blowing whistles

Was literally cleaning up the room - my world.

After a figurative bottomless pit of paper, I drew the conclusion that I am a paper hoarder.

To liberate myself from such a menace (and for more space) I began the cleansing process.

I let go of some documents, notes, hand-outs, what-not, among many others.

The shelf and every nook and cranny must give way to law school.
LAW SCHOOL. Just saying it out loud mentally makes my brain cells cringe.

Last week, I cleaned the dusty top of a clothes cabinet and gave way for them - the law books. And my, they can take up quite some space.

And based on experience, these books can siphon time. And suck out happiness.

I have to remind myself over and over again that this is it. I should be celebratory right because this is THE dream?

But I am in a constant debate with myself. In spite of the deluge of voices harping doubt, I thank the Lord for allowing me, giving me another shot.

I know that He is quite a busy God and this lawyer-dream can appear to mundane if you put all the world's travails on the backdrop.

Nevertheless, thank you, Lord. For allowing me to live and breathe so I can make difficult choices because that is what being alive is all about.

"I feel like I have to shrink myself to fit in our life together."
-  Banks, Melissa.The Girl's Guide to Hunting & Fishing. 1999.

The first time I saw him after a measly number of days, I was engulfed with sadness. He looked pale. Famished, even. His big eyes (where I got my big eyes from) claimed more space on the hollows of his brown face. He appeared shorter and I was not even wearing heels.

This morning, he was a different man again. Weaker than the last time. Like a dried leaf. Crumpled. Dry. Exhausted from the wind's mindless battering.

We went to church. He sat the entire time. It's okay. He's not feeling well. I am not feeling well.

He told me about his dream a few days ago. His parents (my grandparents) talked to him in a dream. Not a good sign. He told me that he might be leaving soon. But in the dream, Inang said that "you can't die, you still have a lot of responsibilities."

I try my best to be the strong daughter. The one who accompanies you to church with the husband who drives your car because you're too weak to drive the car. The last time you had fever after driving a mere blocks away.

My sister-in-law said that your daughter (they were classmates in elementary) posted on Facebook that if she could only offer ten years of her life for you, she would.

I would like to be the daughter who can write that on Facebook (and not hide under a multiply account). I would like to be the daughter who feels the intensity of your pain, who fears a probable lost or who celebrates your complete healing outspokenly (salamat Ginoo).

I am the daughter who will accompany you to church who has a husband who will drive your car because you're too weak to drive.

And I ask God to love you more, claim you, heal you completely and comfort you.

And I ask God for healing.

Mama's.
Kuya's.
Ate's.
Dyan's.

The staff at the Registrar's Office told me that I might have to re-enroll the subjects since I took them eons ago.

I said I didn't mind.

He told me to wait for a few more minutes.

I went back to the lounge and continued reading page 9 of Ilan Stavan's "On Borrowed Words."

One line struck a chord.

"History needed to start over."

So be it.

Years from now, I will look back to this phase.
I don't have a word for it yet.

I have experienced different moments in my life, some beautifully unforgettable and some deeply painful to a point that I actually have names for them:
the-(insert name)-phase
the-that-who-should-not-be-named-phase
the dark phase
the hemorrhagic phase
the romanticism phase
the existentialism phase

and more.

This is the phase where I chose to un-fight a battle which I might have won.
The battle for my career in development work.

I chose King.

And God, I have a deluge of questions and fears. This place is supposedly my "home" right? But my comfort zone is crippled by doubts. The uncomfortable, distant zone seems be a loftier and cozier option right now.

However, when I see his photos on the local daily everyday no-fail, I beam with pride.
Once I asked him how he "survives" direct contact with a barrage of negative news each day, he lovingly said "I have you at the end of the day."

This is his moment. At the moment, I will try my best to be a good wife and a great best friend.

God help me.

I hit the refresh button countless times.

In between the letters of the word "refresh" I prayed and begged God to make Jessie pass the bar.

But my good friend Jessie did not pass the bar. I am wounded as of writing.

Finding Jessie during a rough phase in my life was the best thing that happened to me in Law School.

Although we have only been friends since 2006, I can already say that Jessie is my closest friend right now. The number of times that I called him for comfort, wisdom, support or mere companionship is countless. He has always been there for me during times when my women friends can't or won't be there for me.

Jessie sacrificed a lot to finish Law School. Along the way, I saw God's hands supporting Jessie's steps in Law School - the support given by a friend for his review, without it he could not have enrolled in the review classes or the free accommodation in Manila by virtue of his ties as a former seminarian, his family's depth of understanding on their situation amidst other trials and so many more.

But I could not understand why it didn't work out for him this time - the most important event in his 5-year sacrifice. It pains me because I know he would make a great, honest and compassionate lawyer. It pains me because I know that it pains him and worse, I do not have the right words to say.

I hold on to Romans 8:28. I can say the verse  by heart. But right now the words are mere words.

"Dear God, help us see Your hand in the face of this defeat. We need to see Your hand, Lord."

Weeks ago, the bus to Malaybalay stopped in Valencia City for lunch. Saw the newspaper guy.

King and I met him when we were still living in Valencia City from 2006-2008 experimenting with a digital studio business. We showed our concern towards him. He seemed like needing concern at that time. He would have meals in our home every now and then.

Fast forward to 2012, our paths crossed again in one of the food stalls at the bus terminal in Valencia City. I could only spare a few minutes so we were not able to talk for too long. I paid for his lunch and gave him extra cash.

He told me "Senador na si...., no?"

Less than ten words. The way he said the less-than-ten-words caused a tsunami inside of me.

I did not forget the newspaper guy. I did not forget my compassion towards him. I did not forget his beaming confidence when he showed us his new watch. I did not forget the way he smiled.

But forgetting is so easy for some people.

I must start forgetting, too.

As I left, we waived good-bye to each other.

I can drown in the salty liquid from the windows of my soul.

I search for words. signs. answers. dots, hidden messages, figures, colors - just about anything from anywhere, everywhere.

Maybe I did not search hard enough. I did not search long enough.

To the kid wearing tattered shoes, THIS is for you.

But doing THIS is like getting inspiration from a jar of pebbles.

You are THE precious pebble.
But YOU are
beneath the ---
way beneath the

Pebbles of Bureaucracy
the Know-it-all
the Countless Ego

Not Human Beings
But Ego

way beneath them all

That I sometimes
oftentimes
FORGET
that YOU are
my reason
for the LONG Hours of Travel
the Homesickness
the Stress
the Anxiety
the Burnt Candles

I pray
to the Almighty.

That all THESE Hard Work
from my muscles, bones, brain cells and heart

Trickle down to
YOU.

Zora Neale Hurston wrote "there are years that ask questions and years that answer."

Dear young self, you have lived years that ask questions.
I know you are eager to know whether answers or at least some answers have been found.

I did not really find any. I'm sorry.

Injustice? Yes it still exist.
Poverty? It is all around.

Your ideals and your ideas? They still burn like morning sun waiting for miracles to consummate their existence.

The idealistic young people who have become cynical adults?
I understand them now.
I have become one of them. I'm sorry. I really am.

You see, it's not a matter of choice between idealism or pragmatism.
It is more of fighting for survival in a harsh world.

We have worked hard to reach the place where we are now.
I am not sure whether you are proud of who we are but I hope this will somehow make you smile.

I will always be proud of you. You and your purposive spirit and your unrelenting passion. If I can be young all over again, I will still choose you.

Only you. With your imperfections and what-not.

However, I am not sure if you will choose me.

True, we have seen some new places - places you have never imagined.
We immersed in experiences that you have never prayed for because you were too timid to claim greater things.
You have written words that you would never have expected to have the courage to write.
You have spoken honest words.

You have changed - for the good. You have become kinder, more patient, gentler, more understanding, more supportive, more generous and stronger.

But I'm sorry. The passion. The passion has to wane. It needed to wane. 

The dreams that you spoke of and the aspirations that you sowed in our hearts - they are still inside. But I am not sure how longer can they still stay.

Remember the faces? They are still here.

But most of the time, there's really nothing much that we can do. I'm sorry.

The world demands. It demands a lot. It exacts too much.

I need to see the other side of the world, too, before it's too late.

I have to be pragmatic. I hope you understand what I am trying to say.

Our hearts are still the same but over the years, the heart has bled profusely.

We need to change. Please don't mock me. Please don't belittle me. I did not fail you.

Honestly, we tried our best.

Please understand.

My father has stage 3 nasopharyngeal cancer.

The first time I knew about it, it wasn't his pain or his suffering that first came to mind.

I thought of my own lost. My own suffering. How can I be so selfish?

A great percentage written in this blog is about my love for a father who did not choose me.
For the father who always chose to leave me.

And when I learned of his sickness, the words "stage 3," "malignant," and "metastasis" sounded familiar. These were characteristics of my own sickness. The loneliness-of-a- daughter-carcinoma.

Others expect that I can easily accept this and move on. After all, this was a man who scarred me. But in spite of the excruciating pain, deep inside, I secretly hope that I can still create good memories with him. After all, I will only have one father in this lifetime.

I have a workload which cannot wait for me any longer. I have a husband who tries his best to understand me even when I cannot understand myself. I have a God who promises to "never leave me and forsake me."

But I really don't know what to do. What to feel. How to move on. How to go on.

How do you lose someone whom you have already lost?

i want you to be a ripper.

rip my heart open and see what's inside.

i want you to look closely and see.

sincerity.

i want you to study the walls and find.

passion.


i want you to be a ripper.

don't look at my body.

stare at my spirit.

then rip.

rip and you will find burning compassion.


i do not care about the pain.

nor the wounds.

nor death.


to be judge

is

more painful

than

death.

I lost Uncle Danny. He was the best uncle for me.

Uncle Danny was special. He had Down's Syndrome.

My cousin said that while he was struggling at the public hospital, he was also looking for me, calling out my name.

I love him because I felt safe with him. I remember how he look forward to my visits. I brought him coffee, biscuits, candies and of course, coloring books with a box of crayons.

I realized that drawing eases any confusion, softens anger and soothes unspoken pain.
I like to draw.

Growing up, my cousins would just call him "Danny." But Mama always reminded us to call him "Uncle."

I felt safe with him.
I never felt safe with other male relatives after an incident.

His smile was so honest and pure. Countless smiles nowadays account for nothing.

Because of Lola and Uncle Danny, the family has been divided. Harsh words have been said. A lot of love got wasted - bottled and marinated with selfishness and self-righteousness turning into indifference.

But I always stood my ground. I stood for love.

My aunt passed away a few days ago.

She sent me a text message weeks back asking me how come I have not visited.

Before that, the words she said to me during Uncle Danny's wake were pitch black. She was angry about so many things. Even my mom who NEVER cursed against my father's mistresses was "at fault."

I pleaded why can't I take my Mom's place? If she's not doing enough for her family then what am I doing? I represent her. I am emphatic and I share because of Mama.

But the words were pregnant with anger I could not control.

I fetched her daughter the other night.
I was to break the news to her. That her mom died. Auntie died.

She cried with deep anguish, her hands were cold and hard as a stone. I massaged her hands to soothe the pain I try hard to be familiar with.

----

30 is not too far away now.

Years ago, 30 seemed distant and elusive.

But now, 30 is within reach and it worries the bipolar in me.

Months ago, I hosted a wedding reception for a schoolmate. One of the couple's godfather was a former professor. During an awkward break, he told me that I appeared better and calmer. More at peace (with myself), he said. He added that when I was in my college days it was as if I wanted to do too many things.

Too many things. Like it is a bad thing.

My husband says the same things. He said that I am more balanced right now. I now have a practical approach to life. He said it like it's a good thing.

I know that I am not at all perfect.
Clearly, imperfect in so many ways.

But why do I love the younger Deewai so much?

I prefer her a hundred times over.
She was brave, cunning and passionate. She thought of ideas and new plans and seriously believed she can change the world. She wrote love letters on perfumed paper and expressed her feelings with intensity. She cried honest tears and expressed her anger because she had to. She dreamed and believed each one of them like they were truth. She believed she was destined for greatness. She gazed at her life like it had a mythical power, as if marked for something beyond her imagination.

But I was the only one who truly loved her.
And of course, my mamerks.

I don't understand why she's never enough.

The two towering star apple trees outside home was a sight I loved.

Was because my aunt who owns the lot (thus, the soil, the trees and the living things present before we even existed) and the barangay official who approved the request to cut down the trees decided that the trees were a threat to the safety of the houses nearby.

During days and months pregnant with worries, anxieties, doubts and a whirlpool of questions, the star apple trees reminded me of balance and acceptance.

Of the importance of choosing silence over a deluge of voices that are unimportant. Including my own doubtful voice.

And just the auditory knowledge that hundreds of birds find shelter under blanket of leaves and branches was proof that we are all taken cared of regardless of where we are and who we are.

The vicious sound of the mechanical cutting machine was torture to somebody who learned to love the trees as loyal friends who were around when others chose not to dig deeper.

Since that day I chose not to open the window.

The absent view is a reminder of what is now gone.

And although I comfort my soul and whisper "they have already fulfilled their mission, hence, it is time to go" these words can never ease the hollow inside.

After months of agony, I finally decided to undergo cortisone injection to ease the pain brought about by carpal tunnel syndrome in my right hand.

The process was brief. I partially (I was closing my eyes during the entire procedure) saw three needles. The last one, albeit the post-anesthesia needle, was relatively painless but my doctor said that the injection was yet superficial and the needle has not reached the ligament yet.

And so it reached the ligament. That was a unique sensation.

I left the hospital happy and proud of myself  for having decided and gone through the process on my own. I dropped by the mall before I went home.

But after an hour or so, I felt an unexplainable, unfamiliar pain. I went home and clearly, the medicine was starting to make its presence felt.

I could not find the words to explain the pain and the psychological confusion  (scared that all the more I could not move my fingers). I haplessly tried describing it to my younger siblings who are all in the medical field and who all have high tolerance for pain by saying that "imagine your hand has a mouth and teeth of course, now, you decided to have your molars extracted." It was that painful for me.

And during the second and third day, the pain around my carpal tunnel was dominating and no amount of literature and a slew of apocalyptic world events could deter me from even for just a brief moment forget about the pain.

A few more days letter, the pain began to wane. And my right hand's dexterity, energy and spirit has come back. Thank you, Lord. Thank you for the wisdom and sunny disposition of Dr. Samson Peli at the East Asia Orthopaedic and Rehab Institute.

But I am sincerely sorry for my right hand who has endured wear and tear all these years. Although I credit the literature, authors, professors, experiences, images and wonderful people I have met who/which moved me to try my hand in writing, painting, gardening, public speaking and changing-the-world kind of mantra but it was you, my right hand, who served as the instrument to put those ideas and thoughts into tangible art. I will not take you for granted again. #

I remember when I was young, I scribbled words, phrases on our wooden wall. Using colored, dusty chalks (and an obvious bias for the pink chalk), I proudly wrote my name: Dyan Aimee V. Mabunga. I wrote my favorite words: cat, dog, flower, cake, candy, doll, pink, clouds, stars and drew a humble bahay-kubo amidst a mountain range under hovering and visible sunrays.

As I am typing this, I look at the scribbles on the white wall:
"The King Poem"
My Prayer Schedule
My Student Number
Important Dates
Unforgettable Moments
Sad Days
My Dreams
My Plans
A map to Columbia University
My Prayers to God
Answered Prayers
Unanswered Ones

Today, I will scribble on the wall again.

But I do not know if the exact word which can express how I feel at this very moment has already been created.

 

the shattered blue-stained glass
did not hurt her bare feet

the sharp unseen rays of the sun
under the smoked sky
did not touch her skin

the two-edged words,
the rough calloused hands
did not move her body

the untold sadness in her mind
was like
papercut
a hundred times over