Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
The Birthday Gift
My Dad's turning 55 today, March 20, 2006. So I'm posting this story as my way of paying tribute to the only man who could love me much more than I deserve...
I LOOKED UP FROM the manuscript I was reading to rest my eyes for a while. My gaze landed on the wall clock hanging beside the picture of myself, my daughter Yanni, and my husband Anthony. At other times my heart would have warmed at the sight of the family picture; I always thought we all looked cute in that one. But the time the clock displayed had already registered to my consciousness before the feeling of familial love was evoked in me.
5:30. Oh my God! Anthony would already be here in an hour or so and Yanni would awake soon; but still, I was stuck with the book I commissioned to edit. I should be preparing dinner by now! But before that, I should have already gone to the market. There was nothing in the refrigerator; that I was very sure of. Anthony cooked the last stock of food for dinner last night.
Abruptly, I stood and tried to reach for the paper clip lying beside the pen holder resting on one edge of the table, about to fall off, but nausea had me groping for support; I knocked the flower base sitting on the desk instead. I closed my eyes. I let the nausea subside before opening them, only to be greeted by the mess I made: a broken flower base and artificial flowers lay scattered on the floor. “Damn, just what you need when you’re in a hurry!” I swore to myself.
I hurriedly swept the mess then started for the grocery, making mental note of the things we’d run out of. By 6:30 I was already working busily in the kitchen, when I remembered Yanni. She was still asleep when I went to the grocery so I thought I’d go, do a quick purchase, and head back home before she wakes up. I wished Mrs. Castillo, our neighbor, were around. I could have asked her to listen for Yanni’s cries when she awoke. But Mrs. Castillo was away; I heard she went to Davao for a conference. Or maybe Cebu; I wasn’t sure. I didn’t have much time tracking the whereabouts of my neighbors.
Then a thought hit me. How could I have let my daughter sleep that late? She should have woken up by four o’clock. But to do that, she should have slept at about 2 o’clock. I played the events of the afternoon in my mind. I’d let Yanni play in the study room while I worked on the manuscript. The first time I looked up from the pile of paper in front of me to check on her, she was busy making believe she was Princess Sara, enacting a scene where Sara was bidding good-bye with her father. I went back to my reading. The next time I checked on her, she was already asleep on the sofa with her books and stuff toys lying next to her. I carried my daughter to her room. It was 4:15. Tsk.
I lowered the fire then dashed to Yanni’s room. I was expecting her to be asleep still; I didn’t hear her cry when I arrived. But my heartbeat doubled when I didn’t see her familiar figure on her bed or anywhere else in the room. Panic enveloped me. Where was she?
“Yanni!” I cried. No answer. My weariness increased. Where could my daughter be? Could she have woken while I was away, ran out of the house and… I didn’t like the path of my thought. “Yanni!” I cried louder. Still no answer. I dashed to the bathroom. She wasn’t there either.
Tears started to well up. Where was she? “Yanni!” I already sounded desperate. And afraid. What if somebody broke into the house while I was away? What if my daughter really went out of the house and met an accident? What if…. “Yanni! Where are you?”
I opened the door to the study room, my last hope of seeing my daughter in the house. And there she was, playing with my things.
Relief flooded me. I thanked God. I started to dash toward my daughter, meaning to hug her, but then I saw the manuscript I was working on which I didn’t bother to put away before leaving for the market, all scattered on the floor; some pages torn, others crumpled.
Then it hit me. My God, the manuscript! The manuscript I worked on for most of last night and the whole of today, scattered and torn! I walked toward my daughter, meaning to snatch from her the paper she was holding. But as I advanced toward her, she looked up; a tentative smile flashed across her face, but was instantly replaced by foreboding and … fear? Was it fear I saw on my daughter’s eyes?
I stopped dead halfway across the room, not able to take my eyes off my daughter’s face. I couldn’t help staring at her. I looked at her for so long that I started seeing myself in her face. I remembered that look; I’d seen one like that before. I shook my head to snap to my memory. Then I remembered. I didn’t really see that look on anyone; I actually had that look on my face, years ago. I was about two years older than my daughter was. No, make that four years. I was seven then, now I remembered.
IT WAS DAD'S 32nd birthday. It was his first birthday since Mom died. I had handed him a gift I personally bought from my savings. Looking back, I can still clearly see the parcel I handed him. It was wrapped with an ordinary red Christmas wrapper I kept from the gifts I received last December, a piece of tape sticking out. It was March and, of course, it wasn’t Christmas, but I didn’t have any money left to buy new wrapper. Luckily, I had several in my room. Mom thought me how to skillfully open gifts; never, or at least, minimally damaging the wrapper. I never threw the wrappers away; I loved the look of them—the patterns, the shapes, the colors and the spirit and emotion they collectively convey. The box wasn’t skillfully wrapped, but that was the best I could do. In fact, I remembered now with amusement, it took me a good thirty minutes to wrap that gift (Mom always wrapped my gifts when she was alive). Anyway, the parcel I handed Dad looked like a gift. To me, at least.
I thought Dad was mad at me. I thought he blamed me for Mom’s death. He was very sad. He hardly spoke to anyone. Since Mom’s burial, he never hugged me again. So I thought I’d buy him a gift. In a month’s time, he’d be 32. I started saving. I’d saved 50 cents a day from my allowance. But when I checked out the item I wanted to buy dad, I realized my savings weren’t enough; Dad didn’t give me much money for school. I went back home, headed straight to Dad's room, making sure Lolo wouldn’t see me; brought out the coin purse where Dad had saved his one-peso coins, took about 15 pieces, put the purse with the remaining coins back into the closet, then walked back to the market; the clinging of the coins in my pocket matching the sound of my cadence.
I waited patiently for dad to arrive from work on the eve of his birthday. I can still remember how tired he looked when he pushed open the door; his shirt dirty and crumpled, his hair dull and untidy.
He was surprised to see me on the sofa, still awake. I went looking for my father’s slippers; I used to put them on his feet when Mom was still alive. But after she died, Dad had started to come home late, and always, I was already asleep when he’d arrive. Except that night. I didn’t wait for him to ask me to do anything for him or why I was still awake. Without a word, I went looking for his slippers. When I came back to the sala, his eyes were closed, his head resting on the headrest. Still, I put his slippers on his feet.
Dad opened his eyes, the look on his face blank. Meekly I handed him the parcel which I kept hidden behind me with my left hand. I couldn’t quite describe the look on his face when he saw it. He eyed it much too long before finally, slowly, almost reluctantly, he reached out his hand to get it.
I had thought Dad would be very happy. I had thought he would laugh a heartfelt laugh—the kind that I hadn’t seen him laugh in a thousand years. I had thought he would dance with joy and carry me, and proclaim me his precious princess.
But at the back of my mind, I was also afraid he’d be very mad at me. Maybe he would whip me to death. Maybe he had already discovered the other night that several pieces of his one-peso savings were gone.
But he neither hugged nor whipped me. He took time in opening the parcel I handed him, the look on his face unfathomable. I stood by in anticipation. Time was suspended. I almost forgot to breathe. My hands were clammy, and my knees trembled a little. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I needed to know how he’d react.
Then the cover came off, revealing a pair of bright orange short pants. Thinking about it now, I thought I should have chosen a darker color—black, brown, or navy blue. Those were the colors favored by older people, but of course I didn’t know that when I was that age. Anyway, I’d given him bright orange short pants. I knew Dad needed more of that. His short pants were all torn and very old. I thought he would look better in it; maybe he’d even find a new mom for me. I’d always yearned for a mother. Like Thea, my classmate. She always went to school wearing nice clothes, and her hair was always neatly combed, her ribbon the color of her dress. Mom used to dress me like that when she was alive. But of course I never said that to Dad; he might be cross with me.
Seeing what was inside the box, my father’s hands stopped moving, as though they were suspended in air. He hadn’t proceeded to take the cloth out of the box. He just held it as though he didn’t know what to do with it.
I stared at the box. Then I knew something was wrong. Dad’s hands visibly trembled. And when I returned my gaze to his face, I noticed he was looking at the gift unseeingly. Then I noticed something roll down his cheeks. I felt my eyes widen. Dad was crying! My tall, strong father was crying! I thought big guys didn’t cry?
My heart started to beat erratically. Had he discovered half of his one-peso savings gone? Had he known I took them to buy him his gift?
Then I felt tears fall down my cheeks. I had displeased Dad. I knew it. I knew Dad was angry with me. He had to be. Why was he crying? Why hadn’t he thanked me?
I agonizingly watched my father cry, wishing I had not done it. I wished I had not taken those one-peso coins. I wished I had not given him a gift. Dad was angry at my gift. He didn’t like it.
I hate you, Daddy!
I wanted to run to Lolo, tell him Dad was angry with me. Tell him Dad didn’t like my gift. Tell him…
“Jhing…”
I heard Dad say my name. I looked up. My father met my gaze. Now I can see Dad’s deepest emotions welling up his heart, flowing freely through his eyes. I saw anguish in my father’s soul, a wide void in his being.
I kept staring at Dad, though I knew I’d had more than I could take.
I heard a sound—that of a board falling on the floor. Then I realized it was the box Dad was holding, my gift still inside it. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I won’t do it again. I won’t take any of your coins again.” I said, seeing how sad my father was. I knew it was because of me. Because I was a bad girl. So I kept talking, confessing my sin.
Then I lowered my eyes. I could no longer look directly at Dad. I kept crying.
“Jhing,” I heard him call my name again. “Come here, anak..”
“Anak,” the endearment Dad and Mom used to call me when they wanted to hug me. Anak. It would have been enough to have me running into Dad’s arms. But not that time. I knew what I did was bad. I knew I displeased him. I was sure he would no longer want me. So I did not run to him. But I made a tentative step forward, still not meeting his gaze.
Seconds ticked by. Why was the time so slow? Why does time have a habit of slowing down when you need it to run fast?
I put my hand over my mouth; I always did that when I was afraid of something. I made another step. I noticed that my thin legs were trembling harder now. I was still not meeting Dad’s eyes, but in the periphery of my vision, I thought I saw him spread his arms. But still, I didn’t dare look up. I closed my eyes as a new feeling of dread swamped over me. Then I felt strong arms enveloping me. I knew then that I was in my father’s arms. I felt him carry me, holding me tightly.
“I’m sorry, Anak.” I heard him say. “I’m so sorry…”
The sound of my father’s cries stabbed me in the chest. I didn’t know what to say, so I just let my father unleash his long pent-up emotions. “I’m so sorry, Anak. Please let me make up.”
I didn’t know then what he was sorry for.
I FELT MY EYES warm, snapping me back from my reverie to where I was standing, halfway across the room, a good two meters away from my daughter who was looking right up to me with dread in her eyes. I felt a cold wind chill me. God, how terribly afraid my daughter must be feeling! I calmed myself down. Then I smiled at her.
“Come to Mommy, Sweetheart.”
My daughter’s face instantly brightened up, so bright that it lighted up the whole room. Her smile was so big it sent a glow to my heart.
I closed my eyes as I hugged my daughter tightly. God! How could I have let this happen? How could I have neglected my husband and my daughter for work? How could I have forgotten how it felt to be alone and neglected, like I felt when Mother died? How could I have let my daughter get a taste of it?
I opened my eyes. My gaze landed on the picture of Dad hanging beside the wall clock, opposite our family portrait. He was smiling warmly and his eyes seemed to have winked at me. I knew it was foolish, but I smiled back at my father’s picture, making a mental note to myself to pay him a visit soon.
I examined the manuscripts. I decided they could still be repaired. I asked Yanni to help me pick up the pieces of torn paper. Then companionably, we walked down to the kitchen where the aroma of nicely cooking stew filled the air. [seb/2003]
Copyright 2005 Sherma Espino Benosa
Philippine Graphic/October 25, 2004
I LOOKED UP FROM the manuscript I was reading to rest my eyes for a while. My gaze landed on the wall clock hanging beside the picture of myself, my daughter Yanni, and my husband Anthony. At other times my heart would have warmed at the sight of the family picture; I always thought we all looked cute in that one. But the time the clock displayed had already registered to my consciousness before the feeling of familial love was evoked in me.
5:30. Oh my God! Anthony would already be here in an hour or so and Yanni would awake soon; but still, I was stuck with the book I commissioned to edit. I should be preparing dinner by now! But before that, I should have already gone to the market. There was nothing in the refrigerator; that I was very sure of. Anthony cooked the last stock of food for dinner last night.
Abruptly, I stood and tried to reach for the paper clip lying beside the pen holder resting on one edge of the table, about to fall off, but nausea had me groping for support; I knocked the flower base sitting on the desk instead. I closed my eyes. I let the nausea subside before opening them, only to be greeted by the mess I made: a broken flower base and artificial flowers lay scattered on the floor. “Damn, just what you need when you’re in a hurry!” I swore to myself.
I hurriedly swept the mess then started for the grocery, making mental note of the things we’d run out of. By 6:30 I was already working busily in the kitchen, when I remembered Yanni. She was still asleep when I went to the grocery so I thought I’d go, do a quick purchase, and head back home before she wakes up. I wished Mrs. Castillo, our neighbor, were around. I could have asked her to listen for Yanni’s cries when she awoke. But Mrs. Castillo was away; I heard she went to Davao for a conference. Or maybe Cebu; I wasn’t sure. I didn’t have much time tracking the whereabouts of my neighbors.
Then a thought hit me. How could I have let my daughter sleep that late? She should have woken up by four o’clock. But to do that, she should have slept at about 2 o’clock. I played the events of the afternoon in my mind. I’d let Yanni play in the study room while I worked on the manuscript. The first time I looked up from the pile of paper in front of me to check on her, she was busy making believe she was Princess Sara, enacting a scene where Sara was bidding good-bye with her father. I went back to my reading. The next time I checked on her, she was already asleep on the sofa with her books and stuff toys lying next to her. I carried my daughter to her room. It was 4:15. Tsk.
I lowered the fire then dashed to Yanni’s room. I was expecting her to be asleep still; I didn’t hear her cry when I arrived. But my heartbeat doubled when I didn’t see her familiar figure on her bed or anywhere else in the room. Panic enveloped me. Where was she?
“Yanni!” I cried. No answer. My weariness increased. Where could my daughter be? Could she have woken while I was away, ran out of the house and… I didn’t like the path of my thought. “Yanni!” I cried louder. Still no answer. I dashed to the bathroom. She wasn’t there either.
Tears started to well up. Where was she? “Yanni!” I already sounded desperate. And afraid. What if somebody broke into the house while I was away? What if my daughter really went out of the house and met an accident? What if…. “Yanni! Where are you?”
I opened the door to the study room, my last hope of seeing my daughter in the house. And there she was, playing with my things.
Relief flooded me. I thanked God. I started to dash toward my daughter, meaning to hug her, but then I saw the manuscript I was working on which I didn’t bother to put away before leaving for the market, all scattered on the floor; some pages torn, others crumpled.
Then it hit me. My God, the manuscript! The manuscript I worked on for most of last night and the whole of today, scattered and torn! I walked toward my daughter, meaning to snatch from her the paper she was holding. But as I advanced toward her, she looked up; a tentative smile flashed across her face, but was instantly replaced by foreboding and … fear? Was it fear I saw on my daughter’s eyes?
I stopped dead halfway across the room, not able to take my eyes off my daughter’s face. I couldn’t help staring at her. I looked at her for so long that I started seeing myself in her face. I remembered that look; I’d seen one like that before. I shook my head to snap to my memory. Then I remembered. I didn’t really see that look on anyone; I actually had that look on my face, years ago. I was about two years older than my daughter was. No, make that four years. I was seven then, now I remembered.
IT WAS DAD'S 32nd birthday. It was his first birthday since Mom died. I had handed him a gift I personally bought from my savings. Looking back, I can still clearly see the parcel I handed him. It was wrapped with an ordinary red Christmas wrapper I kept from the gifts I received last December, a piece of tape sticking out. It was March and, of course, it wasn’t Christmas, but I didn’t have any money left to buy new wrapper. Luckily, I had several in my room. Mom thought me how to skillfully open gifts; never, or at least, minimally damaging the wrapper. I never threw the wrappers away; I loved the look of them—the patterns, the shapes, the colors and the spirit and emotion they collectively convey. The box wasn’t skillfully wrapped, but that was the best I could do. In fact, I remembered now with amusement, it took me a good thirty minutes to wrap that gift (Mom always wrapped my gifts when she was alive). Anyway, the parcel I handed Dad looked like a gift. To me, at least.
I thought Dad was mad at me. I thought he blamed me for Mom’s death. He was very sad. He hardly spoke to anyone. Since Mom’s burial, he never hugged me again. So I thought I’d buy him a gift. In a month’s time, he’d be 32. I started saving. I’d saved 50 cents a day from my allowance. But when I checked out the item I wanted to buy dad, I realized my savings weren’t enough; Dad didn’t give me much money for school. I went back home, headed straight to Dad's room, making sure Lolo wouldn’t see me; brought out the coin purse where Dad had saved his one-peso coins, took about 15 pieces, put the purse with the remaining coins back into the closet, then walked back to the market; the clinging of the coins in my pocket matching the sound of my cadence.
I waited patiently for dad to arrive from work on the eve of his birthday. I can still remember how tired he looked when he pushed open the door; his shirt dirty and crumpled, his hair dull and untidy.
He was surprised to see me on the sofa, still awake. I went looking for my father’s slippers; I used to put them on his feet when Mom was still alive. But after she died, Dad had started to come home late, and always, I was already asleep when he’d arrive. Except that night. I didn’t wait for him to ask me to do anything for him or why I was still awake. Without a word, I went looking for his slippers. When I came back to the sala, his eyes were closed, his head resting on the headrest. Still, I put his slippers on his feet.
Dad opened his eyes, the look on his face blank. Meekly I handed him the parcel which I kept hidden behind me with my left hand. I couldn’t quite describe the look on his face when he saw it. He eyed it much too long before finally, slowly, almost reluctantly, he reached out his hand to get it.
I had thought Dad would be very happy. I had thought he would laugh a heartfelt laugh—the kind that I hadn’t seen him laugh in a thousand years. I had thought he would dance with joy and carry me, and proclaim me his precious princess.
But at the back of my mind, I was also afraid he’d be very mad at me. Maybe he would whip me to death. Maybe he had already discovered the other night that several pieces of his one-peso savings were gone.
But he neither hugged nor whipped me. He took time in opening the parcel I handed him, the look on his face unfathomable. I stood by in anticipation. Time was suspended. I almost forgot to breathe. My hands were clammy, and my knees trembled a little. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I needed to know how he’d react.
Then the cover came off, revealing a pair of bright orange short pants. Thinking about it now, I thought I should have chosen a darker color—black, brown, or navy blue. Those were the colors favored by older people, but of course I didn’t know that when I was that age. Anyway, I’d given him bright orange short pants. I knew Dad needed more of that. His short pants were all torn and very old. I thought he would look better in it; maybe he’d even find a new mom for me. I’d always yearned for a mother. Like Thea, my classmate. She always went to school wearing nice clothes, and her hair was always neatly combed, her ribbon the color of her dress. Mom used to dress me like that when she was alive. But of course I never said that to Dad; he might be cross with me.
Seeing what was inside the box, my father’s hands stopped moving, as though they were suspended in air. He hadn’t proceeded to take the cloth out of the box. He just held it as though he didn’t know what to do with it.
I stared at the box. Then I knew something was wrong. Dad’s hands visibly trembled. And when I returned my gaze to his face, I noticed he was looking at the gift unseeingly. Then I noticed something roll down his cheeks. I felt my eyes widen. Dad was crying! My tall, strong father was crying! I thought big guys didn’t cry?
My heart started to beat erratically. Had he discovered half of his one-peso savings gone? Had he known I took them to buy him his gift?
Then I felt tears fall down my cheeks. I had displeased Dad. I knew it. I knew Dad was angry with me. He had to be. Why was he crying? Why hadn’t he thanked me?
I agonizingly watched my father cry, wishing I had not done it. I wished I had not taken those one-peso coins. I wished I had not given him a gift. Dad was angry at my gift. He didn’t like it.
I hate you, Daddy!
I wanted to run to Lolo, tell him Dad was angry with me. Tell him Dad didn’t like my gift. Tell him…
“Jhing…”
I heard Dad say my name. I looked up. My father met my gaze. Now I can see Dad’s deepest emotions welling up his heart, flowing freely through his eyes. I saw anguish in my father’s soul, a wide void in his being.
I kept staring at Dad, though I knew I’d had more than I could take.
I heard a sound—that of a board falling on the floor. Then I realized it was the box Dad was holding, my gift still inside it. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I won’t do it again. I won’t take any of your coins again.” I said, seeing how sad my father was. I knew it was because of me. Because I was a bad girl. So I kept talking, confessing my sin.
Then I lowered my eyes. I could no longer look directly at Dad. I kept crying.
“Jhing,” I heard him call my name again. “Come here, anak..”
“Anak,” the endearment Dad and Mom used to call me when they wanted to hug me. Anak. It would have been enough to have me running into Dad’s arms. But not that time. I knew what I did was bad. I knew I displeased him. I was sure he would no longer want me. So I did not run to him. But I made a tentative step forward, still not meeting his gaze.
Seconds ticked by. Why was the time so slow? Why does time have a habit of slowing down when you need it to run fast?
I put my hand over my mouth; I always did that when I was afraid of something. I made another step. I noticed that my thin legs were trembling harder now. I was still not meeting Dad’s eyes, but in the periphery of my vision, I thought I saw him spread his arms. But still, I didn’t dare look up. I closed my eyes as a new feeling of dread swamped over me. Then I felt strong arms enveloping me. I knew then that I was in my father’s arms. I felt him carry me, holding me tightly.
“I’m sorry, Anak.” I heard him say. “I’m so sorry…”
The sound of my father’s cries stabbed me in the chest. I didn’t know what to say, so I just let my father unleash his long pent-up emotions. “I’m so sorry, Anak. Please let me make up.”
I didn’t know then what he was sorry for.
I FELT MY EYES warm, snapping me back from my reverie to where I was standing, halfway across the room, a good two meters away from my daughter who was looking right up to me with dread in her eyes. I felt a cold wind chill me. God, how terribly afraid my daughter must be feeling! I calmed myself down. Then I smiled at her.
“Come to Mommy, Sweetheart.”
My daughter’s face instantly brightened up, so bright that it lighted up the whole room. Her smile was so big it sent a glow to my heart.
I closed my eyes as I hugged my daughter tightly. God! How could I have let this happen? How could I have neglected my husband and my daughter for work? How could I have forgotten how it felt to be alone and neglected, like I felt when Mother died? How could I have let my daughter get a taste of it?
I opened my eyes. My gaze landed on the picture of Dad hanging beside the wall clock, opposite our family portrait. He was smiling warmly and his eyes seemed to have winked at me. I knew it was foolish, but I smiled back at my father’s picture, making a mental note to myself to pay him a visit soon.
I examined the manuscripts. I decided they could still be repaired. I asked Yanni to help me pick up the pieces of torn paper. Then companionably, we walked down to the kitchen where the aroma of nicely cooking stew filled the air. [seb/2003]
Copyright 2005 Sherma Espino Benosa
Philippine Graphic/October 25, 2004
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Voice from within
Part I: The Summon
A voice I thought I’d never again hear
starts nagging at me again
in a voice much too loud to be comfortable;
telling me the things I swear I’d known before
whose meanings many times I chose to ignore.
If I still had the excuse of youth
and all the shortcomings that go with it;
If I still had the time which now has become a luxury;
If I still had the future that had looked so bright,
promising me the moon and the stars,
which has quickly become the present
that has mockingly shown me
that “the sunbeam” was just a reflection
of the glittering image of the hope from within;
If only the world were still within my grasp;
I would again choose to ignore it
like I did many times before…
But time has shown me lessons
I will never afford to forget—
Lessons for which I lost my youth
and all the things that I had valued
before this metamorphosis.
And so this time I have no choice
But listen attentively to that voice
that is now becoming louder,
thundering and echoing shouts resounding
in the deepest recesses of my being.
Yes, I know this time I have to listen
to the voice from within
and find out what it’s got to say.
For or in spite of the things I’ve lost
and of the person I’ve become,
this time I will have to heed.
Part II: The Conversation
The Voice talked to me in a voice
that resembled that of an engine running out of fuel—
harsh words coming from her, penetrating my being;
telling me the things I wouldn’t want to hear.
I advanced to shut her up
but the closer I got to her,
my will became the weaker
and the more the Voice’s sound became louder
now closely resembling that of warring soldier’s guns and bombs.
And her words… her words I couldn’t take.
I knew I had to shut her up,
strangle her to death if I had to,
but as I advanced again toward her, she laughed—
mocking me, daring me, killing me
like she has killed me many times before.
And again, I died but not truly died,
but much worse.
Part III: The Unloading
And I cried as a stab of pain penetrated my being.
Engulfed in darkness, I had no idea where I was,
yet memories of seeing Death kept flagging me
and the Voice’s voice kept following me, still.
And I wept.
I wept for everything I’ve lost,
for the opportunities I’ve let pass,
for the chances I’ve missed,
for the love I couldn’t have,
and for everything given me which I didn’t take.
I kept weeping.
I wept as I watched everything seep through me.
I wept until my tears turned into blood.
I wept until there was no blood left in my anemic veins.
I wept until I could weep no more.
Then I smiled
as I sagged down to die yet another Death.
Part IV: The Rebirth
I succumbed, and death it came.
Uplifting it was, but not painless
And, though most unworthy,
I was cleansed of the filth.
What a beautiful release!
Then I heard the Voice whispering,
beckoning me to look up.
I did, who was I not to oblige?
And there she was, looking like me
but was not really me,
smiling, mouthing comforting words.
I thought I smiled back faintly,
but I may not have; am not sure
for liquid crystals started rolling down my cheeks.
Again I wept
not comprehending what this all meant
but somehow, I was changed.
[seb/2004]
A voice I thought I’d never again hear
starts nagging at me again
in a voice much too loud to be comfortable;
telling me the things I swear I’d known before
whose meanings many times I chose to ignore.
If I still had the excuse of youth
and all the shortcomings that go with it;
If I still had the time which now has become a luxury;
If I still had the future that had looked so bright,
promising me the moon and the stars,
which has quickly become the present
that has mockingly shown me
that “the sunbeam” was just a reflection
of the glittering image of the hope from within;
If only the world were still within my grasp;
I would again choose to ignore it
like I did many times before…
But time has shown me lessons
I will never afford to forget—
Lessons for which I lost my youth
and all the things that I had valued
before this metamorphosis.
And so this time I have no choice
But listen attentively to that voice
that is now becoming louder,
thundering and echoing shouts resounding
in the deepest recesses of my being.
Yes, I know this time I have to listen
to the voice from within
and find out what it’s got to say.
For or in spite of the things I’ve lost
and of the person I’ve become,
this time I will have to heed.
Part II: The Conversation
The Voice talked to me in a voice
that resembled that of an engine running out of fuel—
harsh words coming from her, penetrating my being;
telling me the things I wouldn’t want to hear.
I advanced to shut her up
but the closer I got to her,
my will became the weaker
and the more the Voice’s sound became louder
now closely resembling that of warring soldier’s guns and bombs.
And her words… her words I couldn’t take.
I knew I had to shut her up,
strangle her to death if I had to,
but as I advanced again toward her, she laughed—
mocking me, daring me, killing me
like she has killed me many times before.
And again, I died but not truly died,
but much worse.
Part III: The Unloading
And I cried as a stab of pain penetrated my being.
Engulfed in darkness, I had no idea where I was,
yet memories of seeing Death kept flagging me
and the Voice’s voice kept following me, still.
And I wept.
I wept for everything I’ve lost,
for the opportunities I’ve let pass,
for the chances I’ve missed,
for the love I couldn’t have,
and for everything given me which I didn’t take.
I kept weeping.
I wept as I watched everything seep through me.
I wept until my tears turned into blood.
I wept until there was no blood left in my anemic veins.
I wept until I could weep no more.
Then I smiled
as I sagged down to die yet another Death.
Part IV: The Rebirth
I succumbed, and death it came.
Uplifting it was, but not painless
And, though most unworthy,
I was cleansed of the filth.
What a beautiful release!
Then I heard the Voice whispering,
beckoning me to look up.
I did, who was I not to oblige?
And there she was, looking like me
but was not really me,
smiling, mouthing comforting words.
I thought I smiled back faintly,
but I may not have; am not sure
for liquid crystals started rolling down my cheeks.
Again I wept
not comprehending what this all meant
but somehow, I was changed.
[seb/2004]
Friday, March 17, 2006
Underneath the Sheaths
I didn’t see him enter the room, didn’t even hear his footsteps as he crossed the short distance from the door to my bed where I was lying, trying to get a much needed sleep. My eyes were shut, but somehow I felt that someone was staring at me. I opened my eyes, and there he was, standing right beside me, his gaze intent upon my face.
I was shocked. I knew he’d be here. But still, his presence surprised me. I didn’t know how to react. And I couldn’t; I was already imprisoned in his gaze. Our eyes locked. He didn’t say anything. He simply stared at me, his gaze penetrating my being. I felt as though he was trying to read through me; to dive into the pool of secrets I kept inside. He held my gaze, willing me to obey his unspoken command. His eyes so powerful, I lost the will to look away.
Then he moved his gaze to gently touch my cheeks, lingering there for a while, then moved down to caress my body, sending tremors to every nerve fiber of my being. I watched him undress me with his eyes. I saw him clear up the protective layers I had carefully, meticulously wrapped around myself. One by one, he yanked the sheaths, examining them carefully, searching for whatever it was he needed to see. I saw layers upon layers of sheaths pile up before me. First went the bedcover of anguish and sorrow. Next came my nightdress of hatred and bitterness followed by my underwear of loneliness and pain. One by one, he tore them into pieces, making sure there was nothing left for me to put around myself after he had finished. He didn’t stop until everything was gone, until I was lying there, unclothed, exposed to his penetrating gaze. I was worse than a slut stripped off her dress; I was a soul devoid of everything. Bared. Naked. Defenseless.
He knelt down to examine me further. His gaze transcended the thin layer of skin that was my last protective covering. His eyes followed the direction of the blood pulsing through my veins and saw my determination and guts—the only outstanding traits I have left — blinking like neon lights against the darkness of the night; like ants walking in file, each carrying life support system for my whole being.
He kept searching until, at last, he found my shattered heart, beating rather erratically under his intense stare. I saw his brows furrow upon seeing the scars covering it, the stains marking every drop of blood that oozed out of it, and the wounds that were barely healing.
His face darkened. I moved closer to him so I could fathom his emotion. I saw glittering crystals forming in his eyes. I momentarily stopped breathing, confused. Tears! But…were they for me?
I followed the direction of his gaze. Then my heart seemed to have missed a thousand beats. There, etched in furious red at the very core of my battered heart was his name. Flashing. Dancing.
Quickly I returned my gaze back to his face just in time to see a smile flicker across his countenance. How beautiful his smile was! But it lingered only for a fleeting moment. Because just when he was about to succumb to the compelling force that suddenly overwhelmed him, just before he could acknowledge the heart-warming feeling that lifted his spirit, just as he had realized how much it meant to him to see his name where he wished it would be, a thought suddenly snapped him back to reality.
Wrong.
He smartened up. I saw him lift his hand to caress the newly opened wound where before his name flashed brightly; his fingers trembling. I felt his hand touch my heart softly as if to heal it magically.
Then I saw tears roll down his cheeks, down to his hand, through the gaps between his fingers, then down to my exposed heart, soothing it. Reluctantly, I dragged my gaze from his hand around my heart back to his face.
I saw his eyes deaden. I noticed his muscles twitch. I saw him fight himself. I watched him struggle against whatever outside force was shackling him. He almost won. Just almost. Eventually, his struggle faltered, until he was consumed.
Never had I seen him sadder before. His eyes searched mine. Again, our gazes met. I didn’t see him open his mouth, maybe it was his eyes talking to me, but I heard him whisper: Ann, let go.
I closed my eyes, not minding the tears that started to roll down my cheeks. He cupped my face with both his hands, his thumbs drying up my tears. He willed me to open my eyes. I did, how could I not follow his bid?
I looked up directly into his now hurt-filled eyes talking to me softly, begging me to understand.
"I can’t," my heart protested but I ignored it. I nodded, imitating a smile but managed to produce only a caricature version of it.
He smiled his gratitude.
Then, from his insides, he produced a thin, crystal-like, satin-soft sheath of love with which to cover me, replacing all the negative layers that had, for sometime, enveloped me. His gazed still fixed upon me, he gently wrapped the sheath all over my naked body.
Then he started to leave without turning his back on me. His feet moved backward; slowly, reluctantly, his eyes never leaving mine.
I started to panic, but I knew there was nothing I could do. I thought I saw him smile just before he completely faded. I grasped the sheath now securely covering me and clutched it closer to my body.
He was gone.
And I woke up. Then I started to cry, because now I know he knew that which I never told him. I loved him. Deeply.
I reached for his framed picture lying on top of the bedside table. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I stared at his smiling face. I ran my trembling fingers across his cheeks. His brows. His eyes. His nose. His lips. Then I whispered: "Rest in peace, Eric."
[seb/29Apr2004]
I was shocked. I knew he’d be here. But still, his presence surprised me. I didn’t know how to react. And I couldn’t; I was already imprisoned in his gaze. Our eyes locked. He didn’t say anything. He simply stared at me, his gaze penetrating my being. I felt as though he was trying to read through me; to dive into the pool of secrets I kept inside. He held my gaze, willing me to obey his unspoken command. His eyes so powerful, I lost the will to look away.
Then he moved his gaze to gently touch my cheeks, lingering there for a while, then moved down to caress my body, sending tremors to every nerve fiber of my being. I watched him undress me with his eyes. I saw him clear up the protective layers I had carefully, meticulously wrapped around myself. One by one, he yanked the sheaths, examining them carefully, searching for whatever it was he needed to see. I saw layers upon layers of sheaths pile up before me. First went the bedcover of anguish and sorrow. Next came my nightdress of hatred and bitterness followed by my underwear of loneliness and pain. One by one, he tore them into pieces, making sure there was nothing left for me to put around myself after he had finished. He didn’t stop until everything was gone, until I was lying there, unclothed, exposed to his penetrating gaze. I was worse than a slut stripped off her dress; I was a soul devoid of everything. Bared. Naked. Defenseless.
He knelt down to examine me further. His gaze transcended the thin layer of skin that was my last protective covering. His eyes followed the direction of the blood pulsing through my veins and saw my determination and guts—the only outstanding traits I have left — blinking like neon lights against the darkness of the night; like ants walking in file, each carrying life support system for my whole being.
He kept searching until, at last, he found my shattered heart, beating rather erratically under his intense stare. I saw his brows furrow upon seeing the scars covering it, the stains marking every drop of blood that oozed out of it, and the wounds that were barely healing.
His face darkened. I moved closer to him so I could fathom his emotion. I saw glittering crystals forming in his eyes. I momentarily stopped breathing, confused. Tears! But…were they for me?
I followed the direction of his gaze. Then my heart seemed to have missed a thousand beats. There, etched in furious red at the very core of my battered heart was his name. Flashing. Dancing.
Quickly I returned my gaze back to his face just in time to see a smile flicker across his countenance. How beautiful his smile was! But it lingered only for a fleeting moment. Because just when he was about to succumb to the compelling force that suddenly overwhelmed him, just before he could acknowledge the heart-warming feeling that lifted his spirit, just as he had realized how much it meant to him to see his name where he wished it would be, a thought suddenly snapped him back to reality.
Wrong.
He smartened up. I saw him lift his hand to caress the newly opened wound where before his name flashed brightly; his fingers trembling. I felt his hand touch my heart softly as if to heal it magically.
Then I saw tears roll down his cheeks, down to his hand, through the gaps between his fingers, then down to my exposed heart, soothing it. Reluctantly, I dragged my gaze from his hand around my heart back to his face.
I saw his eyes deaden. I noticed his muscles twitch. I saw him fight himself. I watched him struggle against whatever outside force was shackling him. He almost won. Just almost. Eventually, his struggle faltered, until he was consumed.
Never had I seen him sadder before. His eyes searched mine. Again, our gazes met. I didn’t see him open his mouth, maybe it was his eyes talking to me, but I heard him whisper: Ann, let go.
I closed my eyes, not minding the tears that started to roll down my cheeks. He cupped my face with both his hands, his thumbs drying up my tears. He willed me to open my eyes. I did, how could I not follow his bid?
I looked up directly into his now hurt-filled eyes talking to me softly, begging me to understand.
"I can’t," my heart protested but I ignored it. I nodded, imitating a smile but managed to produce only a caricature version of it.
He smiled his gratitude.
Then, from his insides, he produced a thin, crystal-like, satin-soft sheath of love with which to cover me, replacing all the negative layers that had, for sometime, enveloped me. His gazed still fixed upon me, he gently wrapped the sheath all over my naked body.
Then he started to leave without turning his back on me. His feet moved backward; slowly, reluctantly, his eyes never leaving mine.
I started to panic, but I knew there was nothing I could do. I thought I saw him smile just before he completely faded. I grasped the sheath now securely covering me and clutched it closer to my body.
He was gone.
And I woke up. Then I started to cry, because now I know he knew that which I never told him. I loved him. Deeply.
I reached for his framed picture lying on top of the bedside table. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I stared at his smiling face. I ran my trembling fingers across his cheeks. His brows. His eyes. His nose. His lips. Then I whispered: "Rest in peace, Eric."
[seb/29Apr2004]
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Ogie’s theory of creation
Firstborns can never be perfect, for they are merely products of their parents’ initial attempts (practice) at lovemaking. (I know he’s trying to say something here. Hmmm… maybe that I am an exemption? Hehe)
“Secondborns” are definitely better than firstborns, for the parents have learned a lot of lovemaking skills at the time they were being created. However, they are still far from being perfect.
“Thirdborns” are the parents’ masterpieces; for, at the time they were being created, the parents have already mastered everything there is to learn about lovemaking.
“Fourthborns” are the parents’ masterpieces-that-never-will-be. This is because while the environment in which they were created were perfect (the parents having mastered all the tricks of lovemaking at third birth), the parents tend to be complacent in taking care of them, thinking that they would turn out as perfect as the “thirdborns” just the same.
Oh! If you think this entry is crap, don’t shoot me. Everything is Ogie’s idea, not mine. And if it would be any consolation, Mans and I walked out on him — in jest, of course — when he blurted out this theory of his. You see, Mans is the “secondborn”; Ogie is the third. That explains everything.
“Secondborns” are definitely better than firstborns, for the parents have learned a lot of lovemaking skills at the time they were being created. However, they are still far from being perfect.
“Thirdborns” are the parents’ masterpieces; for, at the time they were being created, the parents have already mastered everything there is to learn about lovemaking.
“Fourthborns” are the parents’ masterpieces-that-never-will-be. This is because while the environment in which they were created were perfect (the parents having mastered all the tricks of lovemaking at third birth), the parents tend to be complacent in taking care of them, thinking that they would turn out as perfect as the “thirdborns” just the same.
Oh! If you think this entry is crap, don’t shoot me. Everything is Ogie’s idea, not mine. And if it would be any consolation, Mans and I walked out on him — in jest, of course — when he blurted out this theory of his. You see, Mans is the “secondborn”; Ogie is the third. That explains everything.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Four siblings on taking risks
My brothers and I are risk takers, there’s no doubt about that. But just how much risk we are willing to take and the manner we take them differ greatly.
In any endeavor:
I always calculate the benefits against the risks. Only when I see that the chances of success is greater than that of failure, and that I can afford the loss I’d incur should I fail, do I take a leap.
Mans always calculates the benefits against the risks and makes sure he wouldn’t lose anything (at least break even) before he takes a leap.
Ogie always employs Mans and I to calculate the benefits against the risks and waits for our recommendations before he takes a leap.
Ryan takes a leap first. Only when he had landed roughly does he realize that there had been risk. Ouch!
In any endeavor:
I always calculate the benefits against the risks. Only when I see that the chances of success is greater than that of failure, and that I can afford the loss I’d incur should I fail, do I take a leap.
Mans always calculates the benefits against the risks and makes sure he wouldn’t lose anything (at least break even) before he takes a leap.
Ogie always employs Mans and I to calculate the benefits against the risks and waits for our recommendations before he takes a leap.
Ryan takes a leap first. Only when he had landed roughly does he realize that there had been risk. Ouch!
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Wedding bells in the family
Finally, Dad is about to experience two of the things he envied four of his brothers for — marching an offspring to the altar and welcoming a grandchild.
Oh please! Don’t look at me like that. I’m not the only child he has… Look at my tummy. It’s flat!
Sure, I’m the eldest child, but it’s not always the case that the eldest gets to settle down first, is it? In our family, it would have to be the youngest.
Now, I think I’m gonna cry.
Only 22, just graduated in October last year and got his first job in February, my brother Lucky Ryan is getting married in April, and will have his first child in May.
Oh God. What did he think marriage was? What will he do if… How is he going to… What happens if… Will the baby be…
Tsk… tsk… I’m so sad that he has to face such a huge responsibility this early. But he brought this upon himself; he should be able to stand on his own. He needs to. He owes that to Kate and to the baby.
I love my brother so much I'd move mountains for him. But I guess it's time we stand back. As Mans keeps saying, Ryan needs to learn to clean up his own mess. We shouldn’t always be there doing the cleaning up for him. Otherwise, he’ll never learn. I think so, too.
But like before, should he need us, he knows where to find us. He knows we would never be able to turn our back on him. No matter that he broke our hearts one too many a time. All he needs to do is knock…
And he better be sensible enough NOT to ask me to be Kate’s bridesmaid. Not only will I kick him real hard in the butt; but also refuse to speak with him indefinitely and not help in the wedding preparations!
Oh please! Don’t look at me like that. I’m not the only child he has… Look at my tummy. It’s flat!
Sure, I’m the eldest child, but it’s not always the case that the eldest gets to settle down first, is it? In our family, it would have to be the youngest.
Now, I think I’m gonna cry.
Only 22, just graduated in October last year and got his first job in February, my brother Lucky Ryan is getting married in April, and will have his first child in May.
Oh God. What did he think marriage was? What will he do if… How is he going to… What happens if… Will the baby be…
Tsk… tsk… I’m so sad that he has to face such a huge responsibility this early. But he brought this upon himself; he should be able to stand on his own. He needs to. He owes that to Kate and to the baby.
I love my brother so much I'd move mountains for him. But I guess it's time we stand back. As Mans keeps saying, Ryan needs to learn to clean up his own mess. We shouldn’t always be there doing the cleaning up for him. Otherwise, he’ll never learn. I think so, too.
But like before, should he need us, he knows where to find us. He knows we would never be able to turn our back on him. No matter that he broke our hearts one too many a time. All he needs to do is knock…
And he better be sensible enough NOT to ask me to be Kate’s bridesmaid. Not only will I kick him real hard in the butt; but also refuse to speak with him indefinitely and not help in the wedding preparations!
Cebu trip: A reckoning
GlaxoSmithKline (GSK), through BSMG Worldwide, invited Chie and me to the Asia Pacific Launching of their anti-rotavirus vaccine. The launch coincided with the 3rd Asia Pacific Convention on Infectious Diseases (March 7-9) at the Waterfront Hotel in Cebu. The GSK vaccine is the first anti-rotavirus vaccine made available in the Philippines, although several other vaccines had been launched in other countries late last year. The actual launch lasted only for two hours, but we stayed in Cebu for three days to see much of the place.
5 things I loved about the Cebu trip
- I experienced three firsts in this trip: first time to fly; first time to set foot in Cebu; and first time to attend a press briefing with international as well as local (Visayan) press
- Good accommodation (courtesy of Hilton Hotel) and superb pampering (courtesy of GSK’s PR agency, BSMG Worldwide through Ces, Edcel and Jay). These guys (BSMG group) were not only very efficient, they were likewise very friendly and down-to-earth. Everyone was happy with the way they organized our travel. Kudos to them.
- Sumptuous food
Whew! BSMG and GSK spared no expense, especially with our food. We got to taste the best that Cebu has to offer. - New friends
- Spectacular view and historical places
Mactan, Magellan’s cross, beach, Fernan Marcelo Bridge, and a lot more
5 Things I hated about the trip
- I had to share a room (and the matrimonial bed in it) with Chie. I would not have minded it at all had we not been given a two-bedroom suite. I would have enjoyed my own room if only Chie wasn’t so pathetic she wouldn’t let me get out of her sight because she was afraid of ghosts.
- I had to wait until Chie was done with the bathroom before I could use it. Again, I could have used the one in the other room but she wouldn’t let me. It would have been all right had she been sensitive enough to move fast because someone was waiting for her to finish up. But she wasn’t, I always had to order her out of the bathroom. Hah!
- I had to play Chie’s timekeeper all the time because she apparently never heard of the phrase, “time management.” Take for example what happened on our second day. We got out of bed at the same time. Because I wanted to play nice, I let her use the bathroom first, but instead of going there straight, she decided to watch TV first, ignoring me when I told her that she should start moving because we had to get down in a little more than an hour to meet the rest of the group. Only when I switched off the TV did she start to move (I had to do it, sorry!). While she was having shower, I made up OUR bed (oh, that sounds so off!) and prepared everything we needed for the coverage. Only when she was done did I get to use the shower. And yet, ten minutes before we had to get down, she still wasn't ready, while I was already fully dressed. Kakainis!
- I never got a glimpse of Cebu’s sunset and sunrise. Three days and two nights in Cebu but I didn’t get to see sunrise and sunset. Waaahhhh! I woke up early on our third day just to get a glimpse of sunrise, but as fate would have it, it rained. Oh, how depressed I was. I love watching sunrise and sunset very much!
- I didn’t get to buy necklaces/earrings and other “anik-anik” as pasalubong for my EXTREMELY DEMANDING friends. On our last day (our schedule to buy souvenirs and see more of the place), we decided t
o delay going out (upon my suggestion) because it was raining, not knowing that where we were going was very far from the hotel. Our travel consumed our time for shopping that the BSMG group decided we had to do our shopping near where we were having lunch instead (while they order and wait for our food), otherwise we wouldn’t be able to catch our flight back to Manila. Problem was, in the mall we went to, there wasn’t anything that was distinctly Cebu-made. All the things I saw, I could buy in Manila. Twenty minutes at the mall and I still hadn’t seen anything worthy to give my friends, I started to get so annoyed with myself and at everything, I was frowning and very quiet, that Chie, who was talking to Ces endlessly, fell silent too. So did Ces. (Good thing Chie knows how to deal with my moods. She must have advised Ces to ignore me while I was having a fit.) Ten minutes past, and I was ok; I started talking again. Chie and Ces must have felt relieved. (Now you know danger looms when I’m quiet. Hehe!)
Disclaimer
Items 1 to 3 in my “hate” list might have made you think I had a really bad time with Chie. Of course, not. I just had to write something to complete my list. Since there’s nothing really bad that went on during our trip besides items 4 and 5, I had to exaggerate my “annoyance” with Chie, and bully her here. Hehehe! But hear this too: I would not have enjoyed my stay there had it not been for her.
I’m guessing too, that if Chie had a blog and she were to write five things she hated about the trip, I would have figured in her list as well. Chances are, she would be writing about how she had to keep my tickets and my hotel keys for me because she was sure I’d lose them; how she had to carry my things (wallet and some documents) because I was willing to carry only my cellphone and digi-cam; and how she had to stay late at night because I felt I had to work even while we were suppose to be on vacation (What can I do? I'm a type A person!).
But then, she doesn’t have a blog and she doesn’t write, so I’m safe. Or am I?
Monday, March 06, 2006
Yummy(not!) ice cream
Friday, March 03, 2006
Reversible Suicide
“Rolling stone” is what my father calls me. Since I graduated from the university six [okay, seven!] years ago, I’ve changed employment several times that he had to keep reminding me: “rolling stones catch no moss” to which I always answered: “at least they have greater chances of landing exactly where they want to be.”
With that reasoning in mind, coupled with determination and a clear sense of where I wanted to go, I walked toward the edge of the cliff that was my secure but boring job, not daring to look below (lest I’d lose the courage to jump), and leaped, hoping that there’s an invisible net to catch me, or that the ground wouldn’t be too hard.
There was no net, I soon found out; and I hit the ground with a loud thud. But quickly I stood up and, walking limply, made my way up to the other cliff; with the mind to climb it.
Only to jump off a second time. And a third. And a fourth. And… who knows?
THE URGE TO JUMP started out as a seemingly innocent question — “Where would I be had I done differently?” — that slowly grew into a nagging voice until it became too loud for me to simply ignore. Then I started asking more and more pressing questions: Should I move forward or should I make a turnaround? Should I cling to the safety of my present job or should I leap on to the next?
Shifting careers is not an easy decision to make because it often means going back to square one and giving up the perks one already enjoys. It is also beset with many “what-ifs.” In fact, a lot of people regard it as a “suicide attempt.”
Knowing that, I still couldn’t let myself be stuck in a situation I couldn't live with. I didn’t think I could ever forgive myself if in the future I’d realize I could have made a difference, but didn’t; because I let my demons scare me off.
So I did some serious thinking, carefully evaluating my prospects and making sure I wouldn’t be affecting too many people in case I’d fail. I planned ahead and saved up; and made sure I’d have a fallback, just in case.
And then I jumped.
The first time I did it, I wasn’t too successful. But neither was my attempt a complete failure. Because I learned from the experience. It sure hurt me, but it hadn’t destroyed my spirit.
And the jump… the jump was, in itself, great. The adrenaline rush. The thrill. The knowledge that I was defying the odds and that I was doing something less courageous people would never dream of doing. Everything was just great.
AM I THERE yet? Heck, I don’t know. I’ve already jumped several times. Each experience was different from the previous. And success rate varied. But I keep learning; I’m becoming better and better.
And yes, changing careers does not assure of dreams fulfilled; that much is true. But it settles the many what-ifs in life. And no, hopping from one job to another is not at all being like a rolling stone. Rolling stones move not because they want to, but because of a stronger external force. They don’t have control of where they are going. We do. We choose how we move or whether we move at all. We decide when. If rolling stones have good chances of getting to where they want to be, how much more chances do we, humans, have?
And if, indeed, steering one’s career to a different direction is like committing suicide, then it is the kind of suicide where one can always turn back and undo everything. It is the kind of suicide I’d be willing to commit again and again, if only to get to a loftier plane.
[seb/april2005]
Postscript
Diary entry, February 2006
Here I am again, trying to decide what to do with my life. I had thought that when I’m already in the “right job,” I’d be very happy and would not want to jump again. I have to say I'm happy with the way things turned out. But what I didn’t count on was that, once you’ve achieved what you’ve set out to achieve, you’d want something else. And in wanting something else, you’d be faced with another dilemma: Would you leave what you’ve worked hard for to try another thing?
But then, maybe this time, there’s no longer any need for me to jump. After all, jumping isn’t the only course I can take. In fact, there are times that it doesn’t make any sense to jump. I mean, why would I jump when I can glide smoothly? Why should I take a plunge when I can dip one foot at a time? Test the waters is what they call it. That sounds like a good advice to me.
With that reasoning in mind, coupled with determination and a clear sense of where I wanted to go, I walked toward the edge of the cliff that was my secure but boring job, not daring to look below (lest I’d lose the courage to jump), and leaped, hoping that there’s an invisible net to catch me, or that the ground wouldn’t be too hard.
There was no net, I soon found out; and I hit the ground with a loud thud. But quickly I stood up and, walking limply, made my way up to the other cliff; with the mind to climb it.
Only to jump off a second time. And a third. And a fourth. And… who knows?
THE URGE TO JUMP started out as a seemingly innocent question — “Where would I be had I done differently?” — that slowly grew into a nagging voice until it became too loud for me to simply ignore. Then I started asking more and more pressing questions: Should I move forward or should I make a turnaround? Should I cling to the safety of my present job or should I leap on to the next?
Shifting careers is not an easy decision to make because it often means going back to square one and giving up the perks one already enjoys. It is also beset with many “what-ifs.” In fact, a lot of people regard it as a “suicide attempt.”
Knowing that, I still couldn’t let myself be stuck in a situation I couldn't live with. I didn’t think I could ever forgive myself if in the future I’d realize I could have made a difference, but didn’t; because I let my demons scare me off.
So I did some serious thinking, carefully evaluating my prospects and making sure I wouldn’t be affecting too many people in case I’d fail. I planned ahead and saved up; and made sure I’d have a fallback, just in case.
And then I jumped.
The first time I did it, I wasn’t too successful. But neither was my attempt a complete failure. Because I learned from the experience. It sure hurt me, but it hadn’t destroyed my spirit.
And the jump… the jump was, in itself, great. The adrenaline rush. The thrill. The knowledge that I was defying the odds and that I was doing something less courageous people would never dream of doing. Everything was just great.
AM I THERE yet? Heck, I don’t know. I’ve already jumped several times. Each experience was different from the previous. And success rate varied. But I keep learning; I’m becoming better and better.
And yes, changing careers does not assure of dreams fulfilled; that much is true. But it settles the many what-ifs in life. And no, hopping from one job to another is not at all being like a rolling stone. Rolling stones move not because they want to, but because of a stronger external force. They don’t have control of where they are going. We do. We choose how we move or whether we move at all. We decide when. If rolling stones have good chances of getting to where they want to be, how much more chances do we, humans, have?
And if, indeed, steering one’s career to a different direction is like committing suicide, then it is the kind of suicide where one can always turn back and undo everything. It is the kind of suicide I’d be willing to commit again and again, if only to get to a loftier plane.
[seb/april2005]
Postscript
Diary entry, February 2006
Here I am again, trying to decide what to do with my life. I had thought that when I’m already in the “right job,” I’d be very happy and would not want to jump again. I have to say I'm happy with the way things turned out. But what I didn’t count on was that, once you’ve achieved what you’ve set out to achieve, you’d want something else. And in wanting something else, you’d be faced with another dilemma: Would you leave what you’ve worked hard for to try another thing?
But then, maybe this time, there’s no longer any need for me to jump. After all, jumping isn’t the only course I can take. In fact, there are times that it doesn’t make any sense to jump. I mean, why would I jump when I can glide smoothly? Why should I take a plunge when I can dip one foot at a time? Test the waters is what they call it. That sounds like a good advice to me.
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