I should have written this a week ago, exactly on New Year’s Day, but I was too busy enjoying my self-imposed vacation that I decided to hold off on any work-related activities (including writing this Spoonful). I finally went back to work with a vengeance on Monday, but my PC died on me, perhaps heralding the beginning of an unpredictable and challenging year.

I don’t mind surprises, and I don’t mind challenges, either. My experiences the past half-year have taught me to embrace them. And I’d like to believe my gut when it tells me that 2004 may be my most exciting year yet! (Or, maybe, that’s just me putting on double rose-colored lenses.)

* * * * *

New Year’s Eve was a simple, solitary affair. I spent the hours leading up to 2004 cooking a simple pasta dish, after which Paul and I spent over an hour watching the fireworks from our favorite hideaway by the bay.

Up there on that rooftop, everything seemed bright, lovely, and—I’ll use the term again—enchanting. The streets were ablaze with lights of different colors (those by the airport runway were the most fascinating of them all), and they were virtually empty, save for a few whizzing cars here and there. Light show after light show erupted across the metropolis’ skies, and we amused ourselves by guessing which fireworks originated from what place—and what events were being held there. Of course, the Makati area seemed to be the liveliest of them all, although what seemed to be Alabang or Las Piñas—or even Cavite—surprised us with their own showers.

Imagine the fireworks display over New York Harbor on the 4th of July. That’s probably the only show which I know will rival what I have seen that night. It was as if the lights were performing a symphony of their own, with different colors, styles, “textures” (I can’t find any other way to describe it), and rhythms blending harmoniously to form a cohesive piece. It was the best fireworks display that I have ever seen in my life, and I thank all those homes and establishments who have spent tens of thousands of pesos on fireworks for giving me a truly memorable evening.

* * * * *

But the best part… oh, the best part, my dear friends, was not the fireworks display that greeted the new year, but the morning sun that ushered in a bright new day!

After taking a pre-dawn drive to greet some friends, we rushed back to the rooftop in time for some early morning sunshine. You would not believe how white everything was! The sky, instead of being tinted blue, and orange, and lavender—as the early morning skies usually were—was a study in monochromatic white and silver. Everything was just so bright that the sky looked more pristine and… heavenly than usual. We could hardly look up anymore, and we spent a good number of minutes gaping in awe. It was a morning unlike any other, and it was the perfect way to greet what could be a perfectly good year.

* * * * *

As we sat at the edge of the ledge, looking, as Paul said, “like two little schoolchildren atop a little hill,” we saw two birds circling the building, soaring up, then dipping down, then curving this way and that. Paul wondered if they were a pair, because although they seemed to be moving along wildly different paths, they were still flying in the same direction.

We observed the little creatures for a while, who seemed to be enjoying that little side trip of theirs, until Paul concluded, “They’re a pair, alright.” Then we went back to face the glaring sun in peaceful silence.

* * * * *

That scene, especially in the context of our New Year celebration, made me think about life and relationships. All too often, we expect our partners to be traveling along the same road with us, walking beside us to hold our hands, behind us to catch us if we fall, or in front of us to lead the way. It seems to me that we haven’t yet accepted that partners can lead completely separate lives and walk distinctly separate paths, but still look towards the same direction, share a single vision, and therefore maintain a loving and supportive relationship.

Moreover, when we think of “paths”, we imagine narrow stone walkways, marked trails, or anything with boundaries—instead of a wide open space where we can choose whichever way to go. What really struck me, more than seeing the pair of birds go off separately then fly again in unison, was the figure of the path they flew on.

Imagine curved lines that run parallel for a while, then intersect and form a figure 8, then go off in wild directions, then somehow run parallel again. Our childhood, educational system, and corporate cultures don’t seem to encourage that kind of route. Somehow, everyone is conditioned to run a linear course, to do things one-by-one, step-by-step, instead of being allowed to experiment and find a path that fits.

Worse, we expect our partners to travel on exactly the same path where we are, leaving the poor fellow to awkwardly find his place on that road.

* * * * *

I’ve always compared myself to a bird. Nelly Furtado’s song “I’m Like A Bird” became my anthem at one point in my life, and that metaphor stuck to me even more after that surreal morning. Like a bird, I want to fly off in different directions, surveying and enjoying the view along the way, and perhaps learning about life in those parts of the sky. I want to bask in the brightness of the morning sun, and I want to feel the glow of life as I flap my wings and go up, then down, the round and round my little world.

And, like the birds that we saw on New Year morning, I want to fly with a partner who can go off on his own way, but still come back to share the view and the rest of the journey with me. Is it that little schoolboy with whom I shared the view atop a little hill? Only time can tell. Happy 2004, everyone.