Holding Hands

Sometimes we don’t need a helping hand—we just need a holding hand.
~ Nines and Paul

Everyone needs a holding hand, I think—not someone who can push you forward or pull you up when the going gets rough, but someone who can stay put with you even when you’re stuck in uncomfortable situations. Especially when you’re stuck in uncomfortable situations.

You know those days when it seems as if the whole world is against you and you just wanna shrivel up and die? That’s when you need someone to be there with you. Someone who can take the flak and the sh*t with you, someone who won’t run when you’re cornered in a dark alley, someone who’ll take Life’s punches and blows with you. Not someone who’d say, “Awww, baby, I know how you feel… here’s a hug”, but someone who still can’t speak because he got hit and bled just as much as you have.

I’m not saying that people shouldn’t do anything when they’re stuck in a rut, but sometimes there’s a value to just staying put and staying still. With each other.

There were so many times in our relationship when either of us got slapped in the face by Life and found it so embarrassing to be in front of the other. Naturally, we wanted to show only the best sides of ourselves to each other and just retell the painful stories as if they were parts of a distant—even comic—past. But there were moments when we’d just catch each other at that exact moment when Life hit us really hard and we just stumbled and fell. And we just stayed there, immobilized by the pain… shamed by the thought that the one you wanted to shield from all this was right there, witnessing everything in real time.

Sobrang dyahe.

It would’ve been so easy for either of us to just say, “I give up. This is too much for me to handle,” and just run as fast as we can to the opposite direction. Instead we chose to say, “If this is part of being with you and loving you, then I’m taking it.” Not because we’re martyrs and we love the idea of sacrificing ourselves for the other (yeesh….), but because we know that loving the other person means going through Life with them—whatever Life means.

Sometimes, it’s more bad than good. And there’s nothing much you can do.

Except to pray that something good happens soon. And to hold each other’s hand and cheer each other on.

* * * * *

What does it mean to hold hands? Well, it can mean several things.

Sometimes, it can mean just being there for the other person and hearing them out when they need a loving and patient ear. Having the same birthday and being made of pretty much the same stuff, Paul and I have this tendency to yak and whine about the same stuff over and over… and over. Now, if you were the other person and you also had something to whine about, it can get pretty tiresome listening to the other person going on and on like a broken record. But because we respect each other’s need to unload, we give each other that space to whine until we get tired and say, “Thanks for that. Now it’s your turn.” And the whining goes on. (You really just need to do it, sometimes.)

Other times, holding hands can mean resisting the urge to fix things for the other person and giving them enough space to make their own decisions at their own time. Sure, it’s nice to go into “solution mode” especially when you think that the answer is already staring you right at the face, but I’ve realized—especially most recently—that everyone has his or her rhythm for doing things, and there are some things, some decisions that you just can’t rush. Holding hands means not pulling someone up or pushing them forward, but just staying still with that person—no matter where you are, no matter what the circumstance, even if you’re already itching to move.

Holding hands in that way reflects how you respect each other’s individuality and how you trust each other to make good, sound decisions. Of course, it’s always good to ask for each other’s advice, especially when the decisions that have to be made will affect you both, but it’s also nice to just stand back and see how the other person moves. You discover much about the other person that way, and what you learn often amazes you.

“Holding hands” and giving each other space is also a sign of security and stability, at least in the context of our relationship. When we back off and just stay in the sidelines, it’s as if we’re saying, “I know my place in this relationship. I don’t own you… I know your love for me doesn’t depend on this one little thing in front of us… I can’t think for you, so go ahead and make your own decisions. I’ll be here for you no matter what happens after.” No you-should’ves, no if-you-had-onlys, just we’re-in-this-togethers. Even if you end up making a wrong turn after all.

* * * * *

I’m not sharing all these to be preachy or to brag about my super-fabulous relationship. Far from it. I think it’s because Paul and I have gone through a whole lot of hell together that we can now look back and come to these realizations about ourselves and our relationship. As I’ve said in the previous Spoonful, there’s nothing like adversity to bring people closer together.

A romantic relationship brings with it so many joys and pains, so many wonderful moments and unforgettable scenes. There are great days and duh-days, kisses and fights, laughter and tears. No matter what state we’re in, however, I think it’s important to remember something that someone once said: “When crossing the street (or going out into the world), stay close together and hold hands.” (Or something like that.)

May you find that one person to hold hands with, and may you sincerely enjoy holding hands.

(Written: July 12, 2004)

Going on a Family Diet

There’s nothing like adversity to bring family members closer to each other—or to help them lose a little weight.
Early this year, our family hit financial rock-bottom. A new business that my mom put up as part of her semi-retirement program went down after only two months of operations—but not because the business itself failed. There was some in-fighting among business partners, and they one by one decided to withdraw support for the company, leaving our family even more broke than before. One line I had read in a business book years ago resurfaced in my mind: “Never invest more than you can afford to lose.”

Well, we pretty much lost everything.

Stuck with a mountain of bills to pay, no car, and just each other for support, our family trudged on. We all learned how to take the tricycle, jeep, and bus to where it was that we were going, and I had to keep up with the demands of my clients without a phone or Internet access at home. I frequented Internet cafes, used the neighborhood pay phone for business calls, and tried to maintain a tight work schedule to finish everything before the malls and shops closed. To help me meet my deadlines (as I had become the sole breadwinner since then), my mom and brother spent the most part of the summer running errands for me—delivering letters, collecting checks, and so on. We became a lean and mean working machine, trying to salvage what we could of the family’s dignity and pride.

The tight budget helped us all lose a few pounds, too.

Mom lost the most—nine pounds—after a couple of months on a pretty lean diet: two pieces of toast and coffee for breakfast, vegetables and rice for lunch, and less than the usual amount of food (usually fish or pork) for dinner. I lost a few, too, but the stress and workload also kept me on a Coke-and-Nagaraya diet, offsetting whatever weight I would have lost because of the penny-pinching.

Some days, we would run on just P20 of cash, so I would ask the helper to buy kangkong and carrots from the neighborhood vegetable stall (for only P10!). Although I enjoyed the kangkong-and-carrot combination immensely, those instances made me feel really kawawa (pitiful), and made me question God. Don’t I deserve more than this?, I would find myself saying.

I would find God’s reply in the nightly after-dinner talks that my mom, brother, and I would have on the patio.

“Isn’t it amazing how much closer we’ve grown through this experience?”, Mom would often ask in amusement. We had been fighting for almost two years straight before this crisis hit us, but now we can’t really think of anything else than how to support each other through the tough times.

“And isn’t it amazing how much you’ve mellowed, Mom?”, my brother would follow up in jest. Mom had been notorious—since the dawn of time—for her “hyper-frankness” (tactlessness, more like it) and wild temper, and the people at Philippine Airlines had even given her the monicker “Mrs. Terror”. Yes, the crisis—and the golden years—have softened her tremendously. She hardly shouts or throws temper tantrums anymore.

This whole experience has softened me, too. It has made me less critical of my family’s mistakes, and more appreciative of their unflinching support. It has enabled me to re-establish my role as Mom’s Little Helper and my brother’s Big Sister, and it has also pushed me to work harder—with God pulling me up from above, of course.

(Really, there’s nothing like an external driving force, or a nightmare scenario, to motivate oneself.)

Even my relationship with Paul has strengthened through this experience, as he saw another side of me emerge. If he used to think of me as a naïve little girl that needed babysitting and protection, now he sees that I’m made of tougher stuff. He has seen me become a loyal and dutiful daughter, a tough and feisty woman—someone whom Life and adversity can’t put down that easily. He, too, has supported me with a lot of love, patience, understanding, and humor to ensure that I succeed in what I do and support my family.

(I blush when my mom calls him “My Son”, but I think it says a lot about how our family and the relationships among us have changed in recent months.)

Fitness experts were right in saying that group exercise does increase one’s motivation and ability to stick to a fitness program. Well, I’m treating this as God’s fitness program for our family—something to trim the fat and beef up the muscle. You should try it sometime. I think it works wonders.

(Written: July 3, 2004)

Two Women

I am a multi-tasker by nature, and even in reading my books I prefer to read more than one at a time. At present, I am reading the biographies of two women who seem to be polar opposites: Madeleine Körbel Albright, who was once Secretary of State of the United States—the highest any women has ever gone in American politics; and Paz Marquez-Benitez, the first author of a Filipino short story written in English—a woman who was also very much ahead of her time, as well as of her male contemporaries.

It is interesting to see that although both women were from different cultures and eras, and had altogether different realities, their lives share some themes and lessons that make us realize the value of any human life, no matter how insignificant it may seem at first. They are not my idols-apparent—I have always claimed to idolize the late Princess Diana and Audrey Hepburn for being women of style, substance, and strength—but they have lived lives that I now only dream of living (and fusing). Albright is a woman who has risen from humble Jewish-Czech beginnings to the savage, male-dominated world of (American) politics; while Benitez chose to live a more quiet and genteel life as a writer, educator, wife, and mother, but reflected a young nation’s dreams and visions of hope in her written work.

As a young woman whose heart is in both politics and art, social transformation and cultural consciousness, I find in both women lives lived well, and worth sharing.

* * * * *

I have not gone far in reading both biographies (Albright’s is entitled Seasons of her Life, written by Time correspondent Ann Blackman; Benitez’s is Paz Marquez Benitez: One Woman’s Life, Letters, and Writings, written by her daughter, Virginia Benitez Licuanan), but both women’s stories show how inextricably linked the seemingly mundane events of our lives can be with the history of young nations in turmoil. In reading their histories, and those of their ancestors, I have come to realize that no war, no crisis, no event of national significance is ever too far removed from the food on our table or the clothes on our back to be deemed inconsequential to daily living.

Madeleine (Madlenka) Körbelová’s father, Josef Körbel (I have learned that females add an “ová” to their surnames), was a diplomat in the young democratic Czechoslovakia at the time Madeleine was born, in 1937. He was popular and well-liked, and sat in the good graces of Beneš administration. He and his wife, Mandula—who was a very good chronicler—lived an almost-enviable life of political sorties, parties, and friends in high places, until the day Hitler decided that Czechoslovakia was his for the taking. Because Körbel was too closely identified with then-president Beneš and was Jewish—although the family did not really practice the religion—he and his young family had to be exiled to Britain.

Paz Marquez, on the other hand, was born in 1894, years before the Revolution which jostled us from Spain’s clutches onto the hands of the Americans. The place which their family called home was Tayabas (now Quezon), then a “hot bed” of the revolution, where serenity was unheard of, and where families had to master the games of habulan and taguan in order to survive. In her memoirs, she writes of moments of anticipation and dread at the thought of being caught by the Spaniards, and of friends and loved ones lost either because of the war itself, or as a side-effect of all the upheaval and illness that are frequently associated with such events.

Both Madeleine and Paz’s families were caught in the midst of wars that rocked their fragile nations, their intimate, personal tragedies and diary entries the reflections of cold and faceless accounts in our news archives and history textbooks.

* * * * *

In a sense, and to echo a lesson I learned in Philosophy class, what is personal is universal, and what is universal is personal. What were then private scribblings in notebooks and loose sheets of paper by then private individuals of no national consequence are now peepholes into a different culture, a different era, a different world. The Czechoslovakia of Madlenka Körbelová’s youth has now been dissolved, and the Quezons and Osmeñas who once graced the Benitez dining hall are now only imprints on almost-worthless currency. And yet, for a time, they were real, they were held dear.

Even Albright and Benitez seem far removed from us now, until we read their stories and find ourselves transported to their world, to the core of their day-to-day existence, understanding (for a brief moment) what it was like to have lived in their worlds.

* * * * *

It makes me wonder about the true weight and value of seemingly insignificant decisions that I have made, or have yet to make. What will my high-slitted, tight-skirted presence at EDSA Dos mean 20 years from now, when my children are in high school, and when they would have read about the second People Power that once again installed a woman president? How will life be for my family in 2020, and how will I explain to them the choices that I would have made with each election from now until then? Will I be able to afford to send my children to my beloved Ateneo? Or will the desire for true social involvement and change tear me from this comfortable life, to pursue other goals on another path? What will my diary entries and Spoonful issues mean for another generation who may (or may not) read them?

How will my thoughts, beliefs, decisions, and actions shape my little world, and how will little life this fit into the grander—universal—scheme of things?

How will yours?

(Written: March 11, 2004)

Two Women

I am a multi-tasker by nature, and even in reading my books I prefer to read more than one at a time. At present, I am reading the biographies of two women who seem to be polar opposites: Madeleine Körbel Albright, who was once Secretary of State of the United States—the highest any women has ever gone in American politics; and Paz Marquez-Benitez, the first author of a Filipino short story written in English—a woman who was also very much ahead of her time, as well as of her male contemporaries.

It is interesting to see that although both women were from different cultures and eras, and had altogether different realities, their lives share some themes and lessons that make us realize the value of any human life, no matter how insignificant it may seem at first. They are not my idols-apparent—I have always claimed to idolize the late Princess Diana and Audrey Hepburn for being women of style, substance, and strength—but they have lived lives that I now only dream of living (and fusing). Albright is a woman who has risen from humble Jewish-Czech beginnings to the savage, male-dominated world of (American) politics; while Benitez chose to live a more quiet and genteel life as a writer, educator, wife, and mother, but reflected a young nation’s dreams and visions of hope in her written work.

As a young woman whose heart is in both politics and art, social transformation and cultural consciousness, I find in both women lives lived well, and worth sharing.

* * * * *

I have not gone far in reading both biographies (Albright’s is entitled Seasons of her Life, written by Time correspondent Ann Blackman; Benitez’s is Paz Marquez Benitez: One Woman’s Life, Letters, and Writings, written by her daughter, Virginia Benitez Licuanan), but both women’s stories show how inextricably linked the seemingly mundane events of our lives can be with the history of young nations in turmoil. In reading their histories, and those of their ancestors, I have come to realize that no war, no crisis, no event of national significance is ever too far removed from the food on our table or the clothes on our back to be deemed inconsequential to daily living.

Madeleine (Madlenka) Körbelová’s father, Josef Körbel (I have learned that females add an “ová” to their surnames), was a diplomat in the young democratic Czechoslovakia at the time Madeleine was born, in 1937. He was popular and well-liked, and sat in the good graces of Beneš administration. He and his wife, Mandula—who was a very good chronicler—lived an almost-enviable life of political sorties, parties, and friends in high places, until the day Hitler decided that Czechoslovakia was his for the taking. Because Körbel was too closely identified with then-president Beneš and was Jewish—although the family did not really practice the religion—he and his young family had to be exiled to Britain.

Paz Marquez, on the other hand, was born in 1894, years before the Revolution which jostled us from Spain’s clutches onto the hands of the Americans. The place which their family called home was Tayabas (now Quezon), then a “hot bed” of the revolution, where serenity was unheard of, and where families had to master the games of habulan and taguan in order to survive. In her memoirs, she writes of moments of anticipation and dread at the thought of being caught by the Spaniards, and of friends and loved ones lost either because of the war itself, or as a side-effect of all the upheaval and illness that are frequently associated with such events.

Both Madeleine and Paz’s families were caught in the midst of wars that rocked their fragile nations, their intimate, personal tragedies and diary entries the reflections of cold and faceless accounts in our news archives and history textbooks.

* * * * *

In a sense, and to echo a lesson I learned in Philosophy class, what is personal is universal, and what is universal is personal. What were then private scribblings in notebooks and loose sheets of paper by then private individuals of no national consequence are now peepholes into a different culture, a different era, a different world. The Czechoslovakia of Madlenka Körbelová’s youth has now been dissolved, and the Quezons and Osmeñas who once graced the Benitez dining hall are now only imprints on almost-worthless currency. And yet, for a time, they were real, they were held dear.

Even Albright and Benitez seem far removed from us now, until we read their stories and find ourselves transported to their world, to the core of their day-to-day existence, understanding (for a brief moment) what it was like to have lived in their worlds.

* * * * *

It makes me wonder about the true weight and value of seemingly insignificant decisions that I have made, or have yet to make. What will my high-slitted, tight-skirted presence at EDSA Dos mean 20 years from now, when my children are in high school, and when they would have read about the second People Power that once again installed a woman president? How will life be for my family in 2020, and how will I explain to them the choices that I would have made with each election from now until then? Will I be able to afford to send my children to my beloved Ateneo? Or will the desire for true social involvement and change tear me from this comfortable life, to pursue other goals on another path? What will my diary entries and Spoonful issues mean for another generation who may (or may not) read them?

How will my thoughts, beliefs, decisions, and actions shape my little world, and how will little life this fit into the grander—universal—scheme of things?

How will yours?

(Written: March 11, 2004)

Money and happiness?

"Do you have everything you need right now? What your wants? Few of us have everything we want, and at times our wants can seem positively all-consuming. Our sensibilities become overstimulated by a mass media [sic] that glorifies beautiful people and expensive objects. It’s easy to lose clarity about what it is we need to live authentically. Most of us are hungering for something more in our lives. But do you really think the answer can be found in a glossy magazine or on the movie screen?"

(Sarah Ban Breathnach, Simple Abundance)

There was a time when I used to think so. Back then, the idea of beauty, or fame, or wealth consumed me that it depressed me not to have any of them. I obsessed about losing weight, looking good, and making money that it sucked the life out of me and turned me into a slave driver to my earthly whims. Instead of spending time with friends or loved ones, I worked out two to three hours daily in the gym, pored over magazine after glossy magazine in the confines of my room, and daydreamed about the day when I would finally have millions in my bank account. I can’t say that I am proud to have been that kind of person.

I kept a diary of sorts from that period of my life, and it was here that I recorded things that I wanted to have. Check out these entries:

Membership shares in an exclusive resort (Fairways & Blue Water, Boracay) – and I don’t even play golf!

A personal trainer (and a private gym at home)

Invitations to exclusive parties and fashion shows – Yes, I love people and I love clothes… but what on earth was I thinking??

Jimmy Choo shoes (yes, the $400-a-pair kind)

Bulgari jewelry

Membership to exclusive spas around the world

A 24-inch waistline with washboard abs (yes, which I can work on while I’m slaving away at the PC…)

Looking back at these, I find it amusing that I equated my need for a more fulfilling life to the need for these material things. Sure, I would still love to have Jimmy Choos or Manolo Blahniks—I really do—but to list them as must-haves of my life? What was I thinking?? And memberships to golf clubs and exclusive spas?? I would hate for Sir Ediboy Calasanz or Ma’am Tina Astorga, my favorite philosophy and theology teachers, respectively, to see these entries!

Really, I shudder to read these scribblings again.

It will probably take a shrink to analyze the processes that went on inside my head as I was writing those thoughts down one rebirth ago, but I am glad to have snapped back to reality and realized that all I need to be happy is right here, right within my reach. I have everything that I need, and I’m glad that I had seen that before God took away any of it.

But what about everything that I want? Oddly enough, I seem to have all of it, too. Except maybe for a larger bank account. And Jimmy and Manolo.

As I was writing in my diary last night, taking an “inventory” of everything that I have to be thankful for, I realized that I was practically living my dream life. Almost everything that I have now—my career, my lifestyle, my social life, my romantic life—is just as I had prayed it would be. The funny thing is that money and material wealth don’t seem to contribute much to this almost balanced equation.

Of course, I’m still working hard to be materially comfortable. Everybody needs money to survive, get around, and live a good life. I just don’t obsess about it anymore. Even if I don’t get Jimmy or Manolo, I know I’ll be happy and live a life without regrets.

The past few months have taught me much about the world and its workings. I’ve learned to be flexible and adapt to my environment (like take the jeep in three-inch heels… hahaha!), and to make the most of whatever situation I’m in. Whether I’m racking up a five-figure shopping spree bill or scrounging for tricycle fare, I’ve managed to keep myself together, walk with my head up high, and keep a smile on my face.

I am truly, realistically happy (even if I’m close to broke after the holidays), and this happiness stems from the recognition that Life has supplied us with most of what we need to live a meaningful life. All we need to do now is to use what we have to be the best that we can be.

Allow me to end with another quote from Sarah Ban Breathnach:

"What is missing from many of our days is a true sense that we are enjoying the lives that we are living. It is difficult to experience moments of happiness if we are not aware of what it is we genuinely love. We must learn to savor small, authentic moments that bring us contentment. Experiment with a new cookie recipe. Take the time to slowly arrange a bouquet of flowers in order to appreciate their colors, fragrance, and beauty. Sip a cup of tea on the front stoop in the sunshine. Pause for five minutes to pet a purring cat. Simple pleasures waiting to be enjoyed. Simple pleasures often overlooked."

Now, look around you and know that happiness will be right there if you reach for it.

(Written: January 15, 2004)