The Fourth Sorrowful Mystery

A story was told about a man who persistently prayed to God to ease him of the cross he has been carrying for years. One day, St. Peter appeared before him and said he is being summoned by God who has heard his prayers. The man went up the gates of heaven with St. Peter who later brought him to a roomful of crosses. There they were, in different colors, materials, sizes. Some were very simple and some were ornate. Some were as huge as the trees in a virgin forest and some were as small as the palm of one's hand. Then, St. Peter told the man that because God was a just and fair God, he can take a look and choose the cross which he thinks he can carry without much difficulty. The man went around the room. He paused when he saw one that caught his attention. It took a while before he chose one, got it and showed it to St. Peter. The gatekeeper asked him if he was sure it was what he wanted. After giving his assurance, St. Peter instructed him to look at what's written on the back of the cross. The man was astonished to find his name engraved thereat.

I always recall to mind this story whenever I have choices or decisions to make at this point in my life. I know it pleases my God to know that I have accepted my cross long ago, and though I sometimes feel burdened heavily, I always look forward to the promise of resurrection which would lead me to everlasting life.

I am no Bible-carrying nor Bible-quoting Christian. I just know that the story of the man who refused his cross and ended up with the same is repeated several times over in all parts of the world. Being an orphan at a very young age is a cross. Difficult mathematical equations are themselves a cross. A vicious husband, a nagging wife, a special child and sickly parents are each a cross. So are a parasitic friend, an unproductive sister and a gossipy neighbor. Even a low-paying job, a know-all-boss and an inefficient assistant are crosses one must have to bear. There are as many crosses as there are people on earth. Sometimes, a person feels s/he has a lot of burdens on his/her shoulders. It would take a lot of self-searching to discern which of the crosses we bear is the one for us. I believe this means that like the man in the story, we can bargain with God, but only on His terms.

I can't recall how many times I turned down someone in need because I know that it is a cross I shouldn't have to bear. (The times when I carried this cross far outnumbered the times I didn't.) Or the times when I refused to heed the messages sent by listen-to-me-I-know-it-will-be-good-for-you fellows, who only wanted to pass their crosses to me so subtly, they think I wouldn't know.

It is very clear to me what my cross is in my lifetime. Sure it's heavy. But I know it's mine. It manifests itself in different forms at different points in time, and when it does, it weakens and debilitates me. Good thing I am a half-full glass of milk-person. It helps a lot to carry that weight. Plus, I get a lot of help from the One who carried His cross to Calvary, and His mother, who did not leave His side.

Image lifted from yakub_israel flickr.com

Kind Hearts

KIND HEARTS ARE THE GARDEN; KIND THOUGHTS ARE THE ROOTS; KIND WORDS ARE THE BLOSSOMS; KIND DEEDS ARE THE FRUITS.- John Ruskin

They are all over. Kind spirits who inspired me as I was growing up until this time when I am already growing old. There are people I have met at some point in my life who have left such an impact in me for only one reason- they are all kind and benevolent.

First among them is my Ninang Noring ( my readers have met her in In Loving Memory). She dutifully performed her duties as my confirmation godmother during my formative years. My eyes water whenever I remember her efforts to guide me during my early years as an orphan. If only for her, I would have believed that really, all men are by nature, good. But the realities of life taught me otherwise. There are people with mean bones alongside the good ones.

My Tia Agring, one of my father's sisters, is another very kind soul. All of my father's siblings are kind and compassionate. However, it is my May Agring's life that I witnessed as it unfolded. She is everything a biblical wife should be and I'm glad I have her as a role model for her fortitude and serenity. The same is true with my Nana Subring, an elder sister of my mother. One heartache after another, she still remained strong, resilient and zealous. She has faced challenges head-on and emerged a victor. Perhaps her long life is God's reward for her steadfastness and unwavering faith.

Outside of the family, there is Tata. His first name escapes me at the moment but we initially called him Mr. Guerrero and later Tata for the duration of our stay in his cottage. He was the lessor of the first boarding house my high school classmates and I stayed in at the UP in 1970. It was a run down cottage in Area 2 within the UP campus. I remember him being an Ilocano. He was already a widower then, with four or five children. He had a very calm demeanor inspite of the palpable problems in his family at the time. Whenever I go back to his cottage from a week-end in Bulacan, I always took his hand and bring it to my forehead asking for his blessing. Sometimes, his daughters would laugh at what I did, but it has become my way of showing him my respect since he was the only authority figure I have in that house I called home for over a year.

Then there is Mrs. Nenita Ocampo, Math professor at the AS, also in UP, who owned an apartment unit in the same area, where I lived for more than three years. It was perhaps part of God's plan that I met her (and the other women mentioned previously) since she was also another biblical wife, who longed and worked for a strong marriage against all odds. Ma'am was hands-on in taking care of her three children at the same time that she taught at the university. She always had kind words for everyone. Although it was obvious that she had a lot on her mind those days, she kept to herself and never did once display rude behavior before us her boarders. She's overflowing with understanding for everyone around her. It's a pity I didn't try to reconnect with her these past years.

When we lived in Baliuag in the late 80's, Tita Elsa Sauco became our next-door neighbor. Perhaps it is better to say we became her next-door neighbor. We were the transients in the place, anyway. It did not take long for my kids to be the playmates of her children, Mayet and Hans. Tita Elsa would call on my children to go to their house during week-ends. They were there all day long and she didn't mind all five loud and lively children all over the place. At first, my husband would be hesitant because Tita Elsa wont allow them to go home to eat and instead will prepare meals for them. Every now and then, she would ask me how we are doing and at times, sensing that there is a dilemma, she would graciously offer some help. Her graciousness and congeniality was manifest throughout our more than three years stay in Baliuag. Today, we still communicate and I am glad that I have all the chances now to reciprocate all her kindness.

When I was still teaching at St. Mary's in Baliuag, I met several RVM sisters who deserved to be remembered for their compassion and kindheartedness. I met S. Cely Amper, RVM, in 1986. She was one of those who interviewed me when I applied for a teaching position in that school. I did not show up when she called for me to report for another conference sometime in February, 1986, because my husband and I were then in a mass action in Luneta to support Cory Aquino who won in the snap election against Marcos. When I reported to S. Cely a few days after, I explained the situation and she understood. That was the first of the many other incidents when I needed her understanding, the one thing she was always ready to give to anyone. Another sister, S. Paula Adaoag, RVM, was appointed as the school cashier when she was given the Baliuag assignment. At that time, I was the only one earning for my family since my husband was still in law school- an option he took after quitting a small grains business. One day, she summoned me to her office and pointed out that my pay slip reflects a very small amount every payday, owing to the many deductions, especially the tuition fees of my three children. She asked me how I am able to make ends meet and I had to let her in into my private life as a sole breadwinner with four students to support. S. Paula asked how she ( and the school) can be of help. She broached the idea of relieving me with the twice a month deductions and instead, my two months summer vacation pay shall all go to the children's tuition. Of course, I agreed. S. Paula's gesture was meant for me to regain a little more dignity as a teacher by making my pay slip a little thicker than it used to be. S. Cely's and S. Paula's names are forever engraved in my heart.

A Greek philosopher once said that kindness gives birth to kindness. In so doing, it will forever be reborn and therefore will never die. In today's world, new technologies somehow changed the landscape of social relationships. There are now fewer occasions for people to develop deep and lasting connections . We call someone a friend if s/he is in our list of friends on Facebook or Friendster. Even a close relative is now simply a friend if s/he lands on that list. But having such a list of friends can be a good start in nurturing deep affection. The first step could be a kind word thrown here and there.

How I wish my children will all encounter kind souls with kind hearts as they go through their individual lives. These souls are what maybe called models- for they say and do things that must be emulated. In contrast, fate lets us meet people whose words and deeds should never be replicated, for as Kahlil Gibran said, "they are vexations to the spirit". Between these two groups of souls, those with kind hearts should rule our lives for they live according to the rules.

Have you had a kindness shown? Pass it on; 'Twas not given for thee alone, Pass it on; Let it travel down the years, Let it wipe another's tears, Til in Heaven the deed appears - Pass it on.- Rev. Henry Burton

* Heart image taken from Free-Extras.com

Everybody's Fine

Yesterday afternoon, I wanted to have a few laughs before going back to the unfinished house chores, so I chose to watch a movie that looked funny- Everybody's Fine, which stars Robert de Niro, Drew Barrymore and one of my favorite Kates in Hollywood- Kate Beckinsale. ( How I love looking at pictures of Kate Moss, Kate Hudson, Cate Blanchett and Mary Kate Olsen). Ten minutes into the movie, it turned out I won't have a good laugh. Instead, I had a good cry.

The movie moved me to tears as I imagine my family in the same situation- without me, their mother. Frank, De Niro's character, was a new widower and in the movie, he tried to reconnect with his four children who have gone on their own in different places. He took a road trip to New York, Chicago and Las Vegas with the intention of surprising his children with his visit. Instead, it was he who was surprised at the discovery of concealed truths about the lives of all his children.

There were universal truths about family life depicted in the movie. Like- why do children speak truthfully to their mothers but not to their fathers? And why do parents find it hard to let go of their children? Perhaps, Kahlil Gibran's admonition to parents in The Prophet can give some enlightenment to us parents. He said-

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

When the time comes that the arrows have flown swiftly and afar, I wish that everybody's gonna be fine.

Letting Go and Moving On

My world has stopped moving normally for a while since Monday, May 24th.

Suddenly, I got sick- minus the usual symptoms that accompany any malady. I had to always move and do something, despite the scorching heat and the cough and cold that I caught. There has to be no idle moment to stop and think, even for a while. When every chore is done, I had to click on the television, or the computer. There had to be a sound or an image at anytime so that I will forget that my dear Bugaki is gone.

A few weeks ago, when it became clear that she will soon leave us, I told my husband that she will forever be alive as long as my blog is in cyberspace. After all, this site was named after her. But then again, it was only her name and her memory that may live forever. She is gone and so are the joys that she gave all of us since she was a small puppy.

Bugaki did not die naturally. We had to decide to put her to sleep upon recommendation of our veterinarian-neighbor. That was the most difficult part of her passing. What I suspected all along was true- Bugaki had cancer. When she was still stronger, I noticed a big, wide lump on her breasts whenever I give her a bath. From then on, I make it a point to make her clean and comfortable always. We built a fence in the back garden so she can have the place all to herself. The other dogs were not allowed in her new territory. Then, the lump became an open wound. We treated her with antibiotics but had to stop when no sign of cure was manifested. A few days before she passed away, she lost appetite and her wounds became difficult to manage. That Monday, the vet said her wounds' condition has gotten worse such that it can cause harm to the other dogs and even to humans. He was of the opinion that Bugaki's remaining days will be difficult for her and for us. We had to make a decision in a matter of minutes. And because we love her so much we do not want her to suffer anymore, we agreed it was her time to go. Finished.

Or so i thought. When I broke the news to Timmy, she was preparing to go back to Manila. I was on the verge of tears but I had to show strength in order for her to calm down. But she was inconsolable. Tim loves Bugaki. I texted Poy who is in UAE and he was crying uncontrollably when he called back. Poy loves Bugaki. I texted Nad to tell him that Bugaki's gone and all he said in reply was "Bakit?" Nad loves Bugaki.

Everyone in my family loves Bugaki as if she were another human being. She was a constant in our lives. She was born in 1998 when we were still renting a house while our own was being built. Bugaki had the habit of following me around wherever I go. Once, she was nearly ran over by a jeepney along the highway since I didn't notice that she was following me on my way to work one early morning. Every afternoon in the latter part of 1998, she would lead us to the lot where we were building our house. She always wanted to be the leader of the pack that included our other dogs and our children. She would be the first to enter the premises and later, the first to come out to lead us back to our rented home. How she acted like a precocious child then.

Bugaki's life ( long, in terms of dog years) is a lesson in loving and caring. I was never fond of dogs before. I had fixed my attention to my growing children and I didn't think it was such a good idea to have dogs in the house. I was raising a family by my lonesome self and I thought it was not only a distraction but also impractical then to spend for dog food and other dog necessities. My children taught me to be more dog friendly and from that time on, I was hooked on these canine creatures. It didn't matter if they have a pedigree ( Bugaki is an aspin), as long as they are four-legged and knows how to bark, especially at strangers.

Bugaki's death, on the other hand, is a lesson on letting go and moving on. Her passing made it clear to me that there are two kinds of death. First, the kind that gives one a sigh of relief and a taste of freedom, and therefore does not hurt as much. The second, the kind that renders one immobile, unthinking, shocked, traumatized and shaken up, thus, translates into more pain as the early shock wears down. Bugaki's death is of the second kind.

Someday, I will have another dog in the house. Just not now. The space in my heart reserved for Gaki shall be there for hers alone, for sometime. When I am ready to make space in my heart for another doggie, I will make sure that I will love it the way I loved Gaki. I can imagine Rotty, our dalmatian, Bonnie, our siberian husky, Puti, Bugaki's mother and Bugaki, our dear aspin, all together playing in dog heaven today.

Meantime, I will relish and delight in the joys brought to us by our remaining five amazing and wonderful dogs- Cotton ( aka Kotong), Purlak, April, Chuchay and Bitoy. Life goes on.

My Story

Journaling is not new to me. Since my teen-age years, I have always made very good friends with a pen and a notebook. I always felt the urge to write what happens to me- whether they are sad or joyful didn't matter. A quick look at my high school journal reveals a lot of happy, delightful and jovial events, either with my hometown buddies or with my school friends. In college, there was not much time to write since I was a working student and college life, while very productive, was quite dull and boring. (The only colorful events are those leading to the First Quarter Storm.)

The years from 1976 were quite eventful, as they covered my life as a young married woman and later on, as a young mother. Early on, I deemed it necessary to write a journal since I had no one (literally) to run to when news, good or bad, had to be shared. One heartbreak after another, my life story unfolded in my journal. There were entries that made me smile ( like my descriptions of my little children while asleep) when I read them again. But there were many which made me teary eyed, no matter how long ago they transpired. Perhaps these were the same entries that made my daughter Timmy cry when she discovered that journal when she was still a young girl. While it broke my heart that she was affected at such a young age, I recognized the fact that sooner or later, I will have to tell her my story.

My story is about people, places, events, choices, regrets, pains and pleasures. I am very thankful of the many blessings I have been greatly showered by the Great Provider- blessings that helped me survive an otherwise difficult existence. It was easy to revisit those memories but when it comes to my regrets and pains, it was a different story altogether. One advantage of revisiting such memories, however, is that it puts me in a vantage point where I can be an observer of my own life, thus, I get new perspectives and I gather new messages. More than exploring my creative side, I am more interested in healing and exploring myself.

When a woman has experienced being shaken to the very core of her foundation by a set of circumstances she had no control of, she undergoes a degree of woundedness that needs to be healed. Writing one's story is a way back to sanity and sensibility; it is a mode of sorting through the conflicts and the pains alongside the delights and the bliss. I want to take this route a little further. I need to take this route a little further. For even if my life experiences have made me stronger, I doubt if they have made me better.

There Are Places I Remember

I was born in a house near the 'riles'. Back when there were still trains passing through the railway, the area was called Daang-bakal. For so long my address used to be 701 Daang-bakal St., Banga, Plaridel, Bulacan. There was only one Banga then. It can't be missed since it has the most important landmark in my hometown- the railroad crossing. In the 80's, Daang-bakal lost it's meaning because the wood and steel materials went piece by piece after the PNR stopped operations north of Manila. Today it is a cemented strip of land unofficially called Calicot St. Whoever coined the name must have some naughty ideas in his head. I still visit the place where my father's house still stood. It was also where my parents-in-laws' house used to stand. Not so long ago, that house was demolished and my husband rebuilt what was left of it in our 'bukid'. I enjoy visiting the place because I always see old, familiar faces, mostly people my age, since most of the elders are now gone. We were squatters in this area as it was owned (still is) by the PNR. More than half a century ago, this place provided me and my childhood friends with a happy and safe environment. After supper on week-ends, we play 'taguan' and 'patintero' ( when the moon is full). As we play, our elders would cook 'tamarindo', a native delicacy made of ripe tamarind with coconut milk and sugar or 'panutsa'. It has a gooey texture and a sweet-sour taste, but it is sooo good. Sadly, nobody makes it anymore these days. Daang-bakal or Calicot will always be remembered because it is the land of my birth.

In college, I first resided in an old, run-down cottage known as T-170 B, Area 2, UP, Diliman, QC. Together with some of my classmates in high school, this place provided security and sanctuary for us who were all-first time city dwellers at the time. Nina and I moved to Cataluna St. in Sampaloc, Manila in the summer of 1971, in a boarding house owned by her tita. At the time, I enjoyed commuting from Sampaloc to UP but when I experienced waist-deep floods in Manila, I decided to go back to Diliman. That's when I had a very posh address- Kamia Residence Hall. I didn't think I would have a bed in the said dorm, but I believe that my name was not even wait-listed after the matron interviewed my father from whom she learned that I was orphaned by my mother at the age of six. A sad story gave me a room.

After a long vacation full of uncertainty due to PD 1081, I again transferred residence. This time at 103 Valenzuela St., Area 2, UP Diliman. This apartment was owned by a Math professor- Mrs. Nenita C. Ocampo and this was where I developed a deep and lasting friendship with my roommates Rachel Recomono and Joy Versoza. I stayed in this apartment until I resigned from Maryknoll in March 1976.

During my marriage, we have had two residences both within my hometown. In the late 70's we rented a bodega along the provincial road, owned by my friend Goya's family, where we built a palay-buying station and a living space at the back. This bodega stood witness to the many heartaches I had to endure as a young wife and mother. But this is also where Timmy and Popoy learned their first steps, so it made the place worth remembering despite the hurts and the pains. Then, we bought an old house from my in-laws near the elementary school where Ding and I went to. Tim spent the first two grade levels there before she and her brothers transferred to St. Mary's. Just like the bodega, this house was another witness to the many painful and agonizing moments in our life. When we could bear them no longer, we decided to find a place in Baliuag, despite the apparent refusal of our children, specially Nad. That was the most logical choice since at the time, I was already teaching at St. Mary's.

The old house in A. Luna St., Baliuag, Bulacan became a safe haven and a refuge specially for me who have grown so weary, exhausted and tired of all the hardships attendant to living with difficult in-laws. I felt it's about time we live independently- without listening to the endless criticisms and reproach from people who thought they knew better. The A. Luna house looked so old and dilapidated, but both Ding and I thought the three years we spent there were the best years of our lives, more like heaven compared to the little hell holes in Plaridel.

Little did we know that in so short a time, we will be going back to Plaridel when the owner of the A. Luna house decided to sell the land where it stood. Ding was then working in Valenzuela City at the same time that he goes to a night law school in Manila. We were to occupy the second floor of my parents-in-law's house in Daang-bakal since the ground floor was already being occupied by the family of Ding's elder brother. It was literally going right in the midst of the devil's territory. I knew it would be hell and it was hell a hundred times over. But at the time, when Ding was still struggling with his law studies, we needed a place for free so that we can survive. Almost seven years of everyday spectacle from Ding's brother made me hate myself for agreeing to go back to Plaridel. It was a huge mistake. If given a chance to rewrite our family history, I might omit this miserable episode in our life. My children did not deserve to live in misery and desolation all those seven years only because they had a relative who lived to make other people's lives wretched and miserable. Years later, when we have moved to a place all our own, this relation died of a disease which putrefied his body even while he was still alive.

Now, we live in a house all our own. Ding built this house at 0479 Agnaya, Plaridel, Bulacan from scratch. Everything here, from the doors and locks, the paint and nails, were bought under his supervision. And everything here came from the fruits of our labor. While we were building this house, designed by my former high school student, Randy Reyes, we rented another near the lot so that Ding can personally supervise the builders. I was then on my last year at St. Mary's. A quick look at the house being built slowly then was enough for me to sing " Ang puso ko'y nagpupuri, nagpupuri sa Panginoon..." for at last, He gave my family a true refuge and a home where love springs eternal. It took us so long, but the wait was all worth it.

My final home just might be a little urn but I hope that before my ashes are placed in it, I would have built a small depository where my loved ones can keep it. My spirit and my soul can soar high up in the horizon, but it is still my wish that what remains of my body is kept in my home.

My BFF

She was born on April Fool's Day but she is certainly no fool.

Kumareng Nene or Florida S. Camitan Alberto, my best friend forever, is two years my junior. We were childhood neighbors and playmates. We went to the same public elementary school in our barangay. Unfortunately for her, her parents could not afford to send her to school for her secondary and college education. Like most parents of post war Philippines, they argued that she is a girl, anyway, so she didn't need to go for further studies. Instead of sulking over her parents' decision, she studied sewing by apprenticing at the shops of seamstresses and tailors in our community. That gave her an opportunity to earn a living.

Her lack of education motivated her to go beyond her powers so that her own children will be educated. She worked odd jobs- as a sewer, as a laundrywoman, as a house help. She allotted a very minimal budget for fancy food and clothing so that her children could spend for what they needed in school. To her credit, three of her five children got their bachelor's degrees and are now living their own lives.

My BFF's life is one for the books. Once, during her most trying moment- when she had a falling out with her only son who prioritized some other person over her, I told the son, " If I had been your mother, I don't think you could have finished school. Because I could not have done all the sacrifices that your mother did." My words fell on deaf ears. Today, the son is having the most difficult time of his life, living in debt and disarray, all because he took his mother for granted and completely ignored her in making life-changing decisions. All I could say was- what comes around, goes around.

Kumareng Nene is poor- materially poor. But she is very rich in values and virtues., hence, she has such a rich spirit. This is perhaps the reason why my husband allows me to go anywhere as long as she is my companion. He knows I am in very good company with my kumare around. But the most admirable thing about her is that despite living in dire poverty, she can always put food on the table for her family. She has no debt of whatever amount. Her husband's social security retirement pension of just a couple of thousand pesos goes a long, long way. Most of the time, it is kept intact as their savings and would only be spent for urgent needs. If she had a business of her own, it would surely grow and multiply with the way she handles money.

Her sense of community with other people is also worth emulating. She would condole with grieving families. She would volunteer to accompany a neighbor to the hospital in times of emergencies. She would seek assistance for a neighbor in need. She would always lend a hand to her orphaned nephews and nieces, her brothers and sisters, as if she were the eldest in her family. Indeed, my BFF renders more help than anyone better situated than her.

Today, she is my constant companion, my nurse, my confidante. When I get sick and immobile, she is the first person my husband would call for help. All my children care for her. Whatever they give their titas, they also give my BFF. Most of the time, when Tim and Tj would treat me out or would just go out malling, they would tell me to bring my bff along. She has become such a significant member of my family through the years.

We are now both in our twilight years. I cannot imagine a life without a friend like her. As I always tell her, should I go ahead of her, she's free to tell my family my innermost thoughts- my fears, my anger, my concerns, my thrills and delights and all my secrets. I have a most wonderful husband and amazing children, but still, there are things which I can only entrust to a friend like Kumareng Nene. I have so many friends from everywhere. And I truly and sincerely treasure my friendships with them- developed at different points in time and in different places, under different circumstances. But my BFF is in a plane different from all the rest.

She is a living proof of how blessed I am.