Ode to Futility

There wasn't much in life that i lacked, or missed, or could not have--be it friendship, comfort, success, or even love [not that i have plenty of those]. I had this theory that contentment is relative, a choice. So I chose to be tolerant and accepting, specially about things I could not change; lived with the imperfections of my little world; curbed my restless and rebellious spirit and tamed it to a moderate and proper perspective. Until the day i met you, that is.

You were so unassuming...so distant...so quietly eloquent... so unobtrusive that before i knew it, you had totally enthralled me, conquered my soul until every millimeter that separated us became an unbearable punishment. You were the sun upon whose rays i came to life like a bud belatedly, beautifully, unfolding amid aging, fully bloomed flowers. In your pregnant silences and pauses you stripped me of my pretenses till i was bare and hungry for the touch of you fingertips, from which burst forth haunting words revealing the mysteries of your eyes. You were an unheard melody made all the more poignant by the songs we shared but could not listen to together. In your fragile, fleeting presence i felt all the sweetness i have never known... as if i deserved them. For truly, it was until i met you that i came to realize how much i lacked, how much i wanted, how much i missed in life...

Morning at My Suburb

It’s late in September, my favorite month of the year. Nights have become longer and colder. At 6 a.m., the sun comes out late, peeking shyly from behind pink, quickly scattering clouds. I put on my jogging suit and near-distressed sneakers to begin my trek down the hill towards the bakery. As it is a week day, I shun the inner highway, which is filled with students on their way to school, people on their way to work and a light to medium vehicle traffic spoiling the morning peace with their blasting horns. This alternative route will take me longer but I like the walk. Outside the gate, I meet my neighbor Larry and his little boy [they live just across]. Second-grader James looks smart [but sleepy] in his school uniform while his dad, giving me a passing wave and an absent smile, prods him along. The dirt road is slightly wet and muddy, due no doubt, to the combination of rain from last night, a busted hose that Water District neglected to fix, and an absent drainage system. I hop over small puddles, careful not to soil my pants[they are made of 100% cotton and sooo heavy to wash]. As I pass Ate Tess’s little shack, her two dogs greet me with a hero’s welcome—barking madly, bodies swinging to the frantic rhythm of their wagging tails. A few yards from her lush vegetable garden is a steep but short slope. To avoid slipping, I step carefully on protruding rocks that are shallowly buried in the narrow foot trail. At the bottom of the incline is a wooden, half basketball court, fenced off by waist-length cogon grass. It is deserted, save for two boys deeply engrossed in counting their coins. I cut across the bald playground, the soles of my shoes leaving light imprints on the damp, barren soil. I follow another trail, this time leading to a small G’melina plantation. The birds here are out and about, serenading this tiny, temporary sanctuary. A sudden breeze shakes the branches and droplets of water collected on the leaves of the towering trees rain on me. The cold shower startles me into a quicker pace. I reach the one-lane concrete road, a row of houses on one side and the public grade school backyard on the other. Little makeshift stores made of 1X2 sticks and nipa roofs line the crumbling, low fences near the school’s back gate. But business is yet to start: vendors are still on the process of hauling and displaying their goods while little boys and girls [some with their wardens carrying all kinds of school bags] gather at the entrance of the narrow gate. I turn right at the end of the street and I am a block away from the bread shop. The smell of fresh-baked pan de sal lures me inside the extremely neat and spotless bakery. With an equally flawless and starched apron on, the girl behind the counter is ready with my loot.

On Being Unapologetically Catholic

Faith is a fine invention
When everyone can see—
But microscopes are prudent
In an emergency.

-Dickinson

Today, we Catholics commemorate the birth anniversary of Mary, the Mother of our Church. Not that I believe this to be a factual birth date. However, I’m not too keen about digging into the murky and intricate annals of history to prove otherwise [she could have been born on the ninth for all we know]. Besides, this lifetime is not enough to get me into the bottom of something as specific as Mary’s birthday. And frankly, I don’t give a fig. Like a typical Catholic, what’s important to me is that we get to celebrate this special day once a year [like we do Christmas]. And yes, this is a special day for one extraordinary lady whose faith and obedience made possible for the Word to become Flesh to dwell among us. Back when I was a little girl, religion was simple. I memorized my prayers, perfected the sign of the cross [I used to do it with my left hand, right shoulder to left], recited my verses, and breezed through the first four sacraments -- baptism at three months old, reconciliation and communion at nine, and confirmation at eleven. As a high school freshman, I could lead the rosary and could string colorful beads into one for my Christian Living class. Theology courses in college were the turning points though. It was at this stage that I began to take seriously the issues against Catholicism. My parents were not deeply devout nor were they intimate with dogma. Hence, they could only teach me the basics of Christianity: keep the Sabbath holy; obey your parents; never, ever do anything bad against others; and stay as morally upright as you possibly can [in other words, don’t go around disgracing your family, girl]. Everything else about my religion I accepted without question. Ironically, studying in Catholic Schools opened my eyes to the myriad and complex problems surrounding Catholicism. When I first learned about Protestantism and Martin Luther, I was deeply perturbed. The thought that the Church could have been deceiving us all along was too horrible to contemplate. For my peace of mind, I resolved to find out the truth. After earning 18 credits of theology, badgering seminarians, attending masses religiously and knocking myself out trying to make sense of a highly metaphorical Bible and vague Papal encyclicals, I succeeded in scratching the surface, though nowhere near a definitive answer to the simple question I had in mind when I first set out to “re-discover” Catholicism, and, until now, I’m still figuring out bits and pieces of it, both good and bad. Finding out the exact date of Mary’s birthday could have proved easier than facing the realities of pedophile priests, or usurers in lay leaders’ clothing, or gambling and drug lord benefactors of the Parish charity houses. Without a doubt, the Church does guard a lot of mysteries and secrets close. More than one skeptic has tried and even succeeded in exposing its hypocrisies. Disgusted, millions have turned their backs on it. Countless non-believers have scorned and ridiculed its practices and its practitioners. Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code spectacle did not help either. As for me, I’m convinced I have come too far and have understood too much to be swayed by flimsy accusations of worshiping idols or observing ridiculous rituals. Mary could be as mythical as Adam and Eve but Teresa of Calcutta lived out her example; Jesus Christ could be a false prophet but Augustine and Aquinas are his real heralds. Indeed, Faith is a heavy burden to bear. It is neither exact as the hour, minute and second of the sun’s rising and setting nor is it measurable as the distance between stars. It does not always add up, most of the time defying the rules of logic. But the strength, comfort and peace it brings me I would not trade for all the knowledge in the world. More so now that a very wise non-Catholic, scientific guy pointed out to me that things are not always simple, that we cannot always compartmentalize matters into black and white. Or maybe, I’m just being simplistic all over again. So if you can hear me up there, I wish you happy birthday Mama Mary; may your tribe increase!

Evanescence

Footprints, horse-shaped clouds,
faces in the crowd, waves, dreams.
Wish you could be too.