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.