blowing whistles

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

We shall fulfill our aspirations for the rural communities. We shall once again speak to hundreds, thousands of young people. We shall inspire. We shall draw inspiration. We shall be vessels for positive change. We shall move mountains.

For the time being, yes, please build your own dreams. I understand how it is to be your age. I was in the same plane seven years ago. I understand the labyrinth of questions and anxieties. I can empathize with the need to suppress harbored ambitions for the pragmatic "because we have responsibilities at home." I will constantly pray for you. I will whisper your name when I speak with our Creator. I will breathe your hopes like they are my own.

And I promise. I promise to be better and stronger. Please give me 2,190 days.
I will be your stronghold.

"Rise and rise until the lamb becomes a lion."

Dear Dyan,

You read and re-read Coehlo's prose and allow the words to fall on your soul like rain.

But you often miss out the message when it's time to fight for your dreams. "Dreams are not negotiable," Coehlo wrote. Do not forget that.

What are you scared of? What causes your spirit to be paralyze by fear? What did the world do the deserve such frailty?

Today is January 1, 2011. You are 28 years old.

Thank GOD for the gift of life, the gift of love, the gift of pain, the gift of healing, the gift of memories, the gift of poetry, the gift of tears, the gift of hands that wipe tears, the gift of words, the gift of arguments, the gift of prose, the gift of sorries, the gift of wounds, the gift of embraces and the gift of you.

You tell me that you love Bukidnon.

You speak of your dreams ---

Of building an institute for rural communities

Of being a reliable and credible rights advocate

Of being an elections lawyer in emerging democracies

Of putting up a Cafe

Of living in Indonesia or Cambodia working on electoral reforms while King expands his horizons as a photojournalist

Of giving your family the best that you can give

Of writing that one novel that the world can relate to

And of speaking to various international audiences

Shall these remains as dreams?



Dyan, dare to follow your dreams.

This is your year.




P.S.At the end of the day, when the road is tough, you know that your fan club (king, mama, ate, jessie, mona, momi & dadi) will always be around with their faith in you as the fire which will keep your will alive.

I met Jessie Baylosis during the first day of class in Ateneo de Davao Law way back in 2005. He was seated at the back and instead of chatting with an acquaintance I decided to sit beside him. I was drawn to him. I knew at that instant we would be friends.

Years later, we remain friends. Hands down, meeting him is the best thing that happened to me in my first taste of law school.

Jessie and I also share the same birthday. He is likewise married and we are both blessed to have wonderful, patient and supportive spouses. He is graduating soon and will take the Bar in 2011.



Over sundaes and burgers, Jessie and I talked about our ideals, our dreams, our disappointments and our faith. King sat beside him and joined in the conversation.

Months ago, he invited me to give a talk to his students at the university and I gladly did that in spite of some hitches. How we transcend beyond our personal experiences and work side by side as advocates is a gift as well.

Yesterday, he gave me a present,a bracelet and a book. But more than the presents, his faith in the Lord, how he managed to study Law in Davao and travel everyday from Tagum City, how he shared his experiences like when he had to suppress his hunger because if he would buy peanuts he would be short of fare, how he chose to be absent in certain days because he did not have enough money, how his wife manifests his support for his studies, how he loves his kid and how he motivates me to fight for my dreams - these are the reasons why I am grateful that I studied Law in Ateneo de Davao (in spite of the mishaps) that semester in 2005.

Thank you, Lord for allowing me to cross path with a friend like Jessie :-)

I'm preparing for a meeting-party tomorrow in Dalwangan. The boss' Malaybalay residence is located in the middle of vast stretches of pineapples. The breeze in Dalwangan is wonderful. It is just the right amount of cold and comfort. Nay Belen will surely whip up dishes which will one more time blow our minds (and diet) away. And I would love to hear the stories, the laughter, the sighs of my officemates. I love the group. All of them, as a collective, is by far the best group of people I have worked with.

I moved to Bukidnon in 2006 for a number of reasons. One reason for sure was for escape. I needed to be away from the rat race that I managed to put myself into and I needed to have focus (literally to just have one job) and to slow down in ways more than one. Exactly two days after our wedding, King and I moved to Bukidnon. I expected to go through the workplace adjustment phase, bouts of misunderstanding, financial struggles and the overwhelming, crazy first years of marriage.

Indeed there were difficulties. My education, my love for literature did not prepare me for the realities of putting up a business. King and I invested in a digital studio, buying a camera, peripherals, studio lights, renting out a place in the poblacion area, hiring some personnel but it was absolutely not a piece of cake. It was not at all easy. And we found ourselves arguing, refuting each other, creating more arguments and asking ourselves if marriage was the right choice.

But in spite of all the difficulties, there was always something about King that strengthened our relationship. He always looked at me with awe. He listened to my speeches in the universities, the government halls and even the barangays with so much awe and wonder that while the audience might have expected inspiration, I looked to King for adulation. He was consistently mesmerized with my idealism. This, although, did not come much as a shocker because he said that he realized he loved me after I gave a voters' education talk in Brokenshire College in 2004. Odd but maybe this is meant to be.

So it seems that his respect for my ideas, my passions kept the boat, that is marriage, afloat. Before King, I have always admired photos. I looked at photos, images and I intently imagine the stories, the words, the emotions and the vision of the person behind the lens. Consequently, King's passion was my passion, as well. In spite of the arguments, the dilemma on how to pay the bills, my respect for his craft was so intense that it filled the cracks in our marriage.

And the work in Bukidnon was just what I wanted. I wanted to experience primarily the process of delivery of basic services, how the PDAF could be spent for responsive infrastructure, and how to build crucial policies needed on the ground. And I experienced just that. It was not at all easy because under the previous administration, we were in the opposition; thus, we experienced having delayed, frozen or worse, unreleased funds earning the ire, criticism of the constituents and many key people in LGUs and provincial agencies.

But looking back, I cannot easily pinpoint all the disappointing experiences but there were a few which stand out in memory. The first time I was asked to represent the office in the Municipal Development Council Meeting in one of the municipalities in Bukidnon was made more unforgettable by how the presiding officer, the municipal mayor, clamped down on the boss by lambasting me in front of the 60-member council. Or when the spokesperson of a government official made fun of what would have been my inspirational speech to the provincial day care workers. Or how can I forget the day when the officials of a huge assembly expected somebody else to represent the boss and I was not offered a seat at all. And a keeper was when we had a constituent at the public hospital who needed blood and unfortunately we did not have the funds, so I decided to donate my blood and the government employee in the hospital, unknowing that I was doing that on behalf of our office, had to rudely, inefficiently insert the needle more than four times;when she knew that I was with the Congressional Office, she was immediately congenial and gentle.

There were tough times but there were countless wonderful times. The early morning coffee in the upland, the three-hour habal-habal rides under the rain and the poetry of clouds, rain, sunset, rainbows!

Lord, I hope tomorrow will be one of those countless wonderful times :-)

Around sunset, his right arm under my head, King whispered that a simple life is better : "just like this."

Hours before that, I was trying to weave words and memories on how thankful I am that I will reach my 28th year of existence soon.

But at that moment, it dawned on me and it became more defined -
my greatest accomplishment was finding King.

Loving King means being able to love nine more wonderful people, his parents and siblings.

Loving King means being loved back, being adored like I'm his version of Athena.

Thank you Lord for this love. If I will live this life one more time, I will endure the same magnitude of pain and hurt, the same intensity of happiness and gladness, for as long as it means finding King and seeing the love we have in the same light that you have foreseen it.

I thank the Lord for 28.

When I was in Colombo, Sri Lanka, I bought a pendant in the shape of a teardrop. From afar, Sri Lanka appears like a teardrop; hence, the unique design.

For sure, a person cannot keep count of all the teardrops which fell from one's eyes. More so for me. I think if there is a hypothetical tank of teardrops designated for every person, for all the tears one has cried in one's life, my tank would be burgeoning with teardrops. 

The stories behind each teardrop can be downright mundane to the excruciatingly painful. But I respect each teardrop. Each teardrop signifies that I am a work in progress. I am proud of the tears which I have cried on behalf of other people's pain.

But what if a person is the cause of the teardrop? That the teardrops were not on behalf of another's pain but because of that one person.

The consistency of my tears may have brought people close around me to think that they are constant and nothing special.

When a love one or an acquaintance has honest tears in the eyes, it is as if words have lost their essence --- I immediately cross the boundaries and try to be truly present for that one person.

But how can one person, one's world, be the reason for the tears? That one person can stare at the moment and look at tears as a form of matter, particularly salty liquid, without feeling the need to stop the tears from flowing or the passion to wipe with one's hands the pain and claim them as his?

Sri Lanka is shaped like a teardrop. A lonely teardrop.

mama, ate and i had an honest conversation the other day.

so honest that our collective tears could drown our surroundings - of sorrows masked by smiles, of memories unsaid and of undisclosed pain.

the conversation lasted for a few minutes.

but i can live my life in countless minutes
with peace in my heart,
courage in my spirit
integrity in my soul
because of that conversation.

love, truly, survives.

Expectations are constant as rain falling on the ground. As a person matures, the expectations develop, as well. Expectations can be fuel for greatness or they can also be the rope to pull a person's imaginals or scoff innate creativity.

Now that I have been married for four years and turning 28 on Christmas Day, I am beginning to feel the expectations of friends and colleagues and the unsolicited sympathetic remarks that I should not worry because I will eventually have a child.

I know that it may sound off for some but I am not so keen on having a child anytime soon and I think, King feels the same way (I think). While my sister aspires for her "mini-me" I have not given that much thought recently. In 2004, I aspired to have a kid in the future (which should be the now) and planned to call her Umaga. My mother teased me and said that I chose that name because the word was somehow related to a person I loved back then. But honestly, I just love the word Umaga. And so I would mutter, Umaga Mabunga.

I did not descend into harbored ambition, but I honestly feel I do not have much time. It is odd, unheartwarming and gloomy. But that is true. I just realized that while inside the bus last night. Since college, I wanted to do so many things. And along the way when I find passion and love, I try my best to fight for them because I feel that I do not have much time. Is this a psychological disorder or merely a manifestation of stress? I am unsure.

And that is precisely why I could not imagine having a child. But if God wills, then I will embrace the gift. But right now, inside of me, I feel that there is not much time. And when I feel that I have wasted moments or opportunities, I sometimes sleep on a bed of regrets because I do not know if there is a possibility to trudge the same path.

****

Indeed, I am not young anymore. I come across death from time-to-time - the death of a relative, a neighbor, a family friend, a colleague, a classmate, a bestfriend and a hero.

Death is painful, whether it's certain, expected, unexpected or tragic. Two weeks ago, an acquaintance from a local church succumbed to cardiac arrest. Her husband said that she suddenly snored loudlier than usual (and so maybe he thought that "this is just one of those nights") but seconds later, his great love did not breathe life anymore. She left behind a husband who adored her like she was royalty and a young boy who will grow up to be a man with memories of flavorful stir-fried noodles, warm, long hugs and a soft voice she will never hear again in this lifetime.

Last night, an instructor from a university died with the other violent hand of death. He lived a colorful life and radiated all these positive energies. His eyes were beautiful and they had a certain welcoming spark.He was my age or so.

Death makes me re-think my life. What have I been putting off? Indeed, I have to live a life in accordance with my Creator; at the end of all of these, I would like to be with Him. But am I living my life towards that direction? I do not know. Sometimes I am torn between the philosophy of living life in the moment or for the moment or taking a more strategic path with carefully planned cobblestones of aspirations and goals.

What I know for sure is this, I do not want to leave this lifetime with regrets.

I want to be able to say these -

that I have expanded my horizons in spite of the mountain range of constraint
that I have always believed in my burning potential even when the rest of the world and my own capabilities etch limits
that I have given passion and kindness,
     dispensed my ideas that I think would change the world,
      wrote poetry although not another soul reads them or 
        embrace people I love although they may not love me just as much.



 

Love is not easy.

Love exacts, demands diligence, commitment, focus and kindness.

As a person grows older, as time passes by, as days turn into years, one's knowledge increases or wanes, one's love burns with passion or burns to ashes, one's memories grow stronger or descend to oblivion or one's soul becomes older, wiser but unhappy or younger, wild, free but unforgiving of oneself.

But there are moments which can never be interchanged with the temporal.

In 2003, I visited a college friend in Catalunan Grande. I walked the path towards her home, her aunt's home, in fact, as she had to stay with a relative because of poverty. But that is all together another story.

I passed by a two-story house and what caught my attention was the porch at the veranda. I stared at it for a few seconds or so and continued to walk. Another house caught my attention because of the distinct banana tree, its leaves were divinely arranged like a fan.

In 2006, King and I had a garden wedding ceremony and that distinct banana tree served as witness. We got married in his Lola's home.

A day after our wedding, we moved to Bukidnon and took risks - in entrepreneurship, in work and in love.

And then entrepreneurship got in the way with the love.

In 2009, I was tasked to move back to Davao for the electoral campaign. My books, clothes, pillows moved as well. But our lives reluctantly moved back to Davao.

But I got my King back. The King I met in 2006. Hence, it was worth it.

The veranda porch I saw in 2003 now serves as witness to the re-building of the ruins and the pillars that is called love.