchen timer. Set the clock to ring in thirty minutes, and sit down quietly at an empty table. Do nothing. Don't put a cake into the oven, make a phonecall, or do the dishes. Sit quietly. Allow your mind to wander. Sit until the alarm goes off. Do you see how long half an hour can be? Make time in your schedule to write everyday.

12/29/2011

The Gift of the Holy Spirit

My son and I started the day on the wrong foot, which was last night's problem. This was the scenario: Yesterday, my 12 year old son and I had lunch with a literal couple. The wife, who was once my guy bff's girlfriend, ex-girlfriend actually, invited our small group of friends to lunch the next day on short notice. I accepted the invitation thinking my son would look forward to her husband who was fond of my son.

In the morning it turned out that I was the only one available to go out with my friends. My son and I, that is.

So, the wife drove us to their beautiful house on a hill overlooking the city. The scene reminds me of the view of Princess Jasmine's kingdom from their palace balcony. After some errands in the city: getting mango for the mango maki rolls, getting some DVDs to ward off boredom in case it came(to our day together), picking up my friend's Longchamp bag at the repair shop (it would cost her $20 to have something sewn there, while here it only cost her $3.00), and other things, we took off for the hill and navigated through limestone roads up to their house.

My friend and I now have something in common. We survived cancer. This is what makes us real sisters now. She survived her bout with the deadly disease in her early teen years while I was diagnosed last May and just finished all treatments last November.

But before that, she was my best guy friend's ex-girlfriend whom my group of friends have adopted and then sadly let go. There are many reasons my other friends let her go, but the most common thing is their common complaint of her self-absorption. But that's another story.

So there I was with my son in their lovely brick home overlooking the city. My son and her husband had a nice reunion upon seeing each other. They hugged and I saw a contented, pleased smile on my son's face. That made me happy.

While I prepared the mango maki for our small group which now included my friend's sister, my son and her husband played video games. It was a nice vacation day.

Lunch. The food was set on the living room set table. There was adobo, beef cordon bleu and mango maki. Rice. Tea. Fruits. And a party of five.

"Your better teach your son some lessons on teamwork," the husbands shakes his head. Then he goes on a tirade on how my 12 year old son asks him for help in buying ammo for this and that, and how my son wouldn't help him in turn when he asked for help. He capped his narrative with "I asked myself, where is that sweet little boy I bought Transformers for some three years ago?"

I would've otherwise have been hurt about that if I didn't see the sincerity of the husband's friendship. If I were not a teacher who works with kids I get attached to, I wouldn't understand where he was coming from.

He was worried for my son the way that I am and honestly, I appreciate his effort, though he showed it in too emphatic a way, that if the mother were someone else not me, I'm not sure she'd take no offense.

When lunch was winding down, the wife was upset and embarrassed with her husband's reaction towards my son's inconsideration and selfishness. She became agitated and vacillated between apologizing and talking about rehash nonsense that eventually made me fulfill my promise to myself of telling her off should she badmouth any friend of mine.

"We should quit with the backbiting," I said boldly. I've never been one to be upfront about such things. Her own differentiation between her Asian and white friends brought this about. While she extolled her white friends for their impeccable social graces, she was beginning to trash talk the people she fell apart from. And after years of listening to her one-sided tirades, I got tired, emboldened by my own brush with death, told her off. There was an awkward silence that was followed by "What did I say? Was I backbiting?" Did I really have to answer that?

The day ended, thank God.

Life with my son continued. We heard mass then went to the mall as he requested. Then in the evening, after having told him NOT TO EAT CARAMEL CANDY ANYMORE, he ate one and I lost it.

I brought up what my friend's husband said. I planned to let my son sit with the situation. But one candy changed it all.

I went on about how embarrassed I was with his inconsiderate, selfish, obnoxious behavior and how he should clean up his act.

We went to sleep on the wrong foot.

In the morning, I banned TV, computer and game consoles and gave lectures on manners and courtesy. More than that, he was forced to do some chores he would have put off had that event not happened.

My friend's husband's reaction didn't hurt me as much as it helped my son and me. Although yes, it embarrassed my friend and her social sensibilities badly, the event gave my son one of the most productive and satisfying days of our lives.

"The guy loves you, do you know that?"

Both guys, my friend's husband and my son, apologized to me.

I thanked the former, and set free from this sin the latter.

Most of all, I thank God for turning what seemed bad into something good.

Life has no shortcuts.

II

Start a brainstorm notebook. Inspiration can come from the unlikeliest sources... a young girl's red shoes, a conversation overheard on a bus, the punchline of a terrible joke. Keep your eyes open, your ears peeled, and your pen at the ready. Jot down key words or phrases so that you will have pages of ideas to choose from.

12/29 - gosh my brain's not functioning for this one. I'll get back to this list every now and then.

I

"Channel the voice of a genius. Certain writers have very specific styles, and on the path to discovering your own voice, it can be useful to practice a bit of mimicry. Choose a writer with a distinct voice - like Ernest Hemingway, e. e. cummings, Emily Dickinson, Gertrude Stein - and read their work, paying attention to what makes their writing stand out. Then sit down and write you own prose or poetry, applying their style to your piece."

For this first exercise, I write as Nuala O'Faolain, feisty and courageous in whipping out her memoir with nary a smidgen of timidity. Here goes:

Who Do You Think You Are?


I write for the love of writing but I have gotten tired of doodling and scattering the pieces of my broken hearts in the many stages of my life on loose paper. I write with the title "Who Do You Think You Are?" which gives away my writer's paranoia, lest somebody point at my presumptuousness in writing my own story.


Memoirs are hard to write. After all, you are writing a story that has many angles, many truths, from only one perspective: the writer's. In this case, mine.

And who do I think I am?

That's a hard question to answer. It made me pause and look at the sky from my bedroom window. The sky is white, not milky white, but overcast white. Not yet grey, but neither blue. White. I can see the trees that swayed ten nights ago when the biggest typhoon of the year hit our city. I look outside, at the heavens, wondering...

Who do I think I am?

In writing, I find out who I am.

Earlier, I was organizing my things that were stuffed into a big balikbayan box. Finally, I was able to find time to arrange my things. Mostly memorabilia. One of my friends loves to tease me on how "senti" I am. This irks me. But I look at my possessions, and I find that it is true. Was.

I saw scattered pieces of my broken hearts. Trying to figure out relationships with the men I dated, with the boys who became my boyfriends, separately of course, because I was never a player.


Some of my own writings made me cry. Seeing envelops addressed to me by the last person with whom I declared to be soulmates made me cry. Then there was that piece I wrote in uniform longhand trying to understand how two men who mattered to my history, up until that point, loved me at the same time.


"M and B. B and M. M. B. B. M.


Both are my friends. Both have my heart. Both are part of me. And both of them love me, want me.

With M I am surefooted and calm beyond words. With him, I embody dignity and the grace of a queen.

With B, I am in awe of the world and of life. His presence and his love overwhelm me. I am a child beholding a rainbow, never wanting it to be out of sight, wanting to hold it in my hand.

Both have been dreams come true, wonderful packages at different times of my life, giving me different tastes of pure and real love.

I welcomed M reservedly, like a host ushering a surprise guest to tea.

I reveled at B's arrival. It was with fanfare and joy and celebration that I greeted him after eleven ears since our first acquaintanceship.


Both are part of significant moments in my history.

M was the crush I resisted admitting.
B was the guy I shoved from my memory.


In fifth grade, M was the apple of every girl's eye. He was the whispered name in girls' giggles. He was the guy I didn't want to give the satisfaction of bestowing my favor (even in secret).


In 'ninety five, B was the guy I flirted cleanly with. He was my victory in that I didn't succumb to his star power. He was just a guy I exchanged pleasantries with, without the illusions of forever.

M: Why should I want someone whom everyone else wanted?
B: Why should I bother with someone who can have any girl at the flick of his fingers?

Two Thousand Eight: They both love me, they both want me.

With M, my psyche is safe.
With B, I am compelled to learn more about myself in terms of faith.

I don't want to use either as a cushion if either love story fails.
I don't want to say "so what if he leaves, B/M loves me anyway?"

They both love me want me, love me at the same time, at this same period in my life.

With M, I will be a chef's wife. he will pick me up at work and go home to our neat little home and go about our divided chores and spend the evening together with my son.

With B, I am a musician's wife (sic) who takes care of his homestead. I am there when he awakens and I will wait for him to come home after a night's gig. We will be home with my son and our baby girl. He will leave at times, for out of town concerts, even abroad. But he will come home to me.

M is tall, fair-skinned and neat.

B is tall, dark and neat.

Both smell sweet, look nice. They are good company too. They can even be each others' good friends.

Even apart and at communication hiatuses, I feel safe with M.

Even when I try to kill my love for B through diminished communication, my heart seeks him out, even in nosebleed secret.

My feelings for M are steady, sedate and serene.
My feelings for B vacillate from an outburst of affection, love and "can't get enough of him" to contempt and mistrust, to simple acceptance of what is.

And all is from a God-honest, soul-bared-out heart.


I am fond and grateful for M.
I am so much in love with B.

I was so much in love with M.
And I was fond of B's memory but in a nonchalant, proud way, and only when his memory served a moment's purpose.

I can't say M is nothing to me now because why is he in this entry?
I can't say B is everything to me because why am I writing about M here?

I love them both.

I know if I'd tell M that I'd leave B to rebuild our relationship and push it a notch higher, he'd happily resume what we started out in 2001.

I know if I'd leave B for M, I would be pining for B in a secret nosebleed way

And that would be using M in the name of safety and security.

With M, I wouldn't care if he'd sleep with someone casually.
With B, I'd be lying if I said the same thing.

Men!

But I know they'd always come home to me.

M will always have a special place in my memory.
Right now, B holds my heart.

With M, things in writing seem healthy.
With B, my feelings are unstable, erratic.

I am serene and safe with M.
With B, I am happy, scared, angry and vulnerable.

Both of them are far away.
But then so near.

With M, I am perched on a strong tree, as wise as an owl.
With B, I am floundering on dangerous uncertain waters.

I've never been jealous with M.
With B, I am like a warrior, watching all sides of my person but pretending to be carefree and easygoing.

I know I"d feel secure with M, but by the merits of our relationship on their own, things will never be the same.

I want to learn and grow through my love for B no matter how illogical the choice. Love and faith are its only logic.

At the end of the day, having said all these, only time will tell what God has in store for me and with whom. And God will see that winning love through. After all, His choice is the best.

Life is unfolding as it should.
It is a beautiful world. (Desiderata)

All is well. This is all part of God's grand plan and it has its own effects and influence of the bigger picture - even though it comes from this tiny, seemingly insignificant corner of my world.

They both love me. But God loves me more than either will ever do.
Who do you think I really love? I have an answer but what do I do? Lord tell me."

Three years later, I am without both.


My relationship with B could not withstand the distance between us, not to mention how I never trusted him from the start of our second beginning, when he wanted to add me to his roster of girlfriends, me, being number 2. No, I was never technically number 2. When his girlfriend left him, I became little miss rebound. Which was telling of my feelings of inadequacy. Nonetheless, that event in my life merits an award winning film.


M and I tried getting back together a couple of times after B and I broke up. He was my best friend, until he totally abandoned me when I told him that I was going to the doctor for a bump in my right breast. After that, I never heard from him in a meaningful way. February of 2011, he invited me to his cousin's wedding in July. Since then, I have been worrying over suitable clothes to wear. But since May, I've never heard from him. Until I greeted him Merry Christmas.

My bestfriend, J, told me to drop it. I call it "He's just not that into you" and I don't get it, just to make me laugh.


Who do I think I am?


I still have no answer. But I have a pretty good idea that I am made of good tough stuff.