CONVERSATION WITH THE OTHER SON

Yesterday's gospel is about the Prodigal Son.  You know how it goes - rebellious son makes an advance claim on his inheritance, squanders it in a foreign land, comes home and ask forgiveness, Dad throws a party.  What the parable does NOT say is that, amidst all the fanfare, the prodigal son wanted so badly to leave the crowd and talk to the one whom everyone else had forgotten – the other son.  The one who remained faithful.  The one who stayed behind.  He wanted so much to tell him of the regret.  Of the scars that will never go away.  Of the wasted time that is forever lost.  This post is about the brother-to-brother conversation that never happened but should have.  Words of love from the prodigal one, spoken from the heart, to the other son.

1.  Appreciating that you have everything is difficult unless you've experienced having nothing.  I get it.  Father may have said "Everything I have is yours".  But you couldn't see it.  I know why.  I, too, was blind to the riches of my Father.  Until I had to get on all fours, just to share a meal in the mud.  The three little pigs are overrated – they are actually smelly, noisy and have no table manners.  And in that pig sty, when I had been reduced to nothing, that was my moment of epiphany.  Life with Dad is heaven (literally) compared to this.  With Him I had everything.  Dear brother, open your eyes to all that Father has given you.  Hop on a camel and take a tour of his granaries, pastures and hordes of gold.  Bring a lot of water for the trip, as it will be a long one.  Mark my word, halfway through the tour, you will return home and tell yourself that indeed, Father CAN give you everything.  Just ask.


2.   Envy the home, not the homecoming.  You think that being away from Dad is cool?  Just look where I ended up.  Sure, the pictures I uploaded showed me having the time of my life.  But that's all they were - pictures.  None of them showed the secret ache in my heart to go back home.  You envy me now, brother?  But this is just a party.  Would you still envy me if I told you that nothing in this world would ever give me back those years I spent away from you?  Would you still envy me if I showed you the scars from the beating of my cruel masters, and they will forever remind me of the pain?  Would you still envy me if I told you that I am haunted by memories of a past I cannot change?  Envy me not, brother.  This homecoming? It's just a party.  But Father's word to you that "You are with me always"?  I would give everything I have just to hear Him say those words to me.  But those words are forever yours and yours alone, and only because, you decided to just stay home.


3.  Celebrate.  You didn't think I heard you grumbling, did you?  About being the obedient one and yet not even a goat was roasted for you and your friends?  Do you know how ridiculous you sounded out there?  Have you seen Dad's herds lately?  You could have a frickin party every night!  Question.  Did you ever ASK him for a party?  Look at me and answer the question.  Gees, you might be the good son, but you're not very smart.  Father wants to celebrate with you - every day, every night, every minute!  This robe?  It's not even my color.  These rings are a size too big and the sandals are a size too small.  Dad had to whip up this shindig and didn't have a lot of time to prepare.  But you, you had all the time and opportunity to party with Father while I was away, but you didn't.  But it's not too late.  Start now.  Party with Dad. 


4.  Smile more.  Ok, so you served the Father and not once did you disobey His orders.  Was one of his orders not to smile?  Even before I left, your smiles were scarce.  Do you know that one of the reasons I left was because you were always so angry with me?  You kept looking at what I wore, what I did, what I didn't do, etc.  Maybe if you paid less attention to me, and started looking at how great YOUR life is for a change, you would have more to smile about.  Father never threw parties for you because you were always so serious.  Smile, brother!  If I were a man who had everything, I would be laughing all day!               


I, the Prodigal Son, never got the chance to talk to my brother, so I hope he's reading this.  Brother, I dedicate this post to you and others like you, who think that staying home and being with the Father has lost its meaning, its purpose, its joy.  You who are tempted to think that evil is more fun, and envy those who have taken that route.  Trust me, that path leads to death;  I just got out in time.  Ask, and you shall receive.  Knock and the door will be opened.  Go ahead.  Father's waiting.

Note to self:  At noon mass tomorrow, ask for a party.  And for Tito Benny Albano, your party has just started.     

GOING ON THE UN-DIET

I know, I know, there is no such word as un-diet.  In fact, any nutritional regimen, whether to lose weight or to gain it, is referred to as a diet.  But since the term is usually associated with the excruciating deprivation of food, I will refer to my weight-gaining program as the un-diet.

One of the side effects of the kidney illness I suffered from 2006 to 2010 is a form of anorexia.  I had lost my desire for food and for eating.  Nothing, not even a no-holds-barred treat in any of my favorite restaurants, could motivate my palate.  Post-surgery, I had dropped to a mere 94 pounds (41 or so kilograms, if you are using the metric system), just 4 pounds away from my wedding day weight.  Next to taking the residual antibiotics from my hospital confinement, the second most resounding instruction I received from all my attending doctors is GAIN WEIGHT.

So, much to the envy of my sisters and friends, I went on an un-diet.  Unlike the starving diet-holics around me, I on the contrary had to binge on everything and anything that would tip the weighing scale in my favor.  I defied the norm of pinching calories, and instead indulged myself in gustatory experiences limited only by my imagination (chicharon Cebu and root beer float, steak with mashed potatoes, with lechon sisig for dessert).  And in the course of undertaking the un-diet program, I asked myself - in our culture and society today, why have we gotten so used to depriving ourselves of the delicious and satisfying?  When we say "guilty pleasure", have we actually convinced ourselves that feeling good is a bad thing?  In withholding our desire for food, have we accidentally put our minds, hearts and spirits on a diet as well?

1.  Carbo-loading.  Rice, bread, pasta.  Our bodies are designed to metabolize these carbohydrate-rich foods to generate energy for all of our bodily activities.  We can compare carbohydrates to the fuel (petrol to the British) that we fill up our vehicles with if we want to go places.  Similarly, without carbohydrates as fuel, our bodies cannot energize the physical and mental demands of life.  Without energy, we cease to live.  We cannot give if we do not take.  We cannot teach if we do not know.  We cannot share blessings if we are too ignorant, or too proud, to receive them.  Carbo-loading.  Fueling our minds and bodies with the nourishment that comes from food, supplements, exercise, family, friendships, books, movies, prayer - clusters of energy we can draw on everyday to live our lives with joy, enthusiasm and positive anticipation.

2.  Feeding on the fat - again, in the science of metabolism, our bodies first burn the carbohydrates for energy.  If this runs out, the body moves on to what's next in line - fat.  Low-carb or no-carb diets flourish on this principle - that a body devoid of carbohydrates will have no choice but to burn the stored fat.  FAT is the enemy, fat is the target, fat must go.  Going on the un-diet made me see and appreciate all the fat in my life.  People who know me are probably saying "You?  Fat?  Hello!?!  If you're fat, what do you call me?!?"  Hold on,  I'm not talking about body fat.  I'm talking about the excesses that I keep in storage, saving them for the so-called "special occasion" or "if we have important guests".  The expensive perfume that I will spray on only if I am going to a party.  The clothes that I bought to wear for attending seminars in posh hotels or meetings with VIP clients (some of these clothes I bought months ago are actually still in the paper bags they came in, promise!).  The Noritake dinnerware set that I received as a wedding gift close to 20 years ago - plates, cups and saucers that I have been saving for THE fine dining experience.  In the end, a lot of the perfume had evaporated or thickened to a gooey oily consistency which I think is what happens to perfumes that never leave their boxes.  Many of the clothes had gone out of style.  The Noritake? Sneezing from dust allergies as we speak.  All that fat to burn.  What am I waiting for?  Why did it take this long for me to understand that every single day that God allows us to spend with the people we love IS actually a special occasion?  That every client IS a Very Important Person(can I not count this client who was really rude to me last Saturday? Pleeease?)?  That every meal with family or with friends is a dining experience that is so FINE?  You know the other thing that diet books don't say about fat?  It's that fat warms our bodies and heals body parts that have been injured or are not well.  Warmth and healing.  How could I have allowed myself to miss out on these for so many years.  Fat is beautiful.

3.  Milking it.  The last fictional novel I read before being wheeled into surgery is a book entitled Plain Truth by Jodi Picoult.  The background of the story is an Amish community where every meal that is put on the table is grown or raised in the vast farmlands the Amish families call home.  And the first farm task of the day is always the milking of their cows.    This routine does not end until mama cow has no more milk to give, for that day anyway.  Milk.  It's also a verb, you know.  On-line Merriam Webster defines it as "drawing advantage from to an extreme degree".  Relishing every moment.  Squeezing all the good that every experience has to offer.  Watching movies till the closing credits are over.  Taking every chance I get to be with my parents, listening to their stories, even the ones I have heard for a godzillion times (Dad, remember this Filipino guy who died helping you during the Japanese time; Mom, how all the sweets in your family had to be divided by eight, because you had to share EVERYTHING with your 7 siblings - yup, those stories).  Having coffee with a friend who will soon be migrating to Manila.  Milking it.  So that in the end, I would have no regrets about missing opportunities to love.

4.  Sugar Rush.  This is what they call the sudden surge of energy that one gets when eating sweets.  The thing about the sugar rush, though, is that the energy boost is quick but short-lived, Soon after, there is a rapid energy meltdown and the hyperactivity metabolizes itself into lethargy.  Parents of young children avoid giving them sweets in the afternoon because they anticipate the insane rowdiness that will die down into an ill-timed nap.  They keep away the good thing because they see the bad thing just around the corner.  Sadly, I too avoid the sugar rush because I am so afraid that it is actually just a prelude to future disappointment.  Whenever a sweet thing comes into my life, I look past it and scan the horizon for the oncoming disaster.  I don't take the time to luxuriate in sweet moments, because I am already gearing up for the meltdown.  Surely, I tell myself, life cannot be sweet for very long; surely, the bitter aftertaste is just up ahead.  Looking back now, I get this sinking feeling in my heart about missing out on what could have been the sweetest minutes of my life.  But instead of dwelling on those times that are forever lost anyway, I will from now on keep a keen eye on all the candy-coated moments coming my way and just suck on that sugar.  I WILL bask in the exhilarating feeling of jumping into the pool with my clothes on, and NOT worry about the laundering nightmare afterwards.  I WILL buy knee-high boots and wear them with a summer dress, and NOT worry about the snide remarks that we live in a tropical country, blah blah blah.  It's called a "rush" because there is no time to waste.  Slowpokes get nothing.                                    

Today, I am back to my fighting weight of 110 pounds.  My teenage daughters have since inherited the tiny, tiny shirts and skinny, skinny jeans I had accumulated over my 4-year anorexic period.  And while savoring the un-diet program over the past 2 months, I have gained more than just pounds.  I have also learned one important allegory about life - it is a meal.  It can be as bland or as flavorful as we make it.  We can starve ourselves or indulge.  Eat up or go hungry.  The next one I'm having is on a Noritake dinner plate.

Note to self:  Ask my sister Jessette where to find a hot pair of knee-high boots.  

MONICA

Last Friday, August 27, my husband and I attended our daily noontime mass at the St. Paul Parish.  To my surprise, the officiating priest announced that it was the Feast Day of St. Monica.  Immediately, I felt a girlish pleasure in knowing that it was my feast day (My name Monique is short for Monica), like it was some sort of mini-birthday and a minor celebration was in order.  And then the priest went on to announce that St. Monica is the patron saint of all mothers!?!  I looked incredulously at my husband, and felt the weight a self-imposed burden.  I thought, why couldn't she be the patron saint of writers?  impulsive shoppers?  Or chocolate addicts?  Why did I have to be named after a woman whose specialty is a vocation for which I still have so many inadequacies?  That day, going down the steps of St. Paul, I promised that I would research on the life of St. Monica, and find out the little-known details that make her less of a saint and more of a mortal being, the stuff that makes her more like...ME.

1.  Monica prayed for the conversion of her pagan husband Patricius.  My husband is no pagan.  Never was.  Yet in the first 9 years of our marriage, I prayed for his conversion.  My husband liked to drink.  Alcohol.  A lot of it.  And in his drunken stupor, he would always behave like a fool, no, like an idiot.  And the morning after, he would completely forget about the night before.  And then ask forgiveness.  And then everything would be ok again, until the next drinking bout.  The ninth year was the toughest.  Literally, all I had was a prayer.  And that was all it took.  That year, he was called to be a full-time worker for Gawad Kalinga.  And God just blocked every road to alcohol without me lifting a finger.  As we close in on our 20th year of marriage, I will not pretend that the 11-year journey to sobriety has been alcohol-free.  But certainly it has been marked by self-control and moderation, and on occasion,  with a drink shared with me.  The prayer of a faithful wife for spousal conversion is always answered.  The key word is: faithful.   

2.  The conversion of Monica's son St. Augustine took nine years, and a friendship with Bishop Ambrose.  Other than Patricius, her son Augustine was Monica's greatest thorn at her side.  When the rebellious Augustine left for Milan in Italy, he came under the fatherly care of Bishop Ambrose.  And after 9 heartbreaking years of unrelenting prayers from Monica, Augustine eventually saw the light and the good bishop solemnized the future saint's Christian baptism.  Oh Saint Monica, high five on the 9 years!  In a bizarre way, I thank God for this parallelism that I share with my namesake.  And Bishop Ambrose is actually two people in my husband's life.  Joey Mempin and Tony Meloto.  The two of you unwittingly brought my husband to his second baptism, one of the spirit and not of water, and one that changed his life forever.    

3.  Monica was caught "wine-bibbing" by her parents.  What a relief - she was not holy ALL her life.  When she was a teenager, one of her household tasks was to draw dinner wine for her parents from the cellar.  Unbenownst to them, she would take curious sips that escalated to a daily swig, and before she knew it, she was a boozer.  One day, a family slave caught her in the act.  Shamed by her drunken ways, she gave up the habit and went cold turkey.  There began a life of self-control and virtue.  My parents regularly read this blog.  And today, I will admit to them that my "study groups" in college were not ALWAYS about studying, and there were occasions of "wine-bibbing" as well.  Unlike Monica, though, my penance was not prompted by being caught by any of our yayas.  I may have escaped my parents' wrath, but intoxication stared me in the face in the first 9 years of my marriage.  And while I am not even close to Monica's life of holiness, at the very least I have learned two lessons from this indiscretion.  One, the consequence of disobeying one's parents will eventually catch up with you, regardless of age.  And two, pray that the debt of parental disobedience is NOT paid through your own children.

4.  The life of Monica is read in the voluminous writings of St. Augustine.  The details of Monica's life are found in Book 9 of St. Augustine's major literary work entitled Confessions.  Other than that, not much information is available on her life.  I believe that it is every mother's dream to have her life "written" in the life of her children.  At one point in our life as mothers, we prefer anonymity and relinquish all our dreams of glory to our children.  Some women leave behind acts of greatness as their legacy - a work of art, a successful corporate career, a string of philantrophic works.  But many of us mothers simply leave behind our children as our personal legacy, hoping and praying that: 1) the world is better off because we raised our children well; and 2) they will do a better job than we did.  Like Monica, my hope and prayer is for people to know me through my children.

5.  "Nothing is far from God".  These were the words of Monica when asked where she wanted to be buried.  Her original plan was to be buried in her homeland of Tagaste.  But she fell ill in Ostia, Italy, and her children were contemplating how to transport her should the end come.  She was quick to assure her children that her burial place did not matter because "Nothing is far from God".  I realize now that my children may have a similar quandary as I have two homes - Davao and Manila.  I leave this message to them: "Nothing is far from God".  Do not trouble yourself about determining the politically correct resting place for my mortal body, because this is immaterial.  Do what is most practical and be comforted by the thought that Mommy is with God, and that is all that matters.

Monica, your life rocks.  With your name, I carry the responsibility of your saintly motherhood.  Hope you put in a good word for all the women on the planet named Monica.  Hats off to you and see you in the next life.

Note to self:  Ask my children to name at least one of my grandchildren Monica.

LETTER FOR CACA

Last August 7, 2010, our goddaughter Micaela Gatchalian turned sixteen.  Today, August 28, is the day she and her family chose to celebrate this debut of sorts, two years earlier than the traditional 18, but no less sweeter.  This post is dedicated to her. 

Dear Caca,

Sixteen?!?! Has it already been fourteen years since we first met you?  Sorry for the cliche, but it really does seem like only yesterday.  Our first visit to your Zinnia house so that our eldest daughter Kim could play with you.  The less-than-fashionable way you would wear your Pampers diapers (let's keep that a secret).  Your toddler days at the Center for Brighter Beginnings where you and my daughters spent your first years of school, in a world where "all the rain drops were lemon drops and gum drops, where all the sunbeams were candy canes and ice cream."

Today, we your godparents are leaving you with Sixteen Things We Would Like to Tell Caca on Her Birthday.  Some are serious, the others quirky - but all wrapped in the same love and fondness we have had for you over the past fourteen years.

1.  There is no expiration date on being a good daughter.  Oh how your Mama beams with pride as she tells stories of your goodness, of how you turned out to be a daughter that every mother would love to have.  Your stature, beauty and intelligence give you every reason to walk this earth like royalty.  And yet, you choose to be down-to-earth and ordinary, obedient to your parents to a fault, unmindful of who you are and what you possess.  Caca,  you will never stop being a daughter to your parents, no matter what your age.  Continue to be extradordinary in your being ordinary.

2.  Parenting is not just for parents.  Again, my inspiration for saying this is your Mama.  She tells me that you are mature beyond your years and many times, she actually derives strength and solace from you.  None of us parents are perfect, Caca.  We had to learn how to be Mommies and Daddies on the job.  And because of our imperfections, there will be moments when you our children will have to parent us for a change.

3.  The best persons you can ask about how to be cool are Papa and Mama.  Nope, not your friends, Caca.  I think most, if not all, parents here today used to be really, really cool.  We just stopped being cool when we had you.  When you came into our lives, we knew that the days of thinking only about ourselves were over, and we had to step up.  We gave up late nights of bar-hopping for sleepless nights of your crying, fine dining for fast food and HBO for Nickelodeon.  But just like riding a bike, we don't forget how it is to be cool.  Your first bottle of beer or first glass of alcohol should be toasted with Papa and Mama, and nobody else.  Now that's cool.

4.    Do not drink your alcoholic beverages from the bottle, use a glass.  It is proper and more lady-like, and suits your feminine personality.

5.  Treasure your high school friendships.  Someone once told me, you choose your college friends for career's sake; but you choose your high school friends for friendship's sake.  While it may be geographically more challenging for you to do so as you leave Davao for Manila, technology is on your side - mobile phone, Facebook, etc.  Never get tired of staying connected with them, because high school friendships, when taken cared of, are built to last forever.

6.  Let your first boyfriend be your last boyfriend.  We say this with moral authority, as your Ninong Richard is your Ninang Monique's first and only boyfriend.  You and your friends may think this is absurd, but believe us when we say that deep inside, every boy, no matter how macho, actually wants to be his girl's first and only love.  One of the things that helped Ninong and Ninang in our 19, going on 20, years of marriage is the fact that we did not carry any emotional baggage from previous relationships.  Ninong Richard treats me like a princess, because he is my one and only prince.  And you Princess Caca deserve nothing less than a Prince.

7.  Eat the right kind of food and drink lots of water so that you can keep both your kidneys for the rest of your life.  Self-explanatory.

8.  Always keep a picture of your loved ones in your wallet.  No, it's not the same as a screensaver on your mobile phone or laptop computer.  There is something more magical about a hard photograph.  They don't disappear when your battery runs low or when there is a power interruption.  And because wallets don't have hard drives for storage, the people on those wallet-sized pictures know they are special enough to occupy such a limited window of space.  In turn, the pictures in your wallet give you gigabytes of comforting memories, much more than any electronic device has to offer.

9.  Stay beautiful.  No one would argue with us if we said that you have one of the prettiest faces on campus.  But as you grow older, you might have to take a little more effort to maintain your youthful appearance - keeping your hair shiny, your skin smooth and flawless, your body fit and trim.  But it's worth the effort - just look at your Mama.  But that's not the kind of beauty we are talking about here.  What we mean to tell you is, stay beautiful on the INSIDE.  I think Saint Peter nailed it when he said that "your beauty should not come from outward adornment...Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God's sight."  You are already a beauty, my dear Caca.  Stay that way. 

10.  Learn to drive when you turn 18.  It's the age deemed by Philippine law to be old enough to make split-second decisions on the road, yet young enough to have the visual, mental and muscular dexterity to parallel park.  Knowing how to drive will be a plus in any endeavor you choose to pursue.  As to if and when  Papa will give you your own car, that is not for me to say.

11.  Take the time to read good books.  I can almost feel your Mama raising her eyebrows at me.  Whenever anyone would ask her what gift she would like to receive for her birthday or for Christmas, she would always say "Don't give me books!"  But I have to disagree with Mama on this one.  Reading expands your mind, enriches your vocabulary and enhances the creativity that is already built into your genes as a Gatchalian and Diaz.  Your family loves to travel, right?  Think of reading as travelling - through time and space - without having to leave your reading chair.

12.  Pray always.  I learned something new from a friend just the other day.  When my friend prays, he does not kneel or clasp his hands together or close his eyes.  Instead, he places an empty chair in front of him, imagines that Jesus is seated there, then starts talking straight from the heart.  And throughout the rest of the day, he visualizes Jesus following him wherever he goes, so that he can have a running conversation all day long.  Caca, pray as if Jesus is right beside you, and believe that he Hears and understands every teenage thought, care and dream that you have.  Every single one of them.  And if you listen closely, God might just tell you a thing or two.

13.  A good cry cleanses the soul.  Mama tells me that you're very good at keeping your emotions bottled up, and very rarely do you allow yourself to shed tears even under the saddest of circumstances.  Caca, crying is NOT always a sign of weakness.  Sometimes, a good cry, alone or with a friend, is a cleansing experience.  Along with your tears, your feelings of grief, disappointment, confusion, frustration, anger or desperation flow freely from your soul.  And when the last tear drop has fallen, your mind is clear enough to think straight and move on.  

14.  Take seriously your God-given role as Ate Caca to Julio.  Like you, Ninang Monique is an eldest child, while Ninong Richard is the youngest.  We both agree that, no matter how old we are, the younger sibling or siblings always look up to the Ate or Kuya as a model, mentor and counselor.  As you and Julio grow older, the mental age gap will narrow and your relationship with each other will evolve.  But no matter what age you both are, there will be times when Julio will be looking for his Ate Caca, and you always have to be ready to be just that for him.

15.  Make your own footsteps.  We personally do not like the phrase "following in the footsteps of ...".  No two people walk exactly the same path, not even twins.  True, your Papa and Mama blazed a trail here in Davao.  But never feel compelled or pressured to "follow in their footsteps".  With their guidance and inspiration, make your own footsteps.  Take your own journey.  Live your own life.

16. Don't grow up too fast.  Right at this very moment, I want to reprimand you and say, "Caca, stop growing older!!!"  And I am absolutely sure that Papa and Mama feel the same way a million times over.  You're sixteen.  Youth is a gift with a no return, no exchange policy attached to it.  So enjoy the remaining 3 years, 11 months and 22 days of your teenage life.  ENJOY - all caps.  And just between us, could you do Papa and Mama a favor?  Even when you're all grown up, could you sometimes pretend for their sake that you're still their baby girl, the toddler back in Zinnia Townhouses?  You know why I need you to do this?  Because letting go of our baby girls is one of the most heartbreaking experiences Papas and Mamas, and Daddies and Mommies will ever experience.  And sometimes we want to hold on, just a little while longer.         

Happy Birthday Caca.  You will always have a special place in the heart, and home, of the Villanueva family.  We love you, mwah!

NINONG RICHARD and NINANG MONIQUE

Note to Self:  Have mother-daughter day this Sunday, NO BOYS ALLOWED!!!

BOXES

I have kept blog silence over the past few days because I was mentally chewing on a post that I would eventually entitle "Boxes".  For many days now, I was almost ready to write this post, but something was missing.  Today, after my husband, a close friend and I had a breakfast meeting with a man I love and respect, I know that I am ready.

There are some boxes that I really like.  A box of chocolates, for one.  I don't know if Whitman's Samplers are still available, but I remember having a chilhood fascination, not just for the chocolates but for the classic yellow box they came in.  I would patiently wait for the last chocolate piece to be consumed (gobbling it up myself if there were no more takers), so I could clean up the box and use it as a sewing kit, or a secret container for personal mementos I had collected at that tender age.

Boxes of cakes and desserts.  One of the sweetest (literally) consequences of being hospitalized is the deluge of cakes from friends who know about my addiction to all things chocolate.  During those dark and difficult days when I was virtually imprisoned to my room, I would open the refrigerator door beside my bed and find a bizarre comfort in the boxes of Blugre, Lachi's and Margie piled up on the shelves.

And my favorite box of all - shoe boxes!!!  I have an obsessive compulsion to own not just the shoes, but also their boxes.  When shopping for shoes outside of Davao, it is always a packing nightmare for my travel companions because I stubbornly insist on bringing the boxes home.  I would rather pay for the excess baggage fees than transport my shoes sans their boxes, as if box-less shoes are a desecration to their beauty.

And now I ask myself - like my chocolates, desserts and shoes, do I also fit into my own box?

Career choices.  I was employed with a multinational right out of college.  After marriage and a daring migration from Manila to Davao, I worked for the government for about 3 years, and resigned around the same time that my husband decided to end his short career in politics.  My husband and I tested the waters of running our own business.  Unfortunately, we got ourselves dripping wet and, drowning in debt, I swore that we would never sail the Entrepreneur-Ship again.  I stepped back into my Safely Employed Box and firmly resolved to stay in there forever.  But alas, a call from a long-lost cousin knocked on our doors and offered a business venture.  I found myself clutching my box as she spoke, disguising my skepticism as caution and my refusal to give in as mere busyness.  But what can you do when the clients come looking for you, and not the other way around?  Reluctantly, I had to step out of my box.  Had I not, I would not have had the opportunity to change the lives of seven (going on 8) workers, by rescuing them from the despair of unemployment and giving them the dignity of work, and all the perks that go with it.  Since then, my husband and I have put up another organic products business with close friends, and I still manage to dabble in consultancy contracts on the side.  That box has since then been folded up and sent to a Materials Recovery Facility.

Trends.  My husband and I are, what you might consider, stuck in the 80s.  Our young love grew up with Madonna, Spandau Ballet and Earth, Wind and Fire.  To this day, he still sports his boat shoes (a.k.a. topsiders) and my worn-out pink cardigan from Cinderella still hangs in my closet.  We were there when the color yellow was first used as a color of protest, and when EDSA was really nothing more than a major highway.  Because of its rich history, we stubbornly hung on to this era and mutually agreed to keep our family safe within the confines of our Parents of the 80s Box - its principles, values, culture.  We managed to live in this time warp for a while, until our children grew up to be teenagers.  And no matter how much we romanticized that Vanilla Ice could make beautiful music with Lady Gaga, we had to face the tough reality that, we could only be good parents if we entered the world of our children.  And so we did.  Memorizing the hits of the Black-eyed Peas and Pussycat Dolls, preparing soda and snacks for a Glee marathon, dressing up in the layered look of this generation (that's just me; my husband's fashion is still so hopelessly 30 years ago).  And you know what's so great about stepping out of our traditional Parents of the 80s Box?  The experience of also learning from our children, the realization that they too can parent us.

Finally, religion. I was born into a devout Catholic family and studied in Catholic schools for my elementary and high school education. You would say, I fit snugly into a Catholic box. When I turned 15, my father joined the Evangelical faith and began a spiritual transformation that he never thought possible while a practicing Catholic. There began a mutual respect within our family for all religions, as my Dad continued to worship in an Evangelical Sunday service, and the rest of us attended our Catholic Mass. What would happen to my Catholic box then? Should I carve out a small peephole for my Dad to check on me from time to time? Or should I dismantle the box altogether and embrace people of all faiths, acknowledging that The Almighty reveals Himself to each one in a different form, a different place, a different time? Eventually, I chose to do the latter.  And this prepared me for the noble work of Gawad Kalinga, that would cross the borders of religion, race and politics, yet converge in a common belief that we must love ALL men because God loved us first. 

My conclusion?  Boxes are for chocolates, cakes and shoes, but not for me.  The best things in life have happened to me every time I stepped out of a box.  I imagine God telling me "I was pouring out my blessings on you, but I had to stop."  And when I ask why, He tells me, "Because your box was too small."  

A box, no matter how big or small, is still a box.  Life is short.  And whatever I have left of it I will live without borders, without limits, without boxes.

Note to self:  Dedicate this post to Nilo Claudio (yup, he is the man I had breakfast with this morning).  Yes, Tito Nilo, there are no boxes in open season.  You know what I mean.    

HARVEST

Here in Davao City, we citizens are celebrating our harvest festival called Kadayawan.  Originating from the native Mandaya tribe, the word literally means all things good, bright and bountiful.  The festival is traditionally held in August, which (barring climate change) is the month of harvest.  Thus, Kadayawan is a thanksgiving celebration for the fruits of the earth that are ready for the picking during this season.

As a Manilena who migrated to the city 19 years and 5 months ago, my personal Kadayawan celebration is a daily supply of MANGOSTEEN and RAMBUTAN.  The mere sight of clusters and clusters of the plum-colored fruit hanging from makeshift stands, and baskets and baskets of the furrier version of the lychee makes me want to celebrate Christmas in August.  They are a temptation too hard for me to resist, and my husband always obliges this indulgence.  Breakfast, lunch, dinner, merienda - when I say "I'm done", what I actually mean is "Five more pieces before I get up from this table".

This personal fruit festival of mine got me thinking.  Do the farmers who grow these fruit trees ever think of me?  As they prepare the soil, plant the seedlings, nurture the trees and harvest the fruits year in and year out, do they know that somewhere in Matina, a middle-aged woman was experiencing heaven on earth?  Unlikely.  And yet, while their intention was simply to gather xxx kilos of fruit to sustain the needs of their families, I was an accidental beneficiary of their toil.

That's how God's goodness spreads and grows.  He takes every act of love and kindness that we do, and multiplies it a hundredfold.   He waited for the boy to give his humble "baon" of five loaves and two fish, and took care of feeding the five thousand.  He sits as the servants brings the clay jars filled with water, and then creates vintage wine in an instant.  He waits for us to make that decision to do good, and He takes it from there.

Many years ago, my youngest child befriended a classmate in school.  Throughout the year, he was extra close to this young boy, and I saw it as nothing but an innocent classroom friendship.  At the end of the school year, my son's teacher confided in me that the young boy was one of the school's slow learners.  Because he couldn't catch up with the rest of the class, he did not have any real friends.  Until my son came along.  As that friendship blossomed, so did the young boy.  His academic performance exceeded the school's expectations.

All that my son wanted was to have a friend, and to be a friend.  But he did so much more than that.  I think that's what HARVEST really means.

Note to self:  Kiss and hug my son when he wakes up.

BREATHE

Two days after my surgery last June 10, 2010, the country celebrated Independence Day on June 12.  Ironically, I will remember this as the day when I realized that our life is totally and utterly DEPENDENT on a loving and all-knowing God.  Shortly before dinner, I started gasping for breath, and experienced a drowning sensation that panicked my husband and set off alarms at the Nurses' Station.  Connected to an IV infusion, oxygen tank and an oxygenator (I think that's what they call this electronic contraption that tells you if your body is receiving sufficient oxygen), I lay there, so aware of the fact that independence is just an illusion, and every breath is a gift.  Two months and two medical emergencies later, doctors have not been able to give me an explanation for this phenomenon, at least not one that I can really believe in.  To this day, I experience episodes of labored breathing and pray for each precious breath.

  Doctors and friends have been kind enough to teach me a lot of breathing exercises to restore the balance of oxygen and carbon dioxide in my body, which they say is the physiological reason for this ongoing condition.  Then I thought, maybe respiration is more than just the breathing in and breathing out of air?  Maybe the quality of our existence lies in the inhalation of everything that life has to offer everyday, which is inextricably followed by exhalation so that others may also breathe?

Wake up in the morning.  As soon as eyes open, kids plant a good morning kiss on my cheek.  INHALE

Give them a goodbye hug as Dad takes them off to school.  Offer a special blessing to each one.  EXHALE

Read daily prayer devotionals and talk to God as if I was talking to my Dad...because He actually is.  INHALE, INHALE, INHALE

Have breakfast conversation with husband, just him and me.  Hmmm, I like this INHALE.

On the short drive to work (To my family and friends in Manila and other urban cities on this planet - any drive in Davao City is short!), look at people, sun (or occasionally, rain), sky. Then look into the car visor mirror, put on my make-up (Yup, I do it in the car), and tell myself that God has something beautiful in store for me today.  INHAAAAAAALE.

Get to the office and interact with employees.  Listen to their stories.  INHALE.  Answer their questions, applaud their good work, allay their fears, teach them lessons that I too learned, either from making the same mistakes myself, or from unselfish mentors and teachers.  EXHALE.  Close a new contract.  Happy INHALE.  Treasure the new client, not just his or her business, but also their friendship.  EXHALE.

Get a call from family member in Manila or from the U.S. I have to confess, unexpected calls especially on busy work days (which sadly included Saturdays and even Sundays in my past life) were sometimes inconvenient disruptions to my routine.  But in this my second life, any long distance moment with my family is an INHALE moment.

Go to noon mass. INHALE.  Offer mass to friend who is having a hysterectomy today.  EXHALE.  Have lunch date with husband.  INHALE.

Fetch children from school.  INHALE.  Gently control the traffic of stories from three children who are equally excited to share the day's events.  EXHALE.  Listen closely to every story, not just with undivided attention, but with genuine gusto. INHALE.

Family conversation over dinner.  Exchange highs and lows of the day.  INHALE.

Hot shower.  INHALE.  Write this post.  INHALE, EXHALE.

NOTE TO SELF:  Practice this breathing exercise everyday, until it becomes as natural as, what else? Breathing.

RANDOM ORDER

After a life-changing surgery last June 10, 2010, I resolved to once and for all do the one thing that I've always put off for another day - WRITE.  People who know me might ask "but don't you do that for a living?  Technical writer, duh!".  But that's just it, my writing has become, technical.  Although I endeavor to put my heart into every progress report or social assessment that I write (thank you to my clients who have allowed - or tolerated - my creative urges to underlie my work), my writing lacked soul. 

And so this is it. I am writing from the soul beginning today. I begin this blog entitled RANDOM ORDER - a soulful journey of a 44-year old wife and mother who believes it is never too late to fulfill a passion.

Why RANDOM?  Because the soul cannot be put in a box.  The body alone has a googillion nerve cells that send an infinite number of messages to our brain (Note:  my 12-year old son took up the Nervous System in school just last quarter).  And when I pray, God speaks to each and every one of those cells.  Which one of those infinite messages will I write about today?  I can't tell you.  Why?  Precisely - RANDOM.

Why ORDER?   When a thought or idea enters my consciousness, my brain has this habit of breaking it down into a list.  It could be a shopping list, a procedure, comparative table of pros and cons - that's just how I am.  I think that way because I communicate that way.  My daughters tell me that they like coming to me with their personal problems because they leave with a to-do-list.  So no matter how random this blog will be, it will always have ORDER, because I am wired that way.

Finally, why MTV?  Because those are my initials - Monique Tempongko-Villanueva. 

Finally, finally, this blog is dedicated to:

KIMIE - my eldest daughter, who is actually a new and improved Monique.  May this blog inspire you to READ more books, allow your parents to read the fictional stories you write on your notebook (he, he), and go after your dream of being in the broadcasting industry.  Remember that I may not love you the most, but I loved you first.

REESA - my second daughter who exhibits the independence and single-mindedness that only a middle child could have.  For you, my wish is that you share your eloquence through the written word.  Wouldn't it be great if you were to become both a pediatrician and a children's book author?  You would not only cure, but you would actually heal.

INDY - my youngest child and only son who is everything I hoped a son would be.  Your brilliant mind and good heart will make you a good instrument of God's work.  As you work (and play) to become the computer engineer that you aspire to be, do not forget that information technology is not just hardware and software, but also people-ware.  Work extra hard on the third ware.

And finally to my husband RICHARD - your love for me is the wind beneath my wings, your passionate care is the pillow that I rest my head upon, and your consistent service to our family is the stable ground on which the three children and I firmly stand.  I look forward to retirement with you in a small hut in Boracay, built just for two.