In The Beginning

Second Blogging Anniversary

Life is too short not to celebrate nice moments. - Jurgen Klopp

Why take a picture when you can write a thousand words? Or maybe just a hundred, or three on a good day. In other words, blog. It's an idea I copied from Younger Daughter.

Did you know there are 114 posts on this blog, plus almost ten month's worth of drafts?

I know, right?

Just between us, I’m as surprised as you.

Two years ago on this date, I sat down at the computer, clicked publish on the first one, and never looked back.  

I wrote.

And wrote a little more.

Of course, I've had surges of anxiety. Writing is like high school. You walk up to the popular table in the cafeteria, hoping that someone will invite you to sit down.  You stand there trying to make eye contact, holding your tray awkwardly, shifting from side to side, and waiting.

Waiting and hoping... hoping that someone will like you for you.

This blog has been a lot like that. My first post was about a bonfire (see In The Beginning). Since then, I've lined up travel memories and experiences. And musings on sundry, random topics. Divulged childhood tales and talked about my fav literary works. And all that time, I've wondered how my readers will like the writing. 

And as I typed and posted and typed and posted...

(Disclosure before I go on: my current readership consists of three, maybe four - and that's by choice.)

... two of you have sent kind comments on a regular/semi-regular basis, even suggestions for a diversified style. (Spoiler alert: an attempt to do just this will be reflected in next month's series.) A third one rendered a single verbal comment, It's all over the place! (I heard it.) At least, you've confirmed how my mind works - hither and thither. Sort of unfocused, for the most part. Like a dandelion that parachutes its seeds in the wind. My fourth non-family reader sent an encouraging note, Keep writing, and I will keep reading. 

So, I guess that I'd keep on writing and remembering.

And dreaming and blogging.

Thank you for being here for post 115 on this historic second blogging anniversary.

The blog wouldn’t be the same without you.

P.S. Speaking of 'bonfire,' I lit one on Halloween, but I'd have to think of a series of four to blog about it. 

Do Small Things With Great Love

Life Lessons

We can do no great things; only small things with great love - Mother Teresa 

The place has a welcoming feel, a scene of vast repose. The sky all heaven, and the earth all grass. Meeting the land is water in which are immersed dozens of stilt wooden structures, home of about 6,000 people and the scruffiest property around. We've just navigated our way toward the floating village of Siem Reap in Cambodia. 

Today, we're bringing freshly-baked Cambodian-French baguettes to the children.

The crowd is already buzzing. Barefoot, tanned children with stained and torn clothes sit in a huddle on a bare patch of earth, giggling shyly, their voices tinkling, waiting. I catch snippets of sampeah! - the word for hello as well as goodbye in Khymer. A few stand up, soon followed by all the rest of them, placing both palms together like a lotus flower in front of their chest which is their formal way of greeting. 

There is an expectant hush as we start handing out longish loaves of bread. Num pang, a child says. Bread. At first they speak in church whispers, but soon, it becomes a noisy chatter as of buttonquails on the trees overhead. Their varied reaction is a delight to behold. I'm touched by the soft sadness on a child's face as he looks up on me after I've given him a small bagful. A little brown face squints against the light, purses his lips, then breaks out into the widest grin as he receives a goody sack. Orgoon, thank you, is said many times with a grateful bow.

Several are already eating their loot with gusto. I laugh as I see someone take a large bite, then bite again before he'd swallowed any. His cheeks are bulging, and the bite sprays flecks onto the air. A few have started to run back home to share the bread with younger siblings waiting on the stairs. 

I walk closer to where a mom is watching the scene with pleasure. She is holding a baby as if she were in a painting, surrounded by light. The baby is making funny noises. Gurgles and hiccups. It makes me laugh and when I do, he yawns and stretches and makes more noise, and I laugh some more. Beside her is a much younger mom with a baby on her lap. It is a comforting feeling, a child in one's lap. The baby is so supremely unimpressed that when he first lays eyes on me, he yawns and falls fast asleep. 

It feels like spring. The breeze is chilly, but the sun is shining cheerfully on these children who feel invisible, unnecessary in the world, but who are now suddenly cherished. 

The day couldn’t have been better, if God were to plan it.

For Every Pulse A Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving Day

My cup is overflowing, and I’m grateful for many things.

I'm grateful for twinkling lights and speckled maple leaves and thrift shops.

I'm grateful for home-baked crustless pumpkin pie with hot apple-cinnamon tea and precious smiles in ohana calendar pics and the best Haitian rum bundt cake in the history of boozy dessert ever.

I’m grateful for the cutest, fanged vampire and the most adorable 'floss' dancer with her energetic arm swinging, and the deadpan, comedic display of butt crack of a piano virtuoso to-be.

And most of all?

I’m grateful for all of you for being part of my quirky, flippant, sometimes shallow and full-of-myself life.

When I count my blessings, I count each of you twice. 

And let there be for every pulse a Thanksgiving
and for every breath a song.

Hold Onto Your Ears

Life Lessons

As I grew up, my Mom had many sayings that I term Mom-isms. On windy days when I played in the backyard, she would say, 'Hold onto your ears, or you'll blow away!' I believed her. - Excerpted from Eldest Daughter's Mom-isms written in honor of Mother’s Day 2018

I'm elated that Eldest Daughter has honored me by putting into writing my top five sayings. It makes me smile, thinking that these are the same ones that my own Mum schooled me in.

Dwelling on those times, I can't help but get convinced that perhaps, mothers are all slightly insane. When they ask, Do you want a piece of advice? - it is mere formality. It doesn't matter if you answer yes or no. You're going to get it, anyway. What's more weird is that the advice doesn't seem to make sense, but we heed the admonition all the same.

Like holding onto my ears on windy days, lest I blow away.

It's temperate most of the time in my city of Where-The-Nilad-Grows, but sometimes, the habagat southwest monsoon wind prevails. That's when a breeze starts stirring the canopy of the acacia tree in the backyard, ruffling its branches like a skirt. Come in now, Mum yells from out the window. It's getting windy. Uulan na! It's going to rain soon!

I heave an exasperated sigh. The light breeze blows strands of black hair across my eyes. Kaunting laro pa. I want to play a little longer, I plead.

A sudden gust stirs the treetops. I plant my feet firmly on the ground, reeling in the wind that turns my skirt into a flaring tulip. The wind is catching debris which it is whisking up and down behind me in an angry spiral. Sensible pipit and maya birds have already taken cover under the shade of the mango tree. My heart starts to flutter wildly like a kite in the whirlwind. Naku, hold onto your ears, or you'll blow away! Mum says with a stern nod, her concern genuine.

Heeding the urging, I gently grip my ears and close my eyes. The current of air rises and moans around me, then slowly fades until the lamenting becomes a low murmur, like voices. I wait. Except for a small gust of wind rattling bare alagao branches, the scene has now otherwise become quiet. I open my eyes. The breeze has tangled my hair, but it's all safe and clear. I quietly sigh in relief.  

Lessons learned in the home last the longest. To this day, my mouth quirks in an amused smile as I catch myself tugging at my ears whenever the wind starts to blow sharply cold around my face. As it kicks harder and more brisk, a reassuring feeling falls over me. I know that all will be well, just as long as I heed the lesson learned in the schoolroom of my Mum's heart: hold onto your ears.

Nothing But The Truth

Life Lessons

Excerpts, which are italicized, are from a 1978 unpublished essay, A Promise To Tell: Nothing But The Truth.

Children are simply their own little wonder. - Unknown

We are taught to let go of things and move on, but I've held on to Brown Bear, Jen The Lion, and their stuffed company - precious keepsakes that for me evoke the confident grace of childhood, a careless disregard that fades with maturity.

They make me think of that day a mother dreams about. The house was obscenely bright, the curtains stretched wide apart. We were moving to the Valley of the Sun's anchor metropolitan city in three months so our current ranch-style, three-bedroom home had been tidied up and put on the market for sale.

The boxwood hedges were trimmed, grass mowed, carpet vacuumed, furniture dusted, and the most-challenging chore of all - toys neatly stashed in the playroom closet. And the days went by. We eagerly waited for realtor John to call. The girls would longingly look at the closet, wanting to do one of their most-favorite things - to take out their entourage of play stuff and build a tent in the family room. Almost two weeks, and John hadn't called. I relented. 

Almost immediately, out came the Holly Hobbie printed sheets, the Alvin the Chipmunk quilt, the Strawberry Shortcake tea set, Goldie, Raggedy Ann, Theodore, and who-knows-what-else. It was a merry sight, with the girls happily chuckling, pulling chairs together to tie the sheet ends to. Inside the tent, it felt as enchanting as the first time we had put it up. The tea was hot and the cupcake was delightful. Toto was scolded, as usual, for messily putting up his paws on the covers.

Then the phone rang. My heart skipped. It was our realtor cheerily announcing that he and a client were on their way to our house. I turned into Super Woman, single-handedly throwing sheets and toys back in the closet. And right in the nick of time, as if from some magical fairy dust, the place was once more immaculate.

Chatty and overly-accommodating, I led the merry procession into the house, with John reciting its virtues, inside and out. Our prospective buyer was clearly pleased. But just as John was to end the tour, Younger Daughter made a face and giggled. 'You haven't seen our toys and tent yet!' I bit my lips, declaring, 'Next time, sweetheart.' That's when Eldest Daughter averred, 'Oh, but they're right here.'

Our visitors obliged, walking with a grin toward the playroom. Younger Daughter continued in a very clear voice, 'In there!' Her big sister helped by pushing the closet door apart, revealing a mishmash of soft and Fisher Price toys intertwined with sheets, and lidless pots and pans. I was horrified and utterly at a loss for words, but the girls looked proud, their ear-to-ear smile completely dazzling. 

One of Toto's eyes had been replaced with a chipped button, and Froggy is worn with drooping shoulders like an over-used dish towel. Looking at these stuffed toys, now threadbare on some parts and floppy, reminds me of that single moment of insight.

I thought that I had schooled the girls all about life, but they in fact were the ones who showed me what life was really all about. 

Hold Hands And Stick Together

Life Lessons

Gratitude is the most exquisite form of courtesy. In this season of thanksgiving, I look back in appreciation of the childhood teachings that have modeled my life. 

It is still true, no matter how old you are - when you go out into the world,

it is best to hold hands and stick together. - Fulghum

This story has already been written. Right down to The End. During a family outing, I will almost always end up getting lost, a captive to Dreadful Distraction. 

The narrative starts like all others. Mummie courageously embarks on the requisite pilgrimage to Carriedo for classroom supplies and a new pair of shoes with wriggly school-aged and ­under age kids, plus the ubiquitous toddler of the moment. I hear the drill, Hold hands and stick together! 

Amid a riot of color and noise on the dusty street, our mini convoy is soon swept up among a throng of shoppers.

The scene is enthralling. Despite the heat and humidity, store fronts hum with sales girls proclaiming the virtues of their wares, Buena mano, Manang. Buena mano is a Spanish phrase that literally means 'good hand.' In local business practice, it means the first sale which is believed to bring good luck for the rest of the day. On the sidewalk, rolls of cotton fabric and woven blankets entice, alongside a garish array of plastic and stuffed toys on make-shift stands. Ambulant hawkers enjoying a brisk trade in roasted chestnuts are weaving in and out of jeepneys that beep their horns as they wait for the road to clear.

Then, it happens.

Around the corner, my nemesis comes into sight. Today it is the disheveled, one-legged street musician simultaneously blowing into a harmonica strapped around his face, plucking guitar strings, and rapping on a drum with a stick attached to an improvised rod that is activated by a foot. 

I know that I'm awake and aware of everything around me, but as images and sounds tap in my mind, I unknowingly release my grip from the rest of the world, beguiled by this musical wonder.

As the final notes of the performance fade, I turn my head behind, but find no familiar faces, just an endless view of the street. Shadows are blotting the sun, and I'm now just a speck in the wide expanse of people everywhere walking by in a hurry to get home to dinner. A hideous feeling comes over me. I'm lost, I mumble, my voice trembling. As much as I want to stay strong, there is an odd tear that has crept up at the edge of my eye and I have to keep wiping it off. Sweeping away welling tears, I stumble to my feet and start walking without paying attention to where I'm going. I want my Mummie's hand. 

But just when all seems hopeless, a familiar tug from behind reaches out to my slight shoulders, interrupting my worries. Dios mio! My God! I told you to hold hands, Mum blurts out with all the control she can manage, as she hugs me exuberantly. I hear her words, but for a few moments, I do not comprehend their meaning. She's trying not to let her voice quiver.

I wear a chastened attitude, swallowing the wedge of emotion in my throat. I take in her comforting attention weaving together with my remorse. I nod.

Lesson learned.