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.

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

     “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

Twin Tussle

Sometimes I think there’s a little tug-of-war going on inside of me.  On other days, it gets worse and escalates into a full-blown, all-out rampage as the wide-eyed wanderlust-cum-daydream believer gets her knees all wound up around the hands of the small-city girl who thrives on simple joys.  

The wanderlust/daydreamer is ambitious, hopefully not to a fault.  She wants to see, hear, taste and touch everything not just because she wants to say “Been there, done that.”  It’s because she wants to answer questions on her own.  She wants to take up the sword that she knows is a tad bit too heavy and slay the dragon that she can see is a mite bigger than a skyscraper.  She wants to get a burn on her shoulder so that she can feel the rawness of the pain and the almost barbaric way it eats into your flesh.  She wants to feel what it’s like to get up and walk again.  She wants to feel her head spin like a kaleidoscope until she hits the threshold.  She wants to be blinded momentarily by the sun as she stares at it straight.  She wants to feel the wind on her face and to walk on sand that she has never stepped on before.  She wants to lose so that she could win again.  She wants to see whether the books were right when it spoke about lightning and fairytales.  She wants to see for herself how cocoa becomes chocolate and how the sugar could eventually lead to diabetes - in technicolor.

On the other side of the spectrum, steadily grasping at the ankles of the wanderlust, is the one of quiet mornings.  She gives in to the persistent knocking of the other one but continues to hold on, not barely, not defiantly, not desperately.  She is patient and tempered and knows where her vision ends and what her hands can reach.  She is easily satiated and looks forward to tomorrow without thinking about the days that may follow.  She is settled, calm and collected.  She may not completely know what she wants but she realizes there is joy in mystery and value in surprises.  She lets her more turbulent twin go off to the world in her whinnying pony but keeps her grasp firm just to make her presence felt.  

As of today, it’s the latter who has taken a backseat as the wanderlust walks the streets while Davy Jones sings in the background.  

But she who grasps knows that, at the end of the day, the only place anyone would want to head for is home.

Attached to "Attachments"

     Cue Ed Sheeran’s “Lego House.”

     It was one of those books stacked neatly in the corner which wasn’t in the bookstore’s bestseller’s shelf but merited a space in the Features corner.  It had an interesting blurb and featured one technology-conversant character thus sparking my initial interest.  After all, I wasn’t one who frequently bought a lot of romance novels.  Well, save for those stamped with the name Nicholas Sparks.  Now even with those I’ve had a couple of mishits but I figured my basket had one too many thrillers thus the decision to purchase.  And when I felt I needed a break from all the gore and depression which comes with George R.R. Martin killing off a lot of characters, I jumped to Rainbow Rowell’s “Attachments.”  By the end of 300-plus pages, I realized it was indeed one good jump with the guilty pleasure frills on the edges.

     Rowell’s debut novel is set in 1999, right at the cusp of the new millennium.  Lincoln works in the IT department of a local newspaper company in Nebraska.  His job is to screen emails which get flagged in the company’s system for violating a policy against using office email to send personal messages.  Perhaps to make him more dispassionate, Lincoln works during the graveyard shift in a cold office isolated from the rest of the newsroom.  He does send some notices to certain employees but is hooked to a series of email exchanges between Jennifer, a copy editor, and Beth, an entertainment writer, that he never gets down to enforcing the rules when their emails are concerned.  Even if he has never seen or met them, Lincoln eventually grows to know both women through their emails since they bare a lot of personal details in their messages and he begins to form an attachment to the pair, especially to one of them.

     Lincoln and the book’s reader are rightfully engaged by the series of completely hilarious emails exchanged between Jennifer and Beth.  Both write with huge chunks of wit, a healthy dose of tart and an overload of humor that snickers are always a guarantee.  Reading through the pages is akin to a fun kind of voyeurism wherein one can see the deep friendship between two women who share a lot of seemingly shallow stories which may seem both senseless and sensible.  They discuss a myriad of things - family, grammar, stalking, movies, men, whether a fetus has an umbilical cord at six weeks, breakfast vis-a-vis infertile tigers, alter-egos and, of course, Colin Firth.

     As Jennifer and Beth utilize their electronic attachments to lament about personal attachments to their families, parents and to their men, Lincoln also struggles with his own set - a dissatisfaction with how his life and career are turning out despite having multiple degrees, the fact that he still lived with his mother, how his social life was mostly confined to weekly Dungeons and Dragons games with college friends and the struggle with getting over a girl he cannot quite forget.  Jennifer and Beth’s constant banter about what they have to hold on to and what they have to let go provide the perfect backdrop for Lincoln’s evaluation of what he should keep and what he should change.  Christine, a friend of Lincoln, provides the perfect antidote to Lincoln’s dismissal that the new year is just like an odometer turning.  “It’s a chance to wake up new,” she says and that sets the stage for Lincoln as he decides to do something different with his life even as he struggles that the answer probably is not to “move out” but to “ease out.”

     The book doesn’t provoke thoughts as deep as the earth’s core or parade brooding, psychologically stilted characters but it does give the occasional comforting nudge about things any person may have gone through or could be currently facing.  It is the familiarity with the characters and their daily quandaries - all delightfully wrapped in Rowell’s very entertaining prose - which makes “Attachments” very difficult to put down.  Reading especially through Jennifer and Beth’s repartee made me recall similar, equally hilarious verbal tussles with my closest friends.  It doesn’t help that the characters are charmingly endearing or endearingly charming, however way you want to see it.  Lincoln is an easy favorite.  He is so Star Wars/Lord of the Rings geeky I find him completely adorable.  Jennifer is all cynicism and pessimism but she undergoes a huge character transformation without the routine sappiness.  Chris, Beth’s boyfriend, is so sullen, withdrawn and rebellious and yet still quite engaging.  Beth is so easy to love because she is just like high school at any age - seemingly decisive, oftentimes misunderstood and eternally hopeful.  In the book, she talks in terms of films she has seen and favorite MTVs that in the middle of reading, any 80s or 90s kid would most likely blurt out “Oh yeah, I know that!”  What I liked best about her (and laughed most heartily at) was her verbalization of something I had long been puzzled with: why a lot of dresses do not come with sleeves anymore for those who want to cover their arms when, according to her, “the whole point of clothing is to hide your shame” which she supports with a verse from Genesis.

     It has become quite difficult to write about a book I thoroughly enjoyed while censoring myself lest I give away too much.  But I could not help but agree with what one of my favorite writers, Jodi Picoult, said about the book: “If Attachments were an email, I’d be forwarding it to my entire list of contacts.”  Which is exactly why I’ve successfully convinced my best friend to drop by our house tomorrow to pick it up after work so she can give it a try herself.