Debunking My Personal Myths

This morning, I hear the neighborhood taking it easy. There's a kind of noise that informs what kind of day it is. Today, I hear murmurs of children playing, of quiet and limited banters among neighbors, and of animal sounds that turn up occasionally. It must be a day of rest. Well, for others. 

I started my day mingling with my thoughts. My introspections brought me to questioning my own motivations, digging deeper into my exhaustion, and analyzing my choices. I tried to understand some of my beliefs and how they influence my lifestyle. You see, I haven't been very proud of my life's structure. While documents would say that I am a very productive ~professional~, my cats and I know so well how every move requires me long hours/days of rotting towards recovery (30s people might know). Along with this, I started to perceive how the days pass so quickly that I get surprised and frustrated by it all, that I feel a sense of longing for the days that went by without me fully being there.

Maybe this is how adulting feels like. Maybe I have done this to myself. 

Thus, the introspective wonders. How have I been living? How have I been counting my days? Why am I living like this? What is my end goal to everything? Should there really be more? Or is this how things really transpire when you're older. Would it worsen as I carry on? 

Until I recognized a phantom that has been residing in my head. It seems to me that I have been living with this sense of transience that limits me from truly embracing and seizing who I am in the season I am in. The imagery that came to mind when I tried to imagine myself is of a person waiting at a lobby. 

My last decade, as an adult, has been met with various tragedies and postponements. Contrary to the vibrant days of my younger years, I ached with unbearable pains that were beyond anything I could have imagined. Most times, they happened when I least expected them to. Maybe that's one of the pangs to it, the shock that comes when something painful happens. Little by little, such experiences taught me of the impermanence of happiness. I found myself distancing from whatever it is that I do because I am not sure how long I have to linger in my present hallways. And although I have such vigor over the choices I have made, or that I have my glimmers in these spaces, the anticipation for the worst keeps me on my toes. 

While I understand the fancies and foibles of man, I still cannot move past these fears. Any day of relaxation or even of routine could lead to a day of disaster. I have to keep myself guarded. I have to keep myself ready to spring up for the worst. And the dreams and promises I so desire for myself? I acknowledge their ephemerality. Oh, but I do hope for them with all my being! I yearn for them with every strand of my consciousness! I remain with them even in the bleakness of it all. But... I do acknowledge their ephemerality. 

The person waiting at the lobby of an establishment waits with anticipation for the next instruction. Lingering there, but not quite belonging there. That place is no one's place. People do what they can to while away the time there. With no sense of finality to it. Because in a beat, they would have to proceed. 

Some wise men's words tell us that if we live with the consideration that time is fleeting, we live with ardour and substance. Although this is the highest of my dreams--to live meaningfully--the sense of impermanence took a turn that is impeding me. I live my days with the thought that I am merely whiling my time away, scared that if I proceed I am going to be caught off guard again, that I could get hurt again. Of course, I am with jobs that are not for whiling away anyway, but how I feel when I do them comes with a sense of detachment. How I spend the gaps in my days lacks the intention that comes with using each piece of time to build your life. 

The phantom of the belief that surfaced as I tried to understand myself is finally visible to me. I shut my eyes tightly and took a deep breath in recognition of these. I do accept the person that I am in the middle of these beliefs that developed over time. And just now, I think of how healing could probably look like this: days spent in uncertainty, days spent being on guard, until I find a safe space for landing where I could run free again. I do understand this person. Believe it or not, allowing her fears to linger felt like a protection, a form of precaution.

But she has to proceed. She has to know that she can proceed now. I have to know that I can proceed now. 

The time spent at the lobby is a meaningful time of whiling away. Ha! From outsiders' perspective, it may not look like whiling away at all. I'm thankful and I'm glad I had the space to be scared, to be unsure, to be guarded. But healing is also moving forward, finding the courage again, and rediscovering my hopes. 

Allowing my personal myths to surface is significant. Understanding them is pivotal. But it is important for me to challenge them. It matters that I conquer them. It matters that I overcome them. It matters that I pick up the pieces again and acknowledge that what shattered me are no longer part of my life and that they are the ones that are not permanent. 

I am going to trace my steps forward now. 

The day is still unfolding and I can still hear the neighborhood resting. New sounds from thuds of what could be minor repairs here and there are now heard. Subtle laughters are adding to the music. Animals are slowly getting more giddy, barking, chirping, and meowing. The day is proceeding. The day is preparing to face what comes after resting.

Much Ado About Nothing

I sighed, "I need to love myself better". 

On the wee hours of a Sunday morning, I found myself doomscrolling again. Attention caught by these seconds of entertainment, emotions wheeling from "aww, that's cute" to "what the~" to all other possible feelings one could summon... in a few minutes. This has been going on for quite a while now.

photo credit

It hasn't always been these short reels though, there'd have been those times I'd see an informational video that would lead me down into a rabbit hole only for me to end up not doing what I intended to do for that chunk of the day. Or those times when I'd turn on my phone to message someone, only to get harnessed by these colorfully stimulating videos, with me ending up forgetting whom I was supposed to talk to. "Bakit nga ako nagbukas ng phone?"  

Oh, these tidbits of a virtual world that feign existence! 

What would have I wanted to do if there's no work for me to do? In my head, I dream of prairies of words and streams of art. There's always this hope to read all I want to read when time permits me to. There's always this hope to create something and just get that imagination candle lit up. Oh, the notable films and works that I could immerse myself into. 

The other day at the university (where I work part-time), I had the chance to have a table talk with some of our veteran professors. Well, we've always had discussions on various dealings, where I've usually just been a listener, but this particular talk was memorable to me. It was about the black-and-white films of the old days! I was caught into the conversation because I used to love watching the older films. There were even celebrity filmographies and lists I used as my reference to my film marathons, when I was still in my teens. Just thinking about it now reminds me of the delight I was in when I'd be immersed into my films. Anyway, I was just so glad to have had significant contributions to the conversation because well, I really was interested in the subject. One of the professors even told us that he would just go on his movie marathons renting videos on Youtube to seize his days. 

At that point, envy grew in me. I envied the veteran professors whose attention spans can hold watching movie marathons. I envied my old self who was able to sustain interest in things. What beautiful brains might these be, to be able to live in the moment and to remain living in the moment. 

When I think of how I let my brain rot, I realized that I do not seem to care about me. When I should have been shaping my brain breathe, I let tricks and ploys captivate it. When it should have been resting, I keep it stimulated, letting all its activities sap the energy out of me. 

Thus, I need to love myself better. 

I thought about this when I found myself doomscrolling again just a few hours ago. Oh, the urge to even not let my phone in the way as I finish this post (I did succumb to it once, for a minute). 

I wonder now what I should do. And allow me to identify my resolve, that I may trace the path to it as I proceed towards the weeks to come. 

I vow to (HAHA):

- water my brain garden by reading books instead of using my phone when I have gaps in the day.

- let my thought vines crawl seamlessly by writing the immediate contemplations that express my feelings and curiosities. 

- study the skies and the birds when none of the prior commitments seem to hold my attention, because if I must be bored, I must allow myself to be entertained by the gifts of our nature.

- let the sunlight in by delving into physical activities, such as walking and/or running.

- love myself better by letting every unit of my system seize the day and remain in it. 

I do not know who I would be in the following hours. Of course, there is no way of telling how long until I get these mastered or if I'd even try (sorry na agad, Skate). But probably, as long as there's intention, my hopes may still be realized. 

I Have Faith - A Simple Poem of Trust

I have faith,

Futile as it may seem

That one fine day, 

I'd get to walk my dream

I have faith, 

Dark as it is now

That He is never late

And things will light up somehow

I have faith, 

No matter where the road leads

That this one long wait

Will show me His good deeds

When I glance upon my heart, 

I see my weakness

And how I am broken apart

To see His greatness

When I glance into my soul,

I peer at my incapacity

Yet, I am impossibly whole

Authored by His great love for me 

When I perceive His demonstration,

And how I look up to such beauty

And all the love to me He's ably shown

I know, as He said, things shall wonderfully be

Once, it has been a decade

You are 19, Jennifer Lawrence is bagging her awards from the Oscars, you were discovering Bon Iver and music that sounds like him, e-books are easily downloadable, Tumblr and Pinterest became your virtual world. You are one year into writing on your blogger site, a half-decade late from when the pioneers began. The world looks terribly calm and generous. It is not huge and yet it is not small. It is deep and it is not condemning. You hunger for saltwater every now and then, you cannot always go when you wish to. But at least, the lush greens around you makes a pact of beauty with you. Here in this world, no one knows you. Fiction is your best friend. The world unfolds and you are taking it a laugh at a time, one day at a time. 

The real world is extending its hands towards you, but it cannot touch you yet. Not yet. But it is so close. You cannot see it yet. Not yet. But soon, its form will confront you. 

How did you dream then? Do you still remember? Do you remember the scent of the winds? You thought it would last forever. You thought that you were getting the best out of life because you were in the middle, halfway through everything. You were not at the beginning, you were not yet at your destination. For some reason, it was the best weather you were under. 

How did you talk then? Do you still remember? Do you remember the way words were woven into your heart? You thought it was the maximum. You were glad, but you feared that there's nothing to grow anymore. You had this assumption that you were living the best life yet because everything seemed so colorful, everything seemed perfectly created for your heart. No one knew it then, but you were satisfied. You thought that it was enough. 

Fiction was your best friend. That should have been enough. But the real world was extending its hands towards you. 

No one would be able to stop it. No one was able to stop it. No one stopped it. 

-

You are almost 29, Asians are bagging awards from the Oscars, you are discovering children's music, files are easily downloadable, your responsibilities are your world. You are one year away from your next transitions in your career, a half-decade late from whoever went ahead. The world looks terribly... terribly. It is huge and yet it is small. It is high and it is scary. You hunger for slumber every now and then, you cannot always do it when you wish to. But at least, the lush greens around you makes a pact of beauty with us. 

Here in this world, someone may know you. Fiction is an old friend. The world unfolds and you are running with it two seconds at a time, two days at a time. 

Fiction is extending its hands towards you, but you cannot touch it yet. 

How do you dream now? How do you talk now?

Beginning Anew

Today, a day that is non-incidental to any of significance, I claim that a new year begins. 

via

It is not that I would like to veer away from the beauty of the recent days that have passed. In contrary, I have found multiple opportunities to rejoice and consider greatness, for miracles have unfolded before my very eyes. It is just that I desire to fully embrace this season and make fruitful out of it. It is in great excitement and gratitude that this new year begins, so that I could treat it with a renewed mind and renewed ways of approaching it. 

For what does the newness entail, but that of replacement of things past and of seizing things present? It is that of each phase the moon undergoes. It is that of each path the strong winds walk. 

What belongs to the new then? Wouldn't it be filled with new hopes accompanied by new plans? That instead of waking up at 7:00 in the morning, I vow to start my day at 5:00, before the sun rises. In this hour, I would praise the Creator with waking roosters and chirping birds. To which He would respond with light that pierces through the glasses of my home. 

That instead of browsing through my electronics in every space between (and more times, within) activities, I would resolve to thoughtfulness and to listening. That I would not consume images and stories that are unnecessary. This reminds me of when C. S. Lewis told Walter Hooper that not reading newspapers is "how I keep myself unspotted from the world." It is not that I would embrace ignorance, but that I would limit the spaces for irrelevances, so that I could contain more of what is profound to me. 

Oh, and that instead of exchanging the fruits of my labor for momentary bliss sold by pleasurable packaging and words, I would store them for things that would last. 

What else in this newness do I want to exercise? Would I be able to follow my timetables as written? That I would learn to keep my vows to myself, so that my body and mind wouldn't scream at me for rejecting my own intentionality. 

That my thoughts that are to be formed may not be stifled by my laziness and complacency, always thinking that tomorrow may be a better day for me to do this and that. With that, here I say that I make a new oath to use this platform to release reveries (fiction or reality) twice in every week. 

My, my. Just thinking about these and just imagining how life would be, I get the discomfort that comes from starting anew. It is the fear that I would not be able to do as I said I would. But then, what makes me up but every substance that is human? With this, I know that growth would take a day at a time. With such wisdom comes grace to myself for her weaknesses and grace to time for its speed. 

As I write now, I am getting more minutes behind my schedule. Allow me to ink this with expectation that I will do well and that the beauty that comes out of my resolve would glow ever bright through me. 

The Acacia Tree

I was still a child when I found out that trees do sleep. It might not have been a quarter of my age now yet when it happened, but I still remember how the leaves were resting downward. And it was this very acacia tree that I first recognized to be asleep.

It was a late summer afternoon. The skies must have been changing its hues already, there might have been purples, oranges, and blues in the skies. I asked an elder a question that I cannot recall at present. I fumble upon my memory and I must have been asking if I could still play with the trees at the hour. And her answer was that "kasi natutulog na sila."

"Natutulog po ang mga puno?"

She agreed and taught me how to recognize how it looked like. I looked up to this acacia tree and saw its leaves gently folded and clasped together. I wandered around the front yard to validate the statement. To my amazement, I realized that indeed, the trees do sleep! Since then, I enjoyed looking around recognizing sleeping trees. And it has always felt like an open secret few people talk about. The acacia tree showed this to me first.

The tree that taught me of their nocturnal occupation has grown in its own years and has eventually been cut down a month ago. Elders in my family thought it wiser to let it go for now. I remember how I was able to hug this acacia tree last December, when I have fully embraced that I am no longer a child. It pained me to see it go I asked them if it was really necessary, but they deemed it so. As my mother sent me pictures of my cut down beloved acacia tree, I felt a pang that I feel towards childhood: gratitude and regret.

Just like that, the acacia tree was. Similar to so many other things in my life that have gone and passed. These are things I cannot go after anymore. And yet I move to ponder upon it with joy and I realize that even so, they leave me with attachments and treasures that I will never be able to bury to the forgotten past.

They may go, but the things they imparted to me will never leave. And even if the first tree that I saw to be asleep have gone, I know for sure that trees do sleep and I will know it forever as it is embedded in my memory and my recognition. Just like all the other people, seasons, and things that I have lost and who have left me with memoirs to keep.

I could write more about this, but I only allowed myself to write about it in the same time it would take for my water in the kettle to boil. If I don't do that, I might talk more about these pleasurable things and more and might never be able to stop because to remember is such a beautiful painful activity to get lost into. 

The Faerie Realm

This morning, I got around to reminiscing my favorite indie folk artists
back when I was still in college. This got me back to thinking and
inspired me to envision my youth as one spent in the faerie realm. 

I once lived in a faerie realm. It was not that my daily occupations were all spent there, but it was that my heart and reveries were solely rested in that place, the home of a lining of my being.

There were different days to visit the lands, but it was when the rains were softly humming and the breeze was cold that the portals to the faerie realm would open wide and visible. On other days, when sunshine is about, the realm's gates are slightly ajar, accommodating only those who have dire need of it. 

How did it look like? How would I describe it, ah, but there is no much difference to what one would expect... There would be a strong mossy scent as one enters, especially when the rains have just poured. The greens almost covered the surfaces. But it wasn't just the greens, there were purples, blues, and yellows. And the reds are all on the corners--on the surfacing roots of trees, by the river banks, or by scattered rocks that are big enough for a seat--careful to not outshine the shy colors. The birds were writing sonnets and there were all sorts of tales to be heard. 

There are homes, too! But they are unlike the ones that we know. It would be difficult to describe them, lest one would sketch the outlines of these cabin-like, tree-like constructions. They were not humble, like what one would think would belong to the woodlands. They were majestic, pleasurable. They can house great parties and gatherings. None of these houses in the neighborhood resembled each other, but none of them overshadowed any other, as well. 

When a weary soul enters, a little dwarf would take his or her hand, leading the soul to the calm waters as a welcome gesture. Once he or she had a taste of the fresh waters, the colors around him or her would come to life. It would all be Beautiful. It would all be a beginning of a story. And surely, there will be renewal to that poor one's being. 

There are more stories to tell, but The Faerie Realm is such a treasure, one you would like to talk about and describe and yet, you would still long to keep discreet lying within your heart. 

I haven't visited in a while, but there were hums that knocked on my tired heart's doors. I then smelled the mossy scent that means the gates are near. Maybe I would like to be immersed for a moment, for a few minutes, for the time being. 

Love and then, love again..

It is fatal to get mad at a flower who dies in its season, even after the gardener has poured essential care to it. The gardener loved the flower in the way love is, even after knowing that it might not live long.

- 

The other day, I realized that love cannot be wasted. It was my aunt who told me that once you decide on anything out of genuine love, it cannot be wrong. If you, then, love in the way that love invites you to, that love, in all its pain and endings, was not and will never be wasted.

Love is subjected to one's own definition, but when I think of it as I write it here, I think of the sacrificial form of it- the one that operates without reciprocation, believes unfailingly, and forgives endlessly. Such is the love that our Father invites us to serve, in the same way that He so loves us. We were vouched for salvation without any ticket we could buy to it, aside from His love.

I reflect on this and the depths of it. It is still difficult to fathom when it is easier to be all on one's own, expecting nothing from anyone, wanting no thing from any other. But there is this beauty to giving relentlessly, setting aside fears and insecurities because your soul so fits another and all the others around you in the way that creates a synchrony in the chaos.

So then, even when it becomes hard and it breaks you, water that flower and cherish it well, celebrate it all ways, and do it again tomorrow and the rest of days.

moonlight -

moonlight -

where the shadows of grief

and the songs of peace

dance in eloquence

 

moonlight -

where the memories are buried

and the future is built

under the skies' influence

 

 

moonlight -

where the tales of fears

and the drafts of hopes

are trapped in a cadence 

 

. . .

 

Anything that didn't have life cannot die, 

Anything that wasn't first conceived cannot disappear

Everything that has life is vulnerable to death,

But not everything that lives dies

Everything that exists may fade, 

But there are things that have years and lifetimes to last, 

While others spend seconds or minutes at most

If anything that has life may die, 

Are the things that have died capable of living again? 

If anything may disappear, 

Are there those that may possibly be still found? 

Are the paths we walk linear? 

Or there are roads that go in rounds? 

For every story that has ended, 

Can beginnings be opened anew? 

For every mark and period that had been slated, 

Can a tale still continue? 

If there is such discovery in our courses, 

Where mishaps and fails become glories

Then, the hopes in our gaps

Are miracles that wait to be known

- Sarakit