On My Knees

"I will sing to the Lord, I will sing praise to my God as long as I live."

- Psalm 105:33

Sometimes when people ask me what my first memories would be, my mind would jog to random points of my childhood as I force my brain to somehow squeeze the earliest smidgen of any kind of recollection my head could muster.  Apart from vividly recalling how my tiny fingernails clawed at the sill of the nursery viewing window as I strained to see what my then-infant sister looked like at birth (the red, squirmy thing), I could remember being about three or four, standing on the aisle of the church I used to attend with my family, all ready to sing with my older cousins Apple and Maya in the church choir.  All I remember was it was nerve-wracking and I tried not to show it.  I wasn't sure what my thoughts were at that time but they probably had something to do with telling myself how far I had come, compared to my earliest stints of singing until my face turned blue on top of the kitchen table.  In fact, Manang Apple would later tell me it was like I had an automatic switch.  The minute she would haul my little derriere atop the table, I'd bust my lungs out, threatening to crack the kitchen walls with my wailing.

Music and I have always gone together.  I often refer to her in the feminine, harkening to the usual correlation with the muse.  Though she has always been my Plan B, my backburner buddy, so to speak, music has remained to be my chosen avenue in worshipping my Lord and Savior.  Perhaps it had to do with all the days in Sunday School and choir, or my eventual fondness for the book of Psalms which were written by the musically-inclined King David.  There was always something about music which made me realize how much God loved me and how blessed I was to experience that love. 

A couple of years ago, I talked to one of the pastors of my home church in Manila when I lived there for a considerable number of years.  He mentioned that he had a recording of me singing this one song during a cantata, a particular song which he gave him encouragement.  The song was "On My Knees" by Jaci Velasquez.   

When he mentioned that song (and that he had a recording of it), I cringed and almost swallowed my tongue.  I am not exactly a pro with singing and all but I whatever difficulty I encounter is usually ironed out after repetitions.  That song, however, was unquestionably the toughest hurdle I ever had to endure and no amount of repetition could hide the kinks.  When I first studied that song, I was quite contended singing backup.  Eventually I had to take on the solo and the first time I sang it for rehearsal, my sister told me I was as white as a sheet and I looked like I was going to collapse any minute.  Apart from the fact that the song was inherently demanding, I woke up on the day of the performance and realized I could not do any of the runs required in the song because my throat was spontaneously closing up.  It was what singing contest judges would usually label "just all over the place" and I could not understand what was happening.  About half an hour into my day, I realized that I could not sing anymore.

That morning, for reasons I could not completely fathom, I had been stripped of the one thing I had been doing naturally ever since I was four.  I was not sure if it was due to an anxiety attack but that automatic switch from the girl on the kitchen table had simply short-circuited.  I literally could not make a pleasing sound come out of my throat.  At that moment, I felt naked, vulnerable, inconsequential and insignificant.  Whatever little hint of confidence had been practically drained from me.  I kept on repeating, pleading with God, "Just bring my runs back, please.  Just bring them back."  After all, I thought, the song was all about the runs.

I pleaded with Ate Kathy over phone to let someone else do the song, telling her what was happening to me.  Ate Kathy told me to breathe and sit down.  She told me that she was going to pray for me and that I should do the same.  I pushed my phone aside and, in a bid to somehow get myself to sing "On My Knees" again, I literally went down on my knees and prayed to God, asking Him to use me as He would, sans runs and all.

I went on to sing that song in three stagings, including the performance scheduled in the afternoon of the same day when I could not coax any pleasant sound to emerge from my vocal chords.  It was interesting to note that God never did steady my voice and he did not bring my runs back.  But I was able to sing the song and somehow, it came out well.  I came to realize then that I had been gunning up to hurdle this song with the wrong premise: I had my head focused on getting the runs well because, after all, I was telling myself that this was what the song was about.  On the other hand, I conveniently forgot that the runs were inconsequential; the song was supposed to be about Him.  I had to be reminded that everything was for God's glory, not technicalities or abilities.  I re-learned another valuable lesson that day: I had to be stripped of whatever strength I had until I had no crutches to lean on, not even a single one, except God.  God then proceeded to show me that despite the fact that the supposed strengths I had relied on were gone, He could still use me and use me well.  It was after I deeply understood this thought that I was able to truly sing the song from my heart.

In all these years up to today, God has repeatedly broken me down, taken away whatever it was I relied on, all at a snap of a finger, just so I would see how He would work in me at every low point in my life.  The words of the song I greatly fear perfectly capture this posture of submission and humility to the One who made all things possible.  So I would like to give God back that glory once again by somehow reliving that time when He came to me at my point of utmost need, at that juncture when I needed Him in the midst of my desperation.  After all, I really "don't know how, but there's power when I'm on my knees."    

So My Sister Got Married Yesterday

December 12, 2013

“So my sister got married yesterday.”

I thought as I sat in front of my dresser with a small tub of cotton and acetone, dabbing the liquid on my fingernails as I slowly began to remove the remaining traces of the pale pink nail polish my lola’s nurse had painstakingly painted on the keratin wads of my phalanges just a day before the wedding.  I was drowsy, having ingested a rather strong antibiotic in a pre-emptive bid to counter an impending fever, and had fallen asleep as she began to work on my fingers in an effort to hide the mud and and dirt which had left ugly brown stains under my nails.  I was not about to let the sickness - and the horrid sight of brown stains - get in the way of a wedding my mother and I had been working on for the past eight months.  With Yolanda stirring a frenzy just a month before the big day that my only sister was scheduled to tie the knot, our work went on quadruple time.  All of a sudden, there was a need to divide our efforts between distributing invitations, making last minute AVPs and finalizing the wedding menu with supervising the repair of the church where she was to be married and replanting its yard which was completely overrun with fallen trees and patches of mud.

The church where my sister was to be married two days after typhoon
Haiyan (Yolanda) hit the Philippines.  The trusses on the right
side were licked clean of the gavlanized roofing sheets.  A tree
fell on the left side of the church, causing the steel trusses to
curl like noodles.  

The church's front yard was overrun with fallen trees.

I did not quite understand what or how to feel.  After all, my sister and I practically had been living somewhat apart the past couple of years so there was no need for a dry run, so to speak.  Besides, she was now all set to live in a house just a few minutes away from ours and that necessarily did not seem to spell “never seeing her again.”  But undeniably, things were indeed going to be different.  Our longtime cook was telling me it was going to be awkward leaving her place on the table blank and that, she said, made her feel quite sad.  I munched on my cookie as we talked, still trying to understand what she was trying to say.  The house was certainly going to feel more roomy and sound less noisy.  But this was the way it was meant to be, I thought.  That’s what my dad often told us when we were children, that we were all someday going to fly the coop and look for our own places to nest.  It just so happened that she went ahead and did it first, a stark contrast from our world where it was I who usually made the initial step. 

The strong smell of acetone was making my nose twitch as I replaced the cap.  I began to notice the usual white film develop on my fingernails and proceeded to scratch them off with one nail tip like snow from a car’s dashboard, watching almost-microscopic flakes flutter into the vinyl floor of the room we used to share as children.  My sister, the rambunctious, cheery, naughty, silly member of the family, was now officially off the singles chart.  That most likely meant that my days as “the one who made things happen for her” - in my mom’s words - were finally over.  Now that was a relief, in some sense.  From another perspective, it left me with a pair of pants that suddenly felt a little looser.  

My sister and I, much like a lot of siblings in the history of mankind, never got along every time.  Sometimes, we would get along fine.  Other times, we would be sneaking jabs or pinches at each other.  We fought like feline and canine and, in one instance during the days of black-and-white TV with just four channels, she was so angry with me when I refused to switch to a show she wanted that she sank her incisors on my belly, resulting in one of my most traumatic of wounds and the most persistent of scars.  With us, there was always eventual screaming and kicking after a rather peaceful episode of play.

Despite our penchant for always getting on each other’s throats, our parents had carved out our roles early on - she was to be the baby and I, as the “ngangang,” (my sister’s mispronunciation of the Ilonggo word “manang” becuase of an early speech impediment) was to be the one looking out for her.

It surely was not an easy task growing up, especially when I was always outdoors climbing mountains and trees with the bigger kids and she was always too little to grab the nearest branch or too slow to catch up with all the running.  When we started doing children’s choir together, I had to make sure I did not leave her behind.  In Sunday School, I had to walk to her classroom to check on her every so often because she was scared of her teacher for reasons only she could give.  In school, I would do a huge bulk of her writing assignments or check her work.  Often, she would tell me how one classmate would pick a fight with her so that in the afternoon, I would find myself hovering over that poor classmate like a Ringwraith, big sister style.  We both hated being compared to the other, although that never became an issue between us.  People would brand us with labels and there was always the expectation that one of us was going to be like the other.  But with my sister and me, that was never going to happen.  Early on, we both knew we were meant to do different things. 

In college, she joined me in Manila and our mother was surprised to see she had packed so a little in a bag that was about as big as a carry-on.  Mom asked her about the things she needed like extra jeans, towels, shirts and other things.  She nonchalantly answered, “I’ll just borrow from Manang.”  This she said, despite the fact that she knew I deeply despised her closet raiding.  I kept a sharp eye out for guys who were interested in her and did not keep my reins in telling her off that a guy she liked who most probably liked her too was seriously bad news.  When she came home one day with her heart broken, all I could really do was listen to her as she talked while looking mournfully out the window and offer to swing by 7-Eleven for a towering cone of ice cream.

Eventually, when we both went to law school, I would do her groceries, pick her up from her dorm every weekend and, sometimes, reformat her computer.  I still screened her suitors and would tell her when I did not like one or the other.  I had, however, slowly taken a backseat as I noticed she could do a lot of things on her own already.  That felt good, knowing that she was slowly growing up and taking charge.  Oftentimes, she would do some things which I felt were not right, inadequate or up to my standards.  She would then quickly retort, “Well, you let me do that didn’t you?  If you don’t like how I did it, you should have done the work yourself.”  She was right in some aspect of that statement.  I had to give her a bit of leeway if I let her take the wheel because, in the event that she made a wrong turn, she would learn from that a lot faster.

“So my sister got married yesterday.”

What did that exactly mean?  I had finished rubbing the stubborn remnant of the nail polish from my fingers and threw the cotton wads into the trash bin.  Probably that meant letting go and letting someone else do the job - of being the one who looked out for her, the one who made things happen.  That thought made me smile.  Because despite the fact that in my eyes, my sister still needed a lot of work, especially in terms of her cooking, I knew she could take on the job of being homemaker, wife and mother very well.  

Maid of (Dis)Honor duties during my sister's wedding.

That is, until today, when she told me she would need help setting up her router and Wi-Fi.  Then I remembered what she told me one day when I was finalizing the souvenirs for her wedding: “Manang, when I have kids, can I leave them with you?”

I twiddle my thumbs at the thought.

All Around Taunton

August 13, 2013

     I opened my eyes at around 6 a.m. to find that Lola and Dad were already awake, albeit still in bed.  I then remembered waking up in the middle of the night to bed sheets rustling as Lola made her way to the bathroom while dad was reading messages off his cellphone, the backlight bouncing off his face like the moon.  Apparently, jet lag was still winning.  I wondered if they had gotten some sleep after that but they both seemed fine and rested.  I got up, glad that my nieces were thoughtful enough to get me ultra warm, super soft booties to waddle around the house in.  I laid down Lola’s clothes for the day on the bed and jumped into the shower.  A few minutes later, the girls had all tumbled out of Aidagere’s attic and we were having breakfast downstairs.

My ultra-cute, super soft, uber warm booties!

     After breakfast, we left the house to secure Lola's prescription for her injectable medicines in the town's health center.  With her medical errands done, it was now time to give Lola a quick tour about town.

     The sun was out again today, making the breeze more of cool  than cold.  We took pictures of the town proper, particularly near the bus stops which were filled with colorful flowers.  Taunton was a retirement area so it was not unusual to see a lot of senior citizens walking around town either with companions or alone with their walking sticks or scooters.  In fact, we had a number of inquiries from some locals who apparently found it a tad bit unusual for Lola to be walking accompanied - and assisted - by her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

     We slowly made our way to Smilies, Manang Apple’s favorite fish-and-chips shop which was at the far end of the town center, almost at Taunton’s egress to the motorway.  But this was not before we dropped by a number of stores along the way.  Our first stop was Waterstones, a store which seemed to be Britain’s version of Powerbooks.  Manang was right, after all.  Books in Britain could be cheaper.  There were two shelves featuring very new titles on sale - £7 (P490.00) for two brand-new books!  I fished out a John Grisham title for Mom and a book on the Plantaganet line for myself.  Lola was walking around with Pau-pau, examining books and toys.  The bookstore was very quiet, except for Lola half-voice projecting, half-yelling at Pau-pau while asking all kinds of questions.  I could practically hear her wherever I was in the store, even in the most cloistered of sections.  Aidagere also ran into two of her friends who, after introducing to us, supposedly were pleasantly surprised that we spoke very good English.  Quite the contrary, I was also quite puzzled as to why our proficiency for the Queen's language was generating a repeated wave of surprise.

     We also made a beeline for a sports shop whose name I cannot recall as of the moment.  Dad did not bring running shoes so he decided to buy a trainers there, eventually settling for a white-and-blue Everlast pair which cost him about eight hundred pesos.  Our last stop before hitting Smilies was Primark, a department store which Manang Apple called the British version of “Gaisano.”  There were a lot of affordable clothes, shoes and accessories there and was the antithesis to the notion that shopping in England was expensive. 

     Manang Apple ordered breaded cod fillet when we got to Smilies.  I had my fingers crossed because I had two pretty horrible experiences with cod previously that left me retching.  But the fish was so good, tender, fresh and sat on a plate bigger than my face that I completely forgot about my nightmare and figured this was nothing tummy medicine could not remedy.

Apparently, there is no such thing as "fries" in Britain.  Just...chips. :)

Interesting Cokes in Britain which had reminders on the tags
to share the bottle with someone.  Bea got "Share a Coke with Sam,"
whereas Pau had "Share a Coke with Josh."  My bottle had me gunning
for world peace; thus, I was ordered to share my cola with friends.

     After lunch, Lola was starting to yawn and said she wanted to sleep (it was, after all, 9 p.m. in the Philippines).  Manang Apple hailed a taxi and took her home whereas the rest of us decided to walk on the way back.  On our way back, we passed by Argos, a shop that sells toys, electronics and DVDs.  I had promised to buy Pau-pau something since she only got pastillas from home (whereas Bea and Aidagere had their Bieber and KPop memorabilia, respectively).  In the end, she got a very pretty, striking humanoid doll with brown hair and a lavender shirt which led to her being teased endlessly that the doll was going to come to life in the middle of the night and attempt to take over her soul.  Okay, so that was not exactly a good joke but with Pau pouting all the way back to the house, it was pretty funny.

     Instead of taking the route through the park by the river the day before, the girls brought us to the other end of High Street which opened to the gates of the beautiful Vivary Park.  There were yellow and red flowers all in full bloom in the midst of tall, sturdy trees.

Pigeons hopped, skipped and fluttered all around the garden whereas ducks paddled their webbed feet along the park's pond, waiting for bread crumbs from generous park goers.  Squirrels also scurried about the trunks of huge trees which looked a lot like redwood, chasing each other as they tried to grab each other's acorns.

     A number of wood benches were also scattered sporadically all over the park.  I approached one and found a metal plate inscribed with a dedication to a departed person who apparently loved the park, reminding me of a similar bench in the movie “Notting Hill,” where Hugh Grant read a book to Julia Roberts who lay on his lap.

One of the many benches in Vivary Park (above) which had metal plate with a
corresponding dedication to a loved one.  This immediately brought to mind the
closing scene in "Notting Hill," pictured below.

     We walked around the park and through a small bridge which took us past the Vivary golf course, a football field and jungle gym of sorts which saw people traipsing through wood blocks suspended in mid-air, about three stories high.

     As we walked through the quieter side of Taunton, we first passed by a quaint cottage with the trademark tiled roof and brick walls.  Instead of walking along the road, Bea took a shortcut and entered a gap in the low stone gate of an old Anglican church.

 

    The church’s steeple and architecture harkened to the Regency era and I could almost see men in coattails and top hats and women in their finest muslin making their way out of the church, greeted by a member of the clergy.  Pine trees were planted all over the church grounds.  Interspersed with the trees were old stone tombstones and aging sepulchres.  A wooden bench nestled between two walls of the church was a nice, quiet place to just sit and read.  I checked out some of the tombstones and a number of those buried died in the 1800s.  I made a mental note to perhaps make some grave rubbings if I found interesting epitaphs.

     When we finally got home, Dad lumbered slowly upstairs to get some sleep.  Manang Apple asked Aidagere and me to get some supplies in Tesco which was about three blocks away and had racks overflowing with cheesecake, flapjacks and everything else creamy, sweet, artery-clogging and diabetes-inducing.  On the way to Tesco, Aidagere brought me to their old flat and, later, to the school she used to attend with Bea prior to getting placement in the town's local college.  We then took a detour to French Weir, a quiet grove of a park with tall trees surrounding a football field.  The River Tone passed through the park, gurgling quietly as it slithered in a comfortable pace along the park's perimeter.

     There were a number of children playing football in the park while a white-haired lady quietly watched them while seated on a bench.  It sure made a pretty picture which I had to capture with my camera.

     Aidagere and I exited French Weir through Longrun Meadow where, according to her, students would hang out after school.  There were a couple of dog owners taking their pets for an afternoon walk and I spent about a minute looking at the playful pooches jump along the tall grass in the meadow.  I was quite content and happy, having ticked two items off my bucket list today: a fish-and-chips meal and a country walk.    

From NAIA to Heathrow: At the Cusp of My Happy Travels Through the Land of Cream Tea, Scones and Tom Hiddleston

     Sixteen years ago, as a sophomore in high school, way before my friend Sue earned her M.D., we were partners in a project for Ma’am Yz’s English class which saw us writing about an imaginary trip to any country or city of our choice in the world.  If I remember right, it was one classmate who got the teacher’s special citation for being appropriately and absolutely hilarious (after all, if my memory serves me right, I think it wittily and tastefully talked about the perils of hanging underwear in a foreign land) but Sue and I got a not-so-shabby grade for our effort.  

      So where did we go exactly?

     Most of our classmates “went” to the US, specifically Disneyland in California.  Who can blame a bunch of fourteen-year-olds who were overexposed to the entire Mickey Mouse machinery?  

     After very little thought, Sue and I, opted to ditch the Americas and decided to “go” to the one place we both really wanted to visit for what seemed like forever to two adolescent girls - we were going to visit the city of London.  Or, at least, pretend to visit.

     Honestly, I do not remember when my fascination with the nation of cream tea and scones began.  It was probably due to the fact that the one of the earliest reads I was exposed to were Puffin Books from England which, in turn, were sold on Doulos, a ship-slash-floating bookstore that found its way into our coastal city once a year back in the 1980s.  As a child, it was difficult to get decent reading material, the usual fare being school textbooks and the ubiquitous Horoscope comics that flooded our streets and did wonders for my struggling Tagalog vocabulary.  Thus, when Doulos, and later Logos, came to call on our city’s port, I would gleefully dash aboard its decks and lose myself in the sight of shelves upon shelves of books.  Since most of the books were written by English children's book authors, there were a number of words in its pages which were not usually part of my American English vocabulary and, thus, naturally piqued my curiosity as a child - words such as “satchel,” “till,” “lorry” and “scones.”  Eventually, I fell in love with works from other English writers such as Emily Brontë, Jane Austen, J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, as well as a lot of Blake and Yeats.

One of the Puffin Books I remember buying from M/V Doulos.

     Perhaps, I should also blame repetitive viewings of "Bedknobs and Broomsticks" and being completely fascinated with the dancing on Portobello Road.  It did not help that Sue, who I became friends with at age seven, also had a similar affinity for "Peter Pan" and perhaps was the only other person I knew who would look up at the night sky to look for "the second star to the right" where we could head "straight on till morning."  We've both graduated to BBC period productions and have admittedly list sleep over repeats of Austen's "Pride and Prejudice" and Elizabeth Gaskell's "North and South."  Last Christmas, I gave her DVDs of "Cranford" and "Return to Cranford" and we tried to do synchronized viewing - meaning, we tried to press "play" at the same time as she watched the episodes in Iloilo while I did my viewing in Manila.  As of the moment, my hard drive is still crammed with unwatched episodes of "The Hollow Crown," "Sherlock" and, most recently, "Doctor Who."  

     Sue would eventually grow up to be completely enamored with Queen Victoria and it was frustrating to find anything interesting about a dead monarch in the days when there was no internet and the thick encyclopedias offered nothing but cold, dispassionate information.  She also became completely obsessed with the Beatles and would continuously chastise me for my apparent lack of musical taste as I preferred the more contemporary Take That and Oasis.  In high school, we both read, grew angry at, cried over yet still re-read "Wuthering Heights" so many times our copies of the book looked almost pitiful.  We also shared a fascination for Shakespeare.  She was so fixated with his work that she would sometimes sneak into the library’s literary section, while we were in the middle of writing equations for Physics, just so she could read aloud passages from “Romeo and Juliet," or quote lines from Shylock and Portia in "The Merchant Venice" while we were bowling and trying to hit duckpins for PE class.  In the course of studying world history, we took a particular interest in England's formation as a nation, particularly in its monarchs - from the conquests of William of Normandy to the War of the Roses, and, naturally, the juicier bits, such as Henry VIII's countless matrimonial pursuits and the real score between Elizabeth I and Robert Dudley. 

     Of course, there was the unfailing allure of the British actor, who always seemed to come across as intelligent and insightful.  It was perhaps due to their outstanding voice placement which was particularly a standout and did not make them sound squeaky.  Thus, I have often viewed Julie Andrews, Maggie Smith, Anthony Hopkins, Kenneth Branagh, Judi Dench, Emma Thompson, Tom Hardy and Jude Law in a notch above every one else and cannot be blamed for nursing crushes on dreamy Colin Firth, intense Ralph Fiennes, charming James MacAvoy, and, most recently, the only two men in the world I will absolutely marry with eyes closed: handsome Richard Armitage and rakish Tom Hiddleston.

     So what exactly is a girl to do on the eve of a trip sixteen years in the making?  Actually, I wasn’t sure, except the fact that I wanted to get off the plane in Heathrow without looking bedraggled or cold after a fifteen-hour journey.  Thus, I had to make sure I had my Wet Ones in the bag, a thick pashmina and a charged iPod, all ready to play something steaming from Freddie Mercury as I stepped out of the airline tube.

-----------------

     On the morning of the day that we were scheduled to fly to the country which would see me scratching off about a dozen items from my bucket list, I was surprised that I was pleasantly relaxed.  There was none of the palpable excitement that I felt the first time we went to the US back in 1996 or the irrational hallyu-instigated giddiness I fought off when I headed for Seoul seven years ago.  I was not even bothered that the very stormy weather courtesy of an exiting typhoon insured a practically turbulent flight.  Instead, I had calmly tucked a week's worth of clothes in Ziploc bags inside my luggage, along with my journal, bags of Nestea for Manang Apple and about three weeks’ supply of tabagak (tuyo) smothered in newspaper for my lola.  In fact, that morning, the only thing which sent my pulse racing - and my muscles throbbing - was when the security guard of the building I lived in told me that a front tire of my car was flat.  

     By late afternoon, my dad, lola and I were in the airport, all checked-in and comfortably seated in the pre-departure area, the Smart Gilas basketball game blaring loudly behind me.  I made sure to carry three Starstudio magazines for my lola, her reading fare of choice.

Lola shows off her nail polish while catching some zzzzs in Hong Kong International Airport.

     Our Cathay Pacific flight left as scheduled and by a little after 10 P.M., we were in Hong Kong for a two-hour layover.  By that time, my lola had stopped telling me about Daniel Padilla’s life before and after stardom and had fallen asleep, like my dad, on the airport benches.  I entertained myself by taking photographs of different departure gates, checking out the airport shops and eventually had to restrain myself from buying a Luke Skywalker mug.

   
     The minute our plane took off from Hong Kong just after midnight, I decided I was going to force myself to adjust to the seven-hour time difference between England and the Philippines by sleeping at 3 A.M., Philippine time.  My weapons of choice included Carrot Fantasy on the iPad and Iron Man 3 on the in-flight TV.  No can do, though.  Just after dinner at around 1 a.m., I was snoring away like a baby, unmindful of the bumps in the middle of the night and the occasional invitation from the flight attendants to perhaps have a break and have a Kitkat.

     By 6:30 A.M., London time, our plane touched down smoothly on Heathrow airport's runway and my mother texted me that she was all too glad to know we had landed safely that she was now fighting back tears.  One of the things about Heathrow that I first noticed was how busy it was.  A flurry of people were literally zipping ahead, past, behind and around me and we were too preoccupied in catching up with my lola’s Sri Lankan wheelchair attendee that all thoughts of walking down the tube to the sounds of Queen vanished.

    The wheelchair attendant looked at me and asked if I was from the US or Canada.  I flashed my passport with the vintage Pinoy cover.  “Oh, because you don't sound Filipino.”  I smiled and shrugged while genuinely wondering how Pinoys ought to sound.  “On a break from college?” he asked me again.  “How old are you, seventeen?”  Hmmm, I was liking Britain already.  “Yep, seventeen...thirteen years ago.”  He asked me what I did for a living and as we walked en route to the baggage carousel, he was now talking  about human rights abuses and encouraging me to take up my LLM in Britain.  “I am not sure if courts in your country take you seriously but when you’re young, that’s the time to fight for ideals,” he said to me. 

     After collecting our luggage, it was time to see for myself whether Hugh Grant’s British prime minister character in the movie “Love Actually” was right.  After perhaps countless rewatches of that movie, I could replay in my head how he he appropriately opens the movie by saying, “Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think of the arrivals gate at Heathrow airport.”

     When we walked out of the airport doors and into the sight of a face I knew so well in the middle of a sea of people, I realized Hugh Grant could not have been more right.

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     “Whew, it’s cold.”

     That was the first thing I said to Manang Apple the minute we stepped out of the confines of the airport and headed for the parking area.  I had the urge to call my friend Halee (who studied in London for a year and told me before I left that I could live with a thick vest layered over a shirt) and tell her, “Wow ha, hindi malamig talaga!”  We piled into a cozy Vauxhall and began our two-hour drive to the town of Taunton in the county of Somerset.  But this was not before we stopped by Services, an area near the motorway which has clean johns, steaming baked beans and was the clearest confirmation of the renowned truth that Marks and Spencer in Britain was in the same league as SM to us.

     On the motorway en route to Taunton, I saw for myself the English countryside described in the books I had read - rolling hills, watering holes which would provide a respite from the occasional greenery, fields golden with wheat, sheep dotting the verdant land and hedgerows occasionally stretching out to border the motorway.  There were townhouses with their red tile roofs standing in the middle of the fields, much like silent stone sentries keeping watch.  I could not get enough of the sight that I almost did not hear my lola say out loud, “Why don’t they have mountains here?  Or goats?  Or houses made of nipa?”  I told her, in between giggles, that no one was risking hypothermia here.

     The two hours on the road sped by like less than half the time.  Manong Mitchell told me to take note of the city of Bristol when we sped past its exit as it was to be marker that we were nearing Taunton.  True enough, he exited the motorway a little while later and we found ourselves in the quaint town I had pored over a number of times in Google Earth.  After about two or three stoplights and a couple of turns here and there, the car turned left to a small street lined with townhouses on both sides.  I stepped out of the car and saw a sign: “Mews.”  Across the street, there was a black cat which sat unmoving on the window of its owner.  Then came three girls of different sizes and heights, bounding out the door of one of the houses, tumbling right into our outstretched hands.  Aidagere had grown bigger in the span of one year whereas Bea was more spindly than she was before she left Iloilo.  It was my youngest niece, Pau-pau, who had grown the most and was now almost the same height as I was.

Almost on the street where they live.

     Bea and Pau-pau vacated the room they shared on the second floor for my dad, lola and me to occupy while we were there.  My lola and I were to share Bea’s huge bed whereas Dad was assigned Pau-pau’s sleeping space - complete with the fuchsia-and-aqua colored comforter and FIFA-commemorative Beanie Babies.  Pau-pau’s headboard was filled with family pictures which were most likely taken from old photo albums back home.  I saw a lot of familiar faces in the photographs: Lola was there, Lolo Deting on his last birthday, Auntie Aida and Lola Pa-ul, Jeff and Aimee, Manang Maya, Inday, my mom.

     Bea’s side of the room, on the other hand, was decorated with her oil paintings, which included my favorite, a picture of a gnarly brown tree with the sun setting in the background, and a montage of Justin Bieber posters.

   I went up to Aidagere’s room in the attic which was festooned with twinkly Christmas lights.  There were a bunch of small, plastic versions of the Union Jack hung like banners on the beams.  A collage of her favorite celebrities was in the works on her ceiling and a mini organ was shoved on one corner, next to her growing collection of books.  The best part of her room was the window which opened to a beautiful view of tiled rooftops shining in the afternoon sky.

     Lunch was amazing.  It was amusing how Manang Apple had evolved into such an excellent kitchen magician when the only thing I remember her "cooking" was a pack of Safari (Cornick equivalent for us 80s kids) which she stirred in my toy clay frying pan whenever we play house.  After stuffing themselves, my dad and lola were slowly succumbing to jet lag.  Bea and Pau-pau brought down pillows and a thick comforter for lola to use in their comfy couch, along with a book on Prince William and Kate Middleton for her to read.  Manang Apple bundled her up pretty well and tucked her in as she started leafing through the book’s pages.  Manong Mitchell decided to keep her company in the living room and had already settled himself to sleep on the other couch.   My dad, on the other hand, was snoring away happily upstairs.

     On the other hand, I was determined not to yield to my drooping eyelids.  I went with Manang Apple and the girls to town to buy groceries.  Bea left the house in a hoodie and a cap drawn closely towards her face since she did not have any mascara on.  I was not quite sure how much change mascara could do for one's face but my niece is apparently a firm believer.  Manang Apple was visibly excited to show me what Taunton’s town proper had to offer.  We took a right from their street, crossed at the junction near a Chinese restaurant, cut through the lawns of an office building, passed another row of townhouses, entered Tesco and emerged right into Taunton’s High Street.

     Now this, to me, was exactly what a high street was supposed to look like.  I have no complaints about Taguig’s BGC High Street, except the fact that it looked so artificial, as if it was made to look exactly that way.  Taunton’s High Street, on the other hand, brought back the real meaning of the street shopping exercise I had grown so accustomed to as a child in our own Calle Real.  Instead of malls, there were shops and restaurants lining the entire length of the cobblestoned path.  There was a cobbler on one side, a store selling ribbons and cloth on another and another shop selling handmade jewelry.  We walked past a tea shop where Taunton's older population sat on blue cushions, partaking of cream tea on a white teapot and a saucer full of scones.  On a rather conspicuous side of the street was a Marks and Spencer, a WH Smith and a Starbucks.  We walked further and entered Poundland, a store much like Saizen and Daiso which sold anything from candy to flower pots at only a pound.  I could not resist buying a whole bag of strawberry-flavored licorice which my nieces and I started eating the minute I paid for them.  We dropped by the post office so that I could have some money changed when Manang Apple remembered we had to buy fruits.  We went to a little shop by the sidewalk which sold fruits in wicker baskets with the flannel plaid cloths for lining.  The mangoes there looked different - something like a hybrid between my Lolo’s indian mangoes and the popular Guimaras mango.  The persimmons, pears, tomatoes and apples looked absolutely fresh and plump.  There were smaller streets cris-crossing High Street that were strewn with shops selling antiques and other knick-knacks, leading me to swear to myself I was not leaving Taunton until I checked every store window.  All in all, I felt like I was walking straight out of “The Sound of Music” sans the apron and the petticoat.

     Manang Apple then brought me to the town library where residents could borrow books for free.  We crossed an old stone bridge to get to a grocery store so we could buy some bread and wine.  We headed home from the grocery and took another short cut through a park which was built by the banks of the river.  Seagulls and pigeons swooped around me whereas ducks where happily floating away on the river as little children threw pieces of bread at them.  There were people sitting on the grass on picnic mats, either sleeping or sunning themselves. 

     When we got home, we were pleasantly surprised to find that Lola had fallen asleep on the sofa in her bundle of fleece and pillows.  Manang Apple sallied forth to the kitchen to prepare dinner.  I went for another walk alone, just so I could watch the sky turn from yellow to purple.  It was the end of another day in the middle of summer solstice.  My happy travels, however, were just about to begin.

A Letter to My Daughter

"A chain of life begun
Upon the shore of some primordial sea
Has stretched through time
To reach to me."
- 'The Story Goes On' from the musical "Baby"
   
    About five years ago, one of my best friends lost her mother to stroke.  To say that it was a difficult period in my friend's life is an understatement, especially when her mother's passing came rather swiftly and unexpectedly.  I was a freshman in law school back then and I found it completely unbelievable, especially when her mother had been a regular textmate of sorts who was always sending me messages of encouragement and asking how I was doing.  I was unable to attend her mother's funeral due to class but in the middle of my professor's lecture, I wrote the the date (Feb. 14, 2007) and a short goodbye message to my friend's mother on the margin of one of my textbooks.

    That night, when I got home to my apartment, I sat on my bed, trying to sort out what I felt and what I wanted to tell my friend who had just lost a very important person in her life.  She would never get to talk to her mother again.  Neither would she ever see her in this lifetime.  My friend would never be given away by her mother on her wedding day or place her newborn baby in her mother's arms.  That thought stung.  I wondered what my friend's mother would have told her, had she known she was to die pretty soon.  That made me think about what my own mother might have said to me and in the process of thinking and reflecting, I then began to effect some sort of transference by asking myself "What would I tell my own child if I knew I were to pass away soon?"  I had never been pregnant or had a child so that, in itself, was a huge challenge.  But I wanted to somehow leave my friend with a mother's words of love and encouragement, with what I thought her mother would have said to her and, in the process, using thoughts from my own mother and from some natural maternal inclination within me.  After about an hour or writing, the result was a letter simply addressed to "my dear child." 

    The problem I faced was giving the letter to my friend.  I wanted to give it to her as soon as I could but I felt the pain was a bit too raw and I might just be reopening her floodgates which, for now, needed to be shut down.  So I waited and decided to give it to her on her birthday (which didn't happen), then Christmas (still didn't happen), on her mother's first death anniversary (still didn't give it) and so on.  Eventually, after one too many postponements, I decided to keep the letter in my files and give it to her on a major milestone in her life which I am sure was to happen - her wedding day.

    A month ago, on December 2, 2012, I finally gave my friend the letter, just a few hours before she walked down the aisle and pledged to become someone's wife.  The letter I had kept for the last five years goes this way:

My dear child,

When I was a little girl, my mother used to say something to me many times over that it has forever remained in my memory.  She would always tell me, "There is no love like a mother's love."  Those words rightfully described every moment with her not just because of the frequency that those words were uttered but because I felt that love day by day from as far as I could remember.  That is why I write this letter to you now, to tell you what my own mother told me just in case the realization within you is still up for grabs.

I have loved you the moment I first felt you growing inside me and I loved you even more the moment I first held you in my arms.  To me, you were perfect, from your eyes down to your tiny toes, from the way you made those gurgling noises to the way you squirmed when you were held in an uncomfortable position.  You grasped my finger with your tiny hands and I immediately felt the connection between you and me, mother and child, the bearer and the offspring, the very connection I shared with my own mother, only this time, reversed.  "It was the same connection yet different in a way," I thought to myself, as I felt your tiny heart beat along with mine while I held you close to my chest.  It was almost like two identical ships passing each other in an open harbor, one sailing east and the other going west.  I had grown up full of love because my own mother loved me with so much intensity and devotion.  And in turn, here I was, passing on that love to you.  It was too beautiful for words to explain.

I love you, my child.  It was this love for you that made me devote my time and effort to simply being your mother as you grew up year after year.  You would gaze at me with those beautiful eyes full of wonder and none of the things I gave up could compare to the sight of you before me.  You, my child, were a bundle of myriads of possibilities - good and bad, heartaches and triumphs, laughter and tears.  No one is perfect but I promised myself I would do my best to bring out what is good in you, to make you the best person you can be and to give you the life you deserve. 

I love you, my child.  Watching you grow up was nothing short of a thrill.  Slowly you began to emerge as your own unique person, sometimes imbibing certain characteristics from your father or from me, but still with an edge which made you stand out as a person distinct from us.  I have so many dreams for you and so many things I want you to do.  But I had to realize that I had to respect the person you were slowly becoming, that I could never impose on you my wants and my desires.  You had your own path to choose and your own road to walk but still I felt the need to be here to hold the light for you.  If I had my way, I would shield you from all harm and carry your burdens for you.  But loving is not about keeping the ones you love in your tight grasp.  It is about giving them wings strong enough to carry them off as they fly into the sunrise. 

I love you, my child.  In my days of youth, someone once told me that a mother is both a daughter's best friend and worst enemy.  I never felt that way about my own mother but I have to admit we had occasional clashes, much like what the two of us now have.  But what I am most proud of is the fact that my mother and I could sit down afterwards, talk it over and later on forgive and forget, again much like what the two of us do.  I believe in what some people say, that the ones you love often hurt you the most.  True, words have been exchanged which tear us deep within our hearts.  But I believe that statement is wanting of a follow-up.  The ones you love often hurt you the most but it is also the ones you love who can make you forgive and forget the deepest hurt.  I look at you and all I see are the happiest moments of my life - waking up in mornings with you by my side, packing your lunchbox, doing grocery shopping, beaming as I watched you in your school play, seeing you out the door as you head off on your first day to college, having a family picture taken during your graduation, making your brownbag lunch for your first day in your first job. 

I love you, my child.  I want to be here for you day in and day out until time stops running.  I want to be everything for you, I want to stand by your side always.  But I am afraid that cannot happen, that this is not a possibility in the world we live in.  If you can, I pray you would find somebody who will take care of you for me.  I hope he is somebody you deserve and somebody who deserves you, somebody who will love you with all his heart, somebody who will respect the person you are.  Establish your own family and pass on your future children all the love from my heart so you will remember me as I will always keep you in my thoughts and in my heart.

I love you, my child.  There can be no love like a mother's love but there is no love greater than God's love.  In anything and everything, put Him first.  Let Jesus be your constant companion day in and day out.  Turn to Him when the seas start to rise and the rivers start to rage.  Yet, most importantly, nurture Your relationship with Him when the nights are quiet, when the sunshine is warm and when your joy is unsurpassed because, contrary to what most people think, God is best known in moments of solitude and peace, in times when You see nothing but His goodness, His mercy and His overflowing love.  There is so much more to God than being Light of the World and Savior of Mankind.  He is a friend who sticks closer than brother and He knows You, up to the deepest, innermost recesses of Your being.  Bring that knowledge of Christ into Your own family because a house built on rock may see storms come and go but constantly know the peace that only God brings.

I love you, my child.  I always have and I always will.  I cannot always be there for you, no matter how much I want to.  I may not get to see every life-changing occasion, every monumental event but know this - I am and will be fiercely proud of every milestone and every achievement that will see you grow into a more beautiful person than ever.  Let every fall be an occasion to show your strength and your ability to rise up to any challenge.  I know you can do it, I have no doubt.  I certainly cannot wait to see what the future holds for you.  At some point, I may not live long enough to be with you in all of them but believe me, I will be there.  Just as you know that the stars will come every night though you cannot see them in the morning, I will be there. 

With all my heart,
Your mother