ninaterol

Rediscovering Eros

ninaterol — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 14:08:00 +0000

“Eros does not exist!”

So exclaimed a friend of mine over e-mail. I was shocked. She was a beautiful, intelligent, and passionate fashionista with a cause who had access to many of life’s gifts and who probably held the key to many men’s hearts—how could she say that Eros does not exist??

She was seconded by good friend of ours—an award-winning poet, playwright, filmmaker, and creative genius who, in the pursuit of his One Muse here on Earth, has awoken all the other muses of the heavens and has probably swept them off their wings and into the harem of his mind.

I was shattered. How could my friends—these amazingly talented and passionate individuals—no longer believe in magic, in passion, in destiny, in all these wonderful things that make love maddening yet sobering, that make life chaotic yet serene? How could they turn their backs on the madness and embrace a life that is staid, bland, and… dead?

* * * * *

When I was much younger, I refused to believe in the concept of One Love, of that One Soul from whom our souls were separated and with whom we must reunite if we were to experience Real Love. I was cynical probably because I was the product of a broken marriage, and because I never saw in my parents an image of love that was acceptable to my sensibilities. For me, then, love was the product of attraction, commitment, devotion, dedication, and a lot of hard work. You didn’t just experience love; you had to earn it. (And maybe my parent’s just didn’t work hard enough.)

During my freshman year in college, a friend of mine asked me which I preferred: a man whom I loved, or a man who loved me. I chose the latter, and I reasoned that anyone can learn to love anyone else—what matters is that the man loves the woman more than she loves him. (Where on earth I got that idea, I don’t know…)

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

My previous relationship was with someone who really, really, honest-to-goodness loved me (or so I thought). He wasn’t the guy on my wish list, but he just cared for me so much that it became easy for me to imagine that, maybe, I could learn to really love him back. He seemed to be the quintessential boy-next-door whom you could bring home to Mom, and so I did, trying to convince myself that he could be the guy for me. After four years of waiting for Certainty to turn up, however, I realized that I couldn’t be with someone whom I didn’t love as much as he loved me.

You could stone me now for being such a bitch, but one of the things that told him when I said goodbye was that he was “the perfect little black dress that every girl sees from the store window and wants to bring home”, but that I realized that “that perfect little black dress just doesn’t fit me well”.

You really shouldn’t just settle for someone when you know how much more you can give with someone else.

* * * * *

My relationship with Paul made me believe in Eros again. Our reunion was the product of a long string of coincidences and, in his words, “cosmic accidents” that were too intense and too real to be humanly contrived. We bumped into each other again, after seven years of neither seeing nor hearing from each other, at the right time and under the right circumstances; and we just knew from that first meeting-again that something was going to happen that would change our lives in ways we couldn’t even begin to imagine.

We thought that it was already “freaky” that we shared the same birthday, that our fathers have the same first name, that our mothers were colleagues and friends during their PAL days, that we grew up in the same area, and that some of our friends and relatives moved in similar circles and were closely connected. What we didn’t see yet back then was that more things would happen to us in the next two years that will bind us even closer to each other, in ways that only God Himself could have orchestrated.

A few nights ago, as we were driving home from a party, we were talking about relationships, and about what brought people together and what drove them apart. We discussed other relationships that we were privy to, and we agreed that you shouldn’t stay in a relationship that doesn’t feel deeply, organically right. You had to feel the certainty in every pore of your body, and this certainty had to come from and go right through your core. Otherwise, you’d be stuck in a shallow and lifeless relationship—and who would want that?

As we were approaching home, I just had to ask the question that every girl is probably dying to ask her boyfriend, in the context of our conversation: “So, what about us?”

“What do you mean, ‘what about us’?”

“Do you think we have what it takes… to, you know… go the full stretch?” (Of course, I had to sugarcoat my question.)

I was expecting him to sigh, take a few seconds or so to think, and maybe even say that he wasn’t sure. (He's a guy, after all.) But his response was as matter-of-factly for him as it was surprising for me.

“Nines, I think we both know by now that we are intrinsically linked.”

I couldn’t help but smile.

* * * * *

“Intrinsically linked.”

There goes the idea of Socrates’ erotic love again—of one soul that was split into half and that goes through life searching for the Other. The idea that each person, each soul has a corresponding Other, and that there is someone made just for somebody else.

(At least I think it could be attributed to Socrates, but I’m not really sure.)

It’s funny because I feel it with Paul—I know that what we have is too real to dispute—but I still can’t bring myself to understand it. If there is exactly one person for everyone else in this world, then how do you explain all the failed relationships around us? Is it because people have been too impatient, and have settled for other partners, therefore barring themselves from meeting their True Soulmate? And, since there are now more women than men all over the world, does it mean that homosexuality is truly acceptable? (Of course, Socrates and his young pupils would certainly think so.)

And what if you don’t ever find The One? What happens then?

It’s a scary thought—going through life alone, or going through life without someone whom you truly, deeply, passionately love. Maybe that’s why so many of us are in a mad scramble to commit ourselves to someone even at the risk of being stuck with “the wrong person”. Life is too perplexing and exhilarating at the same time to go through on your own.

But, then again, who can blame us? Finding “the right person” is such a tricky deal—and it’s often the product of chance or pure luck—that you’d really rather put yourself in a safe and secure place, than go out there and risk coming back with nothing.

However, I am reminded of another good friend of mine—someone who has already recognized her One True Love and who is not willing to settle for anything less—who told me once: “Life is already filled with so much mediocrity, and love shouldn’t be one of them.”

She’s right. If Eros means seeking for the truest, deepest, most perfect kind of love of which we are capable; if it means knowing what’s Real and what’s Right and fighting for the right to have it; if True Love means never giving up until we’ve found our home in the Other, then I think we owe it to ourselves to live it.

(Written: May 2005)

There Is Hope After All

ninaterol — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 13:31:00 +0000

"There is only one thing that I'm going to ask of you," the young woman, a nursing student from Davao, said to the young man in front of her. "If possible, please let killing be your last, last, LAST resort."

The young man, a cadet from the Philippine Military Academy (PMA), looked up. His eyes said that he wanted to respond, but he chose to remain silent and listen instead.

The nursing student continued, "In my hometown, Christians and Muslims live together in peace. Even the military and NPA (New People's Army, a group of revolutionaries with communist ideals, whom the military is mandated to eliminate) live together peacefully. Please," her eyes shone with tears as she begged, "tell your superiors and everyone else in the military to stop the killing. There is no war."

Another young lady, a Muslim student from Marawi, spoke up. "I agree with her," came the assertive tone. "Do you know that, in our place, Christians and Muslims live together without any conflict? Sometimes it's the government who initiates the war, and then the peace is broken again." She goes on to relate that, one day, she and her family chanced upon a group of soldiers firing cannons up at the sky. When asked why the cannons were being fired, these military men laughed and said that they were just using up their extra supplies!

"But what goes up must come down!" The young Muslim cried. "What will happen if those cannons hit the innocent civilians living on the ground? Sorry na lang sila?"

"The problem with the military is that they send you guys off to Mindanao after graduation even without knowing what the situation there is," the nursing student continued empathically in her Hiligaynon-accented English. "If you only immersed yourselves in the area--as civilians, and not as military men--before you are brought there, then you would know what the real situation is."

"There is no war," she reiterated.

Finally, the young cadet spoke. "I don't know why those men were firing cannons up at the sky... But I do know that, sometimes, we make everyone else believe that there is no war, that the situation is under control, and that there is peace. We do not want civilians to live in fear of their lives. We want life for them to go on as normally as possible."

He continued, "Guys, this may be the last time that we will get to see each other. Who knows? I may die right after graduation--just like what happened to one of my upperclassmen who was sent to Mindanao shortly after he graduated... So let me tell you this: I will do my very best to keep the peace in this country so that you, Duchess (referring to the nursing student), can conduct your medical missions anywhere in the country; and that you, Kirby (referring to another young man in the group), can continue to work for the environment, and so that all of you can do what you are supposed to do.

"None of us will be able to achieve our goals in a country that doesn't have peace."

Exchanges like this are rare in this country--and many such discussions end in word wars (and even real wars) that seem to have been sparked by the pettiest things. Many of us are brought up to be fearful of what we don't know and of what we don't understand. When I was much younger, my yaya (nanny) would always threaten me with this every time I misbehaved: "Sige, i-baligya kita sa mga Moro! (I'll sell you to the Muslims!)" That was enough for me to shut up, tone down, and develop a fear of the big, bad Moro. Little did I know that, many years later, I would be enamored by the colors, costumes, and culture of the Filipino Muslims.

There's so much that we don't know, and even less that we understand. This is why it's important for us to open ourselves up and allow new information, new insights, and new experiences to enter our lives. At the recently concluded Ayala Young Leaders Congress (AYLC)--which is by far the most rigorous and prestigious annual search for the country's top student leaders--I saw how four days of interaction, learning, reflection, and open and honest discussion changed the lives of 71 of the country's emerging leaders. They were all student leaders, all big fish in their little ponds. They all came to the Congress with big dreams and somewhat big egos--after being filtered by the Congress' rigorous screening process, who wouldn't?--but they all left with an understanding that nobody has the monopoly over virtue, wisdom, wealth, or influence. Everyone is here for a reason, and we are all faced with the challenge to find common ground and build a single vision that's powerful enough to propel all of us to positive, productive action.

I've attended five AYLCs already--once as a delegate in 1999, and four times as a facilitator--and what was strikingly different about this Congress was that there was a sincere effort among all the delegates to acknowledge their differences and celebrate their diversity. It was because they were different that they were strong. Each person brought to the group his or her own strengths, talents, skills, and experiences; and it is through all of these that they will be able to contribute to a concerted and sustained effort to move the country forward. Whether they become soldiers, priests, farmers, professors, corporate executives, or artists doesn't matter. What matters is that they believe in the power of the Filipino.

At the unofficial closing ceremony of the Congress, AYLC 2005 created an oath that signified their commitment to stay united in spite of their diverse interests and to make a difference in their spheres of influence wherever they were. They recited this oath in different Filipino languages--Maranao, Bicolano, Pampango, Hiligaynon, Bisaya, Ilocano, Tagalog--each time cheering for their provinces and for their mother tongues. As I watched the delegates proudly owning and proclaiming their "Filipino-ness", I felt teary-eyed and immensely hopeful, thankful that young people today have a venue to learn more about each other and dispel their fears of the unknown. I am confident that a few years down the road, we will wake up to a freer, enlightened, and (perhaps) more prosperous society.

There is hope, after all.

The Smallness and Greatness of Things (part 2)

ninaterol — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 13:23:00 +0000

Life is in the details.

I had been trying, for weeks now, to write a suitable sequel to my war and heroism piece, but I somehow couldn’t bring myself to complete my drafts. I had started writing about Bruce Lee, and how his brand of martial arts and movie-making revolutionized martial arts and martial arts films as we know them, and how they ushered in a new era of advocacy and entertainment that, in my view, has yet to be eclipsed—at least in this side of the world. But beyond gushing about his films, the philosophy behind them, and the detail with which he planned and choreographed his scenes (especially the famous pagoda scene in Game of Death), I couldn’t find anything else to say that would connect it to my piece on Fahrenheit 9/11. Not that it was supposed to, but I wanted it to.

Details, details, details.

Then I watched Shattered Glass, a movie about a rather high-profile—and young—writer whose soaring career was struck down by an investigation that dug deep into his reporting style and writing process (I don’t want to give too much away), and I realized that, indeed, much of my work is dependent on details and on the manner in which I manage them. Indeed, in the fast-paced and unsettling world of journalism, all it takes to bring you down is one misquote, one unverified fact, or one unreliable source. You don’t want one silly detail like that to ruin your career, but it very often does.

It’s a large world out there, and there’s a big picture to which we ought to contribute, but I don’t think it can be done without sufficient attention to details.

* * * * *

My brother just came home from his retreat the other night, and so he spent last night collating all the letters and notes that he had received in his small scrapbook. He showed me a few, and that sent me on a letter-reading frenzy of my own.

I wanted to impress him by how well I collect letters, so I dug out some of the oldest from my “treasure box”, dated October 8, 1990. My brother was just almost a year old then, and we both giggled at the realization that my first retreat was held 14 years ago!

It was surreal, to say the least, seeing nice words and messages from names I barely recognize anymore! One retreat letter even called me Mrs. ____, an allusion to my crush du jour—whom I had also forgotten about—and told me that I “act like a lady but don’t look like one”, and maybe that’s why my crush didn’t pay me any attention. I tried to figure out what that meant, and then realized that it must have been because I was outright fat that my classmate thought I didn’t look too much like a “lady”. (Take a look at me now, dearie, and tell me what you think! Hahaha…)

As I read more letters and went further up the dateline, details of my past came rushing back as if a dam had been broken. Most of the letters and notes from my high school days—and there were a lot, I tell you!—referred to me as “Mrs. Blanch”, a reference, of course, to my first boyfriend Brian. Pick out any letter from the high school pile, and chances are you’ll find a line that goes, “How’s Brian?” or Brian this, Brian that. And, of course, I found the letters that Brian wrote me as well—including one that addressed me as “Terol”. It was such a laugh trip.

The letters that touched me most, though, were from people I barely remember now—people whom I never thought cared, but who actually did. (And I made a mental note to locate them all on Friendster!) There was one little note from a classmate of mine from second year high school, Kiv Tejada, that was supposed to be a “belated happy retreat” note. He was apologizing for not having written to me, and so on, and he ended the note by saying, “stay cute because I love you.” I was taken aback by those last words. Kiv had always made fun of me in class, and he used to pester me with jokes and silly notes and what-not, and it surprised me that he felt enough about me to write “I love you.” Sadly, Kiv passed away in a car accident early this year, and so he’s one person I’ll never be find on Friendster.

That note is now tacked on my corkboard as a reminder of how short life is, and how our words—no matter how short or seemingly insignificant—can really hurt or heal other people. Kiv’s “I love you” struck me as warm and reassuring, because he had never “made the moves” on me, nor attempted to be more than friends. I guess he just felt that he needed to say it, and he did.

* * * * *

Paul and I are not an “I love you” couple. That is, we don’t salt and pepper our conversations with “I love you”, as if it were some punctuation that had to be added at the end of each parting, phone call, or what-not. That unsettled me at the beginning of our relationship because I had gotten used to boyfriends who said “I love you” in every possible occasion, and who would feel bad if I didn’t say it back before putting the phone down. It was only in this relationship when I felt the real power of those words, and I realized that “I love you” is not something we should take lightly. It’s not something we use to make us look cute or charming, or to eventually get our way, or to appease our partner when they’re feeling bad about something.

“I love you” brings with it some pretty heavy responsibilities, regardless of the kind of relationship we’re in, and we should be ready for those when we say the words.

However, we should also be sensitive enough to know when those words are being meant even when they’re not being said.

I remember one really intense conversation that Paul and I had. We were talking about where we were in our lives, what we meant to each other, and so on, and I admitted feeling that I was more in love with him than he was with me. He asked me why I felt that way, and I said it was because he never said “I love you” enough.

Then he turned to me with a look that showed a lot of sadness and hurt. He had been saying “I love you”—every single day, in the littlest of his actions, in the smallest of sacrifices, in the softest of words. But I was too wrapped up in my own ideas of how love should be expressed, and so I took all those little expressions of devotion as meaningless.

“And all you needed to know that was a letter from me,” he sighed.

* * * * *

Ironically, Paul’s first note to me said anything but I love you.

I was looking through my college pile, seeing a lot of letters from my roommate and “sister”, Gen, my college sweetheart, Mach, and a host of other people from my student council days, when a little note found its way in my hands. I opened it, and I was stunned to see the Batman insignia hastily drawn at the bottom of the page. Ohmigod. Paul! (I didn’t realize that we were close enough to write each other notes back then!)

Then I laughed out loud upon reading his note, which was about the girl that he pursued through most of his college days. He was writing about her, and about how good it was to have spoken to her again, even just for a while… but he was writing to me. I didn’t even know that I knew about her back then, and I honestly don’t remember us having been close enough to have talked about these things. But we apparently had been rather tight, and something about our friendship apparently already struck him by then, for Paul to have written me about her.

“You always think that life has no more surprises for (you) and then… you’re surprised,” he wrote.

Well, sweetie, eight years later, and look at us now. Life’s little surprises.

(Written: August 25-26, 2004)

Creating "Us Moments"

ninaterol — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 13:22:00 +0000

I was awakened at midnight by a light tapping on my window. Knowing that only one person had the habit of showing up at my doorstep at the oddest hours, I jumped up and hurried my unadorned little self out the door. I still had some leftover eyeliner on my eyelids, dark circles under my eyes, and just-got-out-of-bed hair, but the only thing I was thinking of at that time was, "How long had I kept him waiting outside the door?"

I opened the door excitedly, not really knowing what to expect from this man of many surprises, but nobody was there. A car was parked right smack in the middle of my driveway, however, and that told me that Paul was just hiding somewhere, waiting for me to step out. And so I stepped out of the door, bare feet and all, and after a few seconds of me calling out his name, Paul stepped out from behind his car with a large smile and a warm, Valentine's Day kiss.

He had been waiting outside our village gate for quite a while already, he said, but he wanted to surprise me by knocking on my door at exactly midnight today. It was only the first of his many Valentine's Day surprises for me, and it amazed me that this guy could still think of all these little things after all this time. The courtship had ended a long time ago, but the romance definitely hadn't.Ü

I am one lucky girl.

* * * * *

We were also lucky enough to get a very crisp DVD copy of Shall We Dance, which--of course--we had been reserving for today. As I watched Richard Gere sashay down the dance floor, tears flowing from my eyes, I thought about all the things that happen to us everyday that keep us from keeping the romance in our relationships alive. Work, meetings, chores, domestic matters, family squabbles, petty arguments, issues large and small... These all fill up our days and hardly leave any space for us to create intimate moments with our loved ones. So no matter how much time we spend with our beloved, and no matter how much money we blow on expensive gifts for each other, we still sometimes feel a loneliness that could only be cured by real "us moments"--moments when nothing else really matters except you and the life you have created together.

It often takes special occasions, such as today (Valentine's Day), for us to remember to carve out some time for those "us moments". But why not create "us moments" everyday? Like John Clark, Richard Gere's character in Shall We Dance, we shouldn't hesitate to dress up nicely and ask our beloved to dance (literally or figuratively) anytime, anywhere. After all, we never really know what tomorrow will bring. We shouldn't wait for the perfect opportunity to do something romantic, for that "perfect opportunity" may never arrive.

Ultimately, it's up to us to create magical moments in our lives. They can happen anytime, anywhere--whether you're loaded or broke, whether you have a minute or a week. Love changes in form and expression, but Romance should always be part of any love relationship.

For if you don't keep the romance alive and take your beloved dancing (literally or figurately), somebody else might.Ü

Happy heart day, everyone! Welcome to another year of Spoonful of Sugar.

The Smallness and Greatness of Things (part 1)

ninaterol — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 13:19:00 +0000

I used to think of movies as sources of entertainment, things that I should pay attention to only when I have enough free time to actually sit still, focus on just one thing, and not fall asleep. In recent months, however, I have come to regard movies as chapters of "required-reading" books, lessons that I have to learn in order to become a better artist, social activist, and individual. It was because of this newfound mindset that I have been on the lookout for art films, foreign language films, rare classics, and even anime. Because of this, I now schedule my TV and movie viewing as I would any other business activity.

In the past few weeks, I was fortunate enough to have viewed these "required-reading" chapters one after the other, as if the lesson were of such magnitude that it really had to drill itself through my head. Two weekends ago, the chapter was on war and heroism, with such titles as To Be or Not To Be (a Mel Brooks classic), Uncle Saddam, Fahrenheit 9/11, Troy, and Spiderman 2 leaping out from among the list of cable and DVD movie titles.

At the end of it all, I realized that they were all speaking to me about just one thing.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

* * * * *

In To Be or Not To Be, funnyman Mel Brooks is a Jewish-Polish thespian struggling with the demands of his art and his illusions of greatness in the midst of the Holocaust. By some strange twist of fate, he finds himself face-to-face with the Gestapo on several occasions, using his theatrical skills to fool the idiots into thinking that he is both a Polish informant and Die Führer, Adolf Hitler. He successfully averts the execution of the Poles through a series of well-executed plots and theatrical ruses, giving his best performance away from the spotlight and without an audience.

Uncle Saddam, on the other hand, exposes the atrocities of the Hussein regime in Iraq in an ironic, almost comical fashion—intersplicing footage of actual interviews with the dictator and news clips of his activities, with humorous commentaries from both allies and critics. It shows how the incredibly vain Saddam Hussein perpetuated a self-serving, self-inflating regime that benefited close friends and family members, vanquished detractors and foes, and ultimately held millions of Iraqis hostage. The human rights violations shown in this film would have been enough justification for the world to take the old man down, without the United States piping in and claiming a questionable Al Qaeda connection.

And now, on to the United States. Michael Moore’s controversial and award-winning Fahrenheit 9/11 shows how, in the eight months of the Bush presidency before the September 11, 2001 attacks, George W. Bush "spent 42 percent of the time on vacation", whether he was playing golf, fishing, hanging out at his Texas ranch, or posing for photo ops. It shows how the U.S. could have braced itself for the terrorist attacks had the president been doing his job, and how—more importantly—the Bush administration concealed the connections between Osama Bin Laden/Al Qaeda and Saudi businessmen who were closely linked to the Bush family. Ultimately, Saddam Hussein (the asshole that he is) should not have been the target of those large-scale counter-terrorist attacks that killed thousands of Americans and Iraqis, and benefited a handful of American businesses (most, if not all, of them with a Bush/Cheney connection).

Troy and Spiderman 2, I suppose, need no introduction.

* * * * *

Watching these films made me wonder even more about how war—any war—could be justified. It made me realize that, taken in their proper context, some seeming acts of greatness (such as taking down an Iraqi dictator who is "endangering the whole world" with his "weapons of mass destruction") are actually just selfish, self-serving actions done to cover up the foibles of men and nations in positions of great power and influence; while small, selfless acts without sound bites of photo ops (such as sacrificing one’s dreams and loved ones to the call of duty) are the deeds of which real heroism is made.

Through these films, I have seen how human beings, in an effort to communicate or perpetuate their greatness (such as in Saddam Hussein’s case), are reduced to small, selfish creatures with limited vision and myopic interests. Or, the reverse: to cover up shameful deeds that reduce great leaders to small-minded bigots (such as in Paris’ or George W. Bush’s cases), they fabricate great stories and causes that others would be willing to die for, invoking such timeless (and otherwise vague) ideals as justice, freedom, and security to gain sympathy and support.

Meanwhile, the "little people", those who wish for nothing more than to have their basic needs and to live rather comfortably, are thrown—by their sense of civic duty and responsibility—in the midst of war, to support their leaders (these great men) in their fight for justice, freedom, and security. These "little people" are not in positions of power or influence; it was not their decision to fight these battles and conquer these enemies. But they know that it takes more than one man to topple an unjust regime, or to save the lives of others in danger, so they willingly give up their own needs and comforts so that others may have theirs.

Peter Parker, without his Spidey suit, is just a normal kid who’s trying so hard to make ends meet by juggling a job, a freelance job, and school. In trying to help others (and thus do "great" and noble deeds), he is made more acutely aware of his smallness, his limitations. (For how can one man save the world, do his job, and ace his exams at the same time?) Mr. Bronsky (Mel Brooks’ character in To Be or Not To Be) fumbles onstage when performing his self-acclaimed piece, "Highlights from Hamlet", but gives the greatest performance of his life away from the audience and the applause. The American soldiers who have gone to Iraq know that it is their duty to serve their country, and so they leave their homes and their families to do a thankless job that will ultimately cost them their lives, in a war that will ultimately benefit a handful of men who couldn’t care less.

War brings out the greatness of being small, and the smallness of being great. It turns great leaders into cowards, and ordinary men into heroes.

Not all wars, of course, but these ones that I’ve somehow witnessed, at least.

So what end does war really achieve, and how can it really be justified? More importantly, what does it really mean to fight a war, and what does it really take to be a hero?

Will we ever really know?

(Written: July 25, 2004)

Holding Hands

ninaterol — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 13:10:00 +0000

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

ninaterol — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 13:07:00 +0000

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

ninaterol — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 13:03:00 +0000

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

ninaterol — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 13:03:00 +0000

Money and happiness?

ninaterol — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 12:58:00 +0000

"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)