Pause

So my knee's busted up.

About a week ago, during scrimmage, I was sprinting hard to the left before I abruptly changed direction to try and save the disc. I felt my knee twist and heard a series of cracks before I went down. At that point, I was more overcome by fear than by pain. And when our captain firmly said, "No lifting. No running," that's the only time I teared up.

Two weeks before

With a major tournament coming up in a few weeks, I wanted to know what was what, so I went to see an orthopedic surgeon (someone I've been good friends with for two decades). He asked me what happened and examined me, and said he was "90 percent sure it's a meniscus tear, but the ACL seems intact." I told him about my upcoming tournament, my voice dripping with the sound of hope (Please tell me I can play, it implied). "Oh, honey," he sighed. "There's always next year." He said we could wait it out to see if there was any improvement, or I could go get an MRI scan so we would know right away. Being the impatient person that I am, I opted for the MRI.

I don't think I've ever believed in anything as much as I believed in that 10%. I was so confident, so sure that it was nothing but a sprain. For a few days, I was haunted by that terrible sound--I shuddered as that crrrrack-crrrrack-crrrrack of my knee played over and over in my head. But I told myself it just sounded a lot like the really bad ankle sprain I got years ago. I was walking (OK, hobbling). I didn't really feel any pain except when I bent or twisted my leg. The only reason I took pain meds was to manage the swelling, but other than that I could do without.

I went to get my MRI results in great spirits. Finally, the little anxiety I had (if any) would be put to rest. I would be proven right. I was giddy thinking about how happy I would be to put this silliness behind me and be given the go-signal to work out.

And then I read it. Some parts of the summary jumped out at me:

Complex tear involving the posterior horn of the lateral meniscus, extending to the superior and inferior articular surfaces.

At this point, I felt my stomach sink. But it got worse: 

Complete tear of the anterior cruciate ligament.

Mild to moderate grade partial tears involving the medial and fibular collateral ligaments.

I was stunned. I was heartbroken. At worst, I thought it would be a meniscus tear that would need surgery and six weeks' recovery time. But this? This meant I was out for at least six months.

Can they see my broken heart in my MRI results?

My doctor's first question: "Do you want to be competitive again?" I was still in shock, still trying to process everything, but without a doubt, the answer was yes. And that meant surgery. I was in a haze as we talked in general terms about the procedure and costs and recovery time. "Why are you crying? You can still walk! You'll get through this!" he said, upbeat. I knew there was much to be thankful for, and there was no doubt in my mind that I would come back from it, but the whole situation still sucked. For someone who works out almost every day, six months feels like an eternity.

I'd pretty much reformed my eating habits as I was committed to reaching my fitness goal by the end of the year. But the weekend I got the results, there was a whole lot of emotional eating going on. (There was also a lot of swearing and just utter disbelief.) But I gave myself a deadline, and told myself I wasn't going to wallow after that. I was going to re-commit to eating clean since that's the only thing I could really do, and I was going to come back stronger.

My IG story says it all

One of my best friends, M, remarked that mentally, I seem to be in a different place than I was a few months ago. I seem stronger. And she's right. I have absolute confidence that I'll be back (even with nega people telling me it took them years or blah blah--I tend to tune them out). I've asked those who've had similar injuries about the toughest parts of recovery, and I'm preparing myself to face those challenges. It helps that I'm getting so much support and encouragement from friends and family.

My moral support, I, when I got my results

I remember at my son's parent-teacher conference, his teacher mentioned that my kid is "single-minded"; when he puts his mind to one thing, he fully commits to it. And I marveled at that because at that time, I felt so unfocused. I wondered where he got it from. Now I'm starting to see that, hey, maybe he got it from me.

As with every other crappy thing that has happened this year, this made me wonder what the universe was trying to tell me. "The universe doesn't want me to get abs." "The universe is telling me to take a break from ultimate." And, with the looming cost of surgery: "The universe is telling me to get a job!" But one of my best friends, P, was more insightful: "With everything that's happening to you, it's like the universe is telling you to pause. And maybe redirect your attention to other things." 

And I think she may be right, too. (This is why she and M are my best friends.) This "pause" has allowed me to revisit some of my dreams, and they're starting to take shape. And the focus and drive I have when it comes to recovery is spilling over to this neglected area of my life.

When I had to tell the staff that our beloved magazine was being killed a few months ago, I said, "This could be the best thing that happens to you." I'm repeating these words to myself now. This injury, this pause, could be the best thing that ever happens to me.

Coming Clean

I've had many attempts over the years to get my best body ever. I used to think I could outrun the way I ate, but the older I got, the less viable that became. In recent years, I've heard that abs are made in the kitchen, not in the gym; that being in shape is 70% food and 30% working out (or 80-20? The point is, it's mostly about the food). And I know that a week of eating clean does more for my body than a week of working out.

But try as I might, I always seem to falter after a few weeks. I get sugar out of my system, and I get headaches when I have a taste. But the taste turns into a serving, and soon I'm addicted again. It's an endless cycle. And I never quite understood people who would say, "I worked out so hard. I don't want to ruin it with a piece of cake." My thing was always: I work out hard so that I can eat cake.

Yesterday was the culmination of a few days of binge-eating, which started on a trip to Singapore. (My willpower likewise went on vacation.) I rarely eat burgers nowadays, but I couldn't resist 8 Cuts' P88 Day. I got me a Q Daddy, which had a quarter-pound of beef, peppered onion tanglers, jalapeno-garlic-ranch-tossed lettuce chiffonade, house-made smoked bacon, sharp yellow cheddar, Sauce no. 3, and sweetly spiced BBQ sauce. (And I also got spaghetti because there was a two-order minimum per person.)

It was glorious. And I told myself that I would enjoy the burger without guilt or regret. But in the back of my mind, I knew I would have to pay for it. I had worked out that morning, but I resolved to go for a run that evening.

So last night, after much hemming and hawing, I laced up my running shoes and went. And I hated every damn minute of it.

That's when I finally understood all my friends with admirable willpower. As I huffed and puffed my way up those little hills, I realized: I hated running more than I hated giving up junk. You just get more bang for your fitness buck by saying "no" to the bad stuff, than by suffering through a 45-minute run. I resolved to eat to fuel my runs, not to run so I could eat.

So here I am, recommitting to eating clean, but with a different why this time. I just don't want to keep running up and down those damn hills any more than I have to.

I normally start my day with a healthy breakfast so that if sh*t should happen during the day, I would at least have had one good-for-me meal: smoothie bowls, scrambled eggs, homemade granola, Greek yogurt are staples at home. Today, I added something new to my repertoire. My son wanted pancakes, so we made flourless ones (recipe below). This is me trying to convince myself that even when I'm eating clean, I don't have to feel kawawa--I can have my (pan)cake and eat it, too.

Flourless Banana Pancakes (original recipe from here; I just added vanilla*)

Takes about 20 minutes

Makes 6 small pancakes

Ingredients

2 bananas

2 eggs

1/2 cup oats

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1/4 tsp vanilla extract

Pinch of salt

1 Place all ingredients in a blender and blend until smooth. Let stand about 10 minutes.

2 Pour a small amount into a nonstick pan and cook over low heat until golden brown, about 40 seconds a side.

3 Serve with honey, maple syrup, or sugar-free nut butter.

*You can also add cinnamon or chocolate chips, or top with fruit and/or walnuts.

The Saltwater Cure

Two years ago, Smart Parenting magazine asked me to write about my most memorable summer with my kid. And since he was only two, I only had two summers to choose from, and both of them were intensely personal: one was about the time I got my heart broken, and the other was about the time I started to heal. I was hesitant to open up because I didn't ever talk or write about these things in public. But that's the magic of a deadline. Lol.

In honor of Boracay Open, which I'm missing this year, I'm republishing the piece I wrote.

~*~*~*~

Almost every year, I go to Boracay for the annual Boracay Open, an ultimate Frisbee tournament which attracts teams from all over the world. Last year, I decided to take my then-15-month-old son along. It was his first plane ride, his first trip outside of Luzon, and our first family vacation.

Though his face doesn't show it, A appreciated that the pilot let us into the cockpit.

While I struggled with a fussier-than-normal toddler at the airport, the rest of the trip was much more enjoyable. It was fascinating seeing my son pick up handfuls of fine white sand, letting it run between his tiny fingers. I marveled at how someone who loved swimming pools and bath time so much could sprint away in alarm as small waves washed up against the shore. It melted my heart when, in the middle of playing, he would run up to me and throw his arms around my legs, a look of pure joy on his face. And it was a treat seeing him charm my friends with his bag of tricks: "pogi eyes" (his version of beautiful eyes), "tiyanak" (when he would growl like a little monster), and all his other funny little antics.

Photo by JP Santos

But the trip was bittersweet. Less than a year before, my son's father and I had parted ways, and I was still getting used to the dynamics of our family. My ex would come to visit regularly, but I realized that this was what a "family vacation" would be from that point on: me, my son, and maybe his yaya. I still hadn't fully recovered from the separation, and I still had so many apprehensions about raising a kid on my own, but there was nothing for me to do but soldier on.

On our last morning on the island, my son and I spent some time on the beach. There weren't a lot of people around, and yaya stayed some distance away, letting my son and me enjoy some quality time together. I watched as my kid, entranced, repeatedly dipped his little bucket into the water and let its contents fall back and merge with the sea. He would call out "Mommy!" just to make sure I was right there. In that quiet, fleeting moment, I felt at peace.

There's a quote that goes, "The cure for anything is salt water—sweat, tears, or the sea." I had spent the previous months running when I needed to clear my head. I cried for weeks, mourning the end of a 13-year relationship. And now the sea was doing its work. I had my son by my side, and we had the whole world in front of us; he and I were going to be OK.

 

~*~*~*~

And we are.

Baby Steps

This evening, I had an epiphany. On my walk home, I was inwardly reciting a mantra in time to my steps: "I. Have. Enough. I. Have. Enough. I. Have. Enough."

See, I have a lot of anxiety, and the thing I am most anxious about is money. I always worry about my future and how I'm not financially prepared for retirement, how I'm spending my money all wrong, and how I pale in comparison to my more "successful" peers. But earlier in the day, I read about a guy who makes P3 million a month (!). He said, "I try not to need things. You can be the wealthiest person in the world, but if, at the end of the day, you still keep needing some things, that's not really being rich."

And I thought, well the problem really isn't a lack of money, but an overabundance of "needs." And so, I started telling myself: "I have enough."

I thought that was my big a-ha! moment for the day, this reframing of my mindset. But interestingly and unconsciously, I found myself shifting from "I have enough. I have enough. I have enough" to "I am enough. I am enough. I am enough."

Hmm.

I started to tear up, because I hadn't even realized that that was (still) an underlying issue. After experiencing massive failure a few years ago, my self-esteem was pretty much dragged through the mud. With the support of the people around me, some counseling, and my built-in stubbornness, I was able to pick myself up, but I guess old demons have a way of rearing their ugly head.

I have a lot going on right now--I'm trying to expand my skill set and I'm tentatively venturing into unknown territory. But it's only today that I realized that the real reason I'm so tentative is that I am still haunted by the ghost of failure. I think about a fellow single mom whom I look up to, who met great success in her mid-30s after years of struggle, and think, "There's no way I can reach that level of success." I look at the goals I've set for myself, and though they seem small-time, I am still overwhelmed by what I have to do to reach them.

After the usual day of taking care of my kid and working, I sat there with a blank piece of paper as I thought about a setup for a small event I'm styling. I had a computer screen in front of me as I wondered about what online classes to look into. I had my phone beside me as I thought about what I needed to discuss with a partner in a fledgling business. It was just so many things at once, and I was shutting down. A friend prodded me to do what would take the least amount of time. I set aside the million and one things I was thinking about, and just started to sketch. In half an hour, I had a setup planned out for the event, and I felt so much better.

I have to remind myself to think of just one thing at a time. And to take everything one step at a time. And with each step, I have to remember: I. Am. Enough.

Four

Been a while. Part of the reason I haven't been blogging is because I'm in a different place in my life now, and I kind of feel like I have to start a new blog to reflect that. It feels a little weird blogging from somewhere I feel like I've outgrown, if that makes any sense. We'll see about that new blog. One of my flaws is I always like doing things right the first time so that tends to paralyze me into inaction. Just thinking about a domain name and figuring out the design and looking for a host and all that...GAAAHHH. For now, it just doesn't feel right to let A's fourth pass without the usual reflection on the past year. (A couple months late, but better late and all that.)

He joined a football camp. Started school and lost his trademark, charming Tagalog; only recently started properly pronouncing "fff" instead of "p". Went to Palawan. Outgrew his fascination with "up-and-downs" (parking barriers) but is still into construction stuff. Developed a taste for cartoon characters (particularly Transformers, Paw Patrol, Lightning McQueen, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles). Loves his Darth Vader and Storm Trooper PJs though he hasn't seen an entire Star Wars movie. (Kid can't sit through two hours of anything.) Still eats like a champ--my friends joked that he has an old person's breakfast (oats, fruit, boiled egg), but I made the mistake of introducing him to sugary cereal, so he munches on that for breakfast and as a snack and, well, pretty much all day. Can't blame him. I used to have Oreo-O's for dinner. (His teeth are fine, in case anyone's concerned.)

He is especially demanding of my attention at this age, and it can sometimes take a toll. I've been told that I'm so patient (which is something my mom will find hilarious because patience is definitely not one of my virtues), but honestly, it drives me up the wall sometimes, all the "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"s and the "Look at me! Look at this!" as he thrusts whatever I'm supposed to be looking at one millimeter from my face. And "Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?"? IT'S REAL, GUYS. And it's not quite as funny in real life. Sometimes when it's the weekend and it's just the two of us, I send out an S.O.S. to my friends: Help, I need adult conversation!!!

But he is also especially affectionate at this age. My heart feels like it's going to burst from sheer happiness when I see him waiting for me at the door, a big smile on his face as my car pulls in, and he joyfully calls out, "Mommy!" Like this is the best part of his day. When he wakes up and finds out it's the weekend, he's ecstatic (like jumping-on-the-bed ecstatic) because it means two things: ice cream, and Mommy doesn't have to work! (At least usually.) Sometimes we're both sitting quietly, doing our own thing--him watching something on his tablet, me reading--and he just reaches over and holds my hand, not taking his eyes away from the screen. When he knows I'm sick, he says he'll make me feel better by giving me a hug and a kiss, and offering to make me "pretend coffee" (because I don't drink coffee).

When I was in grade school, we were given some morbid exercise wherein we had to write our life stories, right until our death. I wrote that I would die of breast cancer at 45, because I was, like, 10, and thought 45 was ancient. And now, the nearer I get to 45, the bigger my fear gets. Because what if what I wrote comes true? It doesn't help that I have a family history of breast cancer. 

A few weeks ago, I was going through my mental checklist as I plotted out my schedule, "We have to make cards for his friends. He has to bring pastries to school on Tuesday. He has to wear red on that day..." and I thought, "Sh*t I can't die! Who else is going to remember this stuff?" 

So guys, it looks like I'm going to have to live forever.

When they're teeny tiny helpless babies, you feel like they're completely dependent on you, and it's overwhelming. Now that he's four, I feel like he needs me less, but needs me still. He needs me to remember all the stuff he needs for school. He needs me to make sure he gets fruits and veggies every day. He needs me to regulate his sugar intake, because I don't want him to turn into a sugar addict like me. He needs me to keep some order and routine in his life. He needs me to say no.

And while there are other things he doesn't need me for, it's nice to know he still wants me. He wants me to stay home with him. He wants me to be the one to give him a bath and tell him a story and tuck him into bed. He wants me to be the one to play with him (unless his cousin/best friend is around, then I'm just a poor second option). He wants to be in the same room as me, even if we're not doing anything together. When it all gets to be too much, I imagine his rebellious teenage years, and that's sometimes all I need to face all the "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"s with a smile. This will go by faster than I can imagine. And then he won't need me. But I'm hoping he'll still want me around.

I need to live forever for this kid. How do I live forever?

Star Player

My sister-in-law asked if I wanted to sign A up for a summer football clinic. I was unsure about it, given his previous experience in a sports-oriented class (the coaches couldn't really rein in my hyper little man), but his dad was all for it. So we signed him up, and—true to my mantra of "If you can't perform, japorms"—got him a pair of cleats and some knee socks.

He and his cousin (a week younger than him) were the youngest ones in the group, and the others had already been exposed to football before. It was the first time for my son, so he lagged behind when it came to following instructions. Although I suspect that had more to do with the instructions being in English; he was, after all, the only Filipino-speaking kid in class.

Coach Ricci: Who wants to run?
Other kids: Me! Me! Me!
A: Ako din.
 
(By the way, Coach Ricci was awesome. It amazed me how A actually listened to him. Kid probably recognized that he wasn't the alpha in this group!)

As the days progressed, I became increasingly frustrated, seeing A run off somewhere, or be more interested in playing with the dirt than in scoring a goal. He probably spent more time eating on the sidelines than actually joining the scrimmage (or what counts as scrimmage for three- and four-year-olds).  

(From top) Eating a cookie during drills; having some taho; snacking on cereal. He is his mother's son.

Babycenter sent me a relevant email ("Should you sign him up for an organized sports team?") a few days too late: "Watch a little-tot soccer game and you're apt to see a child or two off picking dandelions and another in tears on the sidelines." That's my son! I thought. Except he's pulling up grass and playing with rocks.

On one particular day, my competitive spirit was getting the better of me. All the other kids were eagerly chasing the ball around, trying to score, while A was busily knocking over cones. I kept calling out to him, but he was off doing his own thing. And then as he ran across the field, laughing his hearty, infectious laugh, another soccer mom remarked, "He is such a happy kid!"

And that's when I caught myself.

My son is a happy kid. He laughs so easily, and he would crack up whenever they would do new things (like heading, which he thinks is the most hilarious thing). He would run around the field pretending to be Spider-Man until a bunch of other kids also started pretending to spew out webs from their wrists. Who cares if he wasn't quite living up to his Messi jersey just yet? He was having fun! Besides, he's three—there's loads of time for him to grow into an athlete.

And even if he doesn't, that's fine by me. I used to joke that he would be the next Lebron (same birthday, also raised by a single mom), but I've realized: I'd much rather have a son who's watching from the sidelines, but who's bursting with joy over the simplest things.

Three

Two weeks ago, my little boy turned three. And I've been wanting to write something to mark the occasion, but I just couldn't figure out what to say.

The milestones: He was potty-trained by two and a half, and he self-weaned from the bottle shortly thereafter. He speaks fluent Tagalog, and has a thick Filipino accent when he tries to speak English ("One, two, three, pour, payb"). I think it's some sort of cosmic joke that I have a son who says things like "iskol bus" (school bus) and "kohkies" (cookies). He says the funniest things, and I have a collection of much-Liked Facebook posts to prove it. He eats like a champ--the first thing he does when we get home is open the fridge to see what he can munch on. And while he does love ice cream and chicharon, he will sometimes ask for vegetables for breakfast (!). He throws a tantrum like a pro, but also knows how to go up to the people he hurt and say sorry once he's calmed down. He loves to pretend to cook, and also helps me bake. He has blue-collar aspirations, pretending to be a taho vendor one day and a bote-dyaryo buyer on another. He's obsessed with construction vehicles (especially backhoes) and security barriers (which he calls "up and down")--it was a dream come true for him when a security guard let him assist with raising and lowering a barrier.

And while it's easy to describe those things, I can't put into words just how overwhelmed I am when I look at this boy, my boy. How my heart breaks when I watch him play because I wonder just how many more times I'll be able to watch him like that, content in his own little world where his imagination rules--no barkada, no crushes, none of the emo-ness of adolescence. How he infuriates me with his stubbornness, and yet I wouldn't trade this spirited, strong-willed kid for anything in the world. How he makes my heart swell so much when he smothers my face with kisses that it feels impossible, impossible to hold all the love I have for this little man.

In the morning, one of the first things he asks me, with a hopeful look in his eye, is "Mommy, hindi ka aalis?" ("Mommy, you're not leaving are you?") He just wants to be with Mommy, so much so that I sometimes can't even go to the bathroom without an audience. And it makes me a little bit sad when I have to tell him that I have to go to work, or that I have to run some errands--but I'll be back, I say, Mommy will always be back.

And sometimes, I want to ask my little boy the same question, "Hindi ka aalis?" Because part of me wishes he could be like this forever, that he didn't have to grow up and eventually go out on his own. But I understand that that's how things work, that's how things are supposed to be. I just wish with all my heart that when he's all grown up, he'll also feel like he has a compelling reason to go back, to always go back home.

10 Struggles Only Ultimate Players Understand

1. Chasing after you mark when your teammate lets a break pass through

2. Seeing zero cutters

3. Being surrounded by super fit athletes and getting your self-esteem trampled on

Images from here and here

4. Zombie toenails

5. Swapping spit from sharing Nalgenes

6. Spending a bundle on sunblock...

7. ...but still ending up with weird tan lines

8. Forking out money for league fees, provincial/international tournaments, gear, and Golden Siomai

9. Being judged for ordering extra rice

 

10. Dreaming of an 8-to-5 job playing disc.

Waiting

I'm struggling with a massive case of writer's block, and a friend suggested that I write something—anything—just to plow through it. And so, as I wait for inspiration to strike, allow me to share something another friend sent me recently.

Wait

by Russell Kelfer

Desperately, helplessly, longingly, I cried;

Quietly, patiently, lovingly, God replied.

I pled and I wept for a clue to my fate...

And the Master so gently said, "Wait."

"Wait? You say wait?" my indignant reply.

"Lord, I need answers, I need to know why!

Is your hand shortened? Or have you not heard?

By faith I have asked, and I'm claiming your Word.

"My future and all to which I relate

Hangs in the balance, and you tell me to wait?

I'm needing a 'yes,' a go-ahead sign,

Or even a 'no' to which I can resign.

"You promised, dear Lord, that if we believe,

We need but to ask, and we shall receive.

And Lord I've been asking, and this is my cry:

I'm weary of asking! I need a reply."

Then quietly, softly, I learned of my fate,

As my Master replied again, "Wait."

So I slumped in my chair, defeated and taut,

And grumbled to God, "So, I'm waiting for what?"

 He seemed then to kneel, and His eyes met with mine...

and He tenderly said, "I could give you a sign.

I could shake the heavens and darken the sun.

I could raise the dead and cause mountains to run.

"I could give all you seek and pleased you would be.

You'd have what you want, but you wouldn't know Me.

You'd not know the depth of my love for each saint.

You'd not know the power that I give to the faint.

"You'd not learn to see through clouds of despair;

You'd not learn to trust just by knowing I'm there.

You'd not know the joy of resting in Me

When darkness and silence are all you can see.

"You'd never experience the fullness of love

When the peace of my spirit descends like a dove.

You would know that I give, and I save, for a start,

But you'd not know the depth of the beat of my heart.

"The glow of my comfort late into the night,

The faith that I give you when you walk without sight.

The depth that's beyond getting just what you ask

From an infinite God who makes what you have last.

"You'd never know, should your pain quickly flee,

What it means that My grace is sufficient for three.

Yes, your dearest dreams overnight would come true,

But, oh, the loss, if you missed what I'm doing in you.

"So, be silent, my child, and in time you will see

That the greatest of gifts is to truly know me.

And though oft My answers seem terribly late,

My most precious answer of all is still...Wait."

I've mentioned a few times before that patience is my weakness, so the universe keeps putting me in situations wherein there's nothing I can do but wait. You know that bumper sticker that goes, "Lord, give me patience...right now!"? So me.

Recently, I was stuck in traffic near my office, and I found myself reflecting on where I was, both literally and figuratively. I looked out my window and saw the restaurant where my co-workers and I would go for a nice-ish lunch when we couldn't go too far from the office. I thought about how mundane my life was, and wondered how long I would have to wait for amazing things to start happening. "This couldn't be it, could it?" I thought. My life just seemed so...ordinary.

And then I thought about myself ten years from now. And even though my future is still so unclear, I knew in my heart that I would look back on these days with fondness, even longing. I thought of Future Me thinking about the silly-to-serious conversations my team and I would have over pork chops and garlic rice, while Just for Laughs played on the restaurant's flat-screen. And I realized that if I stepped back and viewed my life from a different perspective, I would see that, in fact, amazing is happening every day.

It's in the camaraderie that my co-workers and I have developed, banding together through collective stress and working holidays. It's in the moments when I clutch my son close to me and spin him around, dancing as he belts out a made-up song. It's in the times I'm stuck in traffic with my teammates, singing along to a boyband playlist. It's in the Sundays spent under a scorching sun, playing a sport that I truly enjoy. It's in the nights when my son insists on hearing the same story ten times before he goes to bed.

The big, bells-and-whistles events I'm waiting for are awesome, for sure, but I'm realizing life is more about the little things, the everyday. And when I think of it that way, well, it's not a bad life at all.  

 

"The storm that shook thy nest taught thee to fly"

A friend sent me this over two years ago, when I was going through a difficult time. I just thought it might give comfort to anyone who's dealing with anything heavy right now.

As an eagle stirreth up her nest. (Deut. 32:11)

God, like the eagle, stirs our nest. Yesterday it was the place for us; today there is a new plan. He wrecks the nest, although He knows it is dear to us; perhaps because it is dear to us. He loves us too well not to spoil our meager contentment. Let not our minds, therefore, dwell on second causes. It is His doing! Do not let us blame the thorn that pierces us. 

Though the destruction of the nest may seem wanton, and almost entirely come at an hour when I do not expect it, though the things happen that I least anticipate--let me guard my heart and be not forgetful of God's care, lest I miss the meaning of the wreckage of my hopes. He has something better for me.

God will not spoil our nest, and leave us without a nest, if a nest is best for us. His seeming cruelty is love; therefore, let us always sit light with the things of time.

The eaglet says, "Teach me to fly!" The saints often sit idly wishing that they were like to their Lord. Neither is likely to recognize that the prayer is heard when the nest is toppled over! 

The breaking up of a nest an act of God's benevolence? What a startling thought!

Yet, here is an old writer who makes it a subject of praise; blesses God for it; declares it to be the first step of my education! I can understand praising Him for His gifts to body and soul; but I lose my breath in surprise when I am asked to make the first stance of my hymn the adoration of His mercy in loosing the ties of home!

Nay, my soul, it is to strengthen these ties that my Father breaks up the nest; not to get rid of home, but to teach thee to fly! Travel with thy Teacher and thou shalt learn that

The Home is wider than any nest!

He would have thee learn of the many mansions of which thy nest is only one. He would tell thee of a brotherhood in Christ, which includes, yet transcends, thy household fires. He would tell thee of the family altar, which makes thee brother to the outcast, sister to the friendless--in kinship to all.

Thy Father hath given thee wings in the breaking of thy ties! 

The storm that shook thy nest taught thee to fly!

God spreads broad wings;

And by His lifting, holy grace,

We find a wider, fairer place,

The freedom of untrammeled space;

Where clearer vision shows us things

The nest-view never brings.

The wing-life is characterized by comprehensiveness. High soaring gives wide seeing! (J.H. Jowett)

~*~*~*~

I got this after my nest wasn't just shaken, but had pretty much been toppled over. It was the most painful experience of my life. Each day, I would wake up wondering if things were ever going to get better, if the hurt was ever going to end, if I was ever going to be able to say I was OK. (I wasn't even gunning for "happy"--OK was good enough for me.)

After my world was turned upside down, I went to a friend's place, and I just cried and cried and cried. "It was the worst night of my life," I sobbed. After I had a good long cry, friend wisely said, "Well, if you say it was the worst night of your life, then the good thing is, it can only get better."

And things have gotten better. I've learned how to fly. I can't say I'm soaring, but I'm getting there.

So if you're going through something right now, have faith--you're going to be just fine. You'll even be more than just OK.

The Best Musical of the Year

My friend and former colleague Carlo Vergara (of Zsazsa Zaturnnah fame) penned a one-act play called Kung Paano Ako Naging Leading Lady. It was turned into a fantastic musical that has received such rave reviews. Watch the video below to get an idea of its awesomeness.

Kung Paano Ako Naging Leading Lady - THE REPEAT!Na-miss mo ba ang unang run namin? Wag nang mag-alala! Ito na ang pagkakataon mo! Catch the most awaited re-run of the Musical to end all musicals! "Kung Paano Ako Naging Leading Lady The Musical" runs at Onstage Theater, Greenbelt 1 from July 3 to 26. Wag nang magpatumpik-tumpik pa! For tickets, call ticketworld at 891-9999 or visit http://www.ticketworld.com.ph/online/kpanllonstage #KPANLL #LeadingLadyTheMusical #KPANLLOnstage #KPANLLTheRepeat #DalanghitaProductions
Posted by Dalanghita Productions on Tuesday, June 23, 2015

Video courtesy of Dalanghita Productions

You can catch the show on its second run tomorrow night (July 11), 8 pm at OnStage Greenbelt. Tickets are priced at 1500 for orchestra center, 1200 for orchestra side, and 800 for balcony. More info below. Carlo will be there to sign books. :) See you!

Talking Body

After day 6 of my 30-day yoga challenge, I took off my shirt, stood in front of a mirror, and frowned at what I saw. Recently, I had accepted that I could not out-exercise the way I eat, so I've been trying to make better food choices (and not necessarily always succeeding). I know this is a great opportunity to build up the virtue life keeps prodding me to acquire again and again: patience. Sure, I've been working out more consistently and eating a bit more mindfully, but real results aren't going to come in a week or two.

After turning away from the mirror, I thought, "Life is too short to spend in a body I'm not happy with," and resolved to step up my efforts. I was tired of hearing people tell me that I "have such a thin face." (It happens a lot more often than you'd think.)

But maybe this yoga challenge is making me more enlightened, because immediately after that thought came another: "Life is too short to spend being ungrateful."

My body, for all my perceived flaws, has served me well all these years, and I realized that I hadn't even thanked it for all that it has done for me. So, body, THANK YOU.

For allowing me to keep dancing, and for remaining fairly flexible.

Photo by Felix Angue

For letting me finish a half-marathon, even without sufficient training.

For letting me keep playing the sport I love.

For carrying a child for nine glorious months, and producing enough breast milk (with equal parts difficulty and determination) for 22 and a half months before my son self-weaned.

Photo by Sara Black. Makeup by Omar Ermita.

 
For being able to do pull-ups, something I haven't been able to do before--not even when I was younger and lighter.

For allowing me to bear the weight of a toddler who's growing fast and seems to be all about the gains.

This gratefulness doesn't mean that I'm about to let myself go--it's just enabling me to see my body in a whole new light. I want to work out and eat right not (merely) because of vanity, but because I know my body deserves to retain its strength and its resilience and its beauty (in spite of--or because of--everything it's gone through: childbirth and breastfeeding and just plain getting older). It deserves to be treated with respect, and it deserves to be loved and nurtured. Just like the rest of me.

Photo by John Paul Santos

Today

Today was tough.

A's yaya resigned last week, and it was our all-around helper's day off, so it was just me and A. Like all toddler boys everywhere, he found numerous ways to give his mother a heart attack--jumping from the top of his slide, climbing halfway up our steep stairs by himself, throwing things in the air that could possibly hit me or, worse, him on the head. He also stubbornly exerted his will and threw a couple of tantrums (he's two, after all, so all par for the course).

At some point, I was so tired from chasing after him, and saying no no no, and (shamefully) even raising my voice. I was in a foul mood and desperately wanted reinforcements. But I reminded myself of two things: 1) full-time moms everywhere had to do this every day, and 2) these days--of spending one-on-one time with him, of him wanting mommy's attention--are going by all too fast.

I stopped looking at all the things that were going wrong, and instead decided to relish this magical time in his life. That change of mindset did the trick. It turned my frustration into gratitude. 

I took him out, so he could expend some of his boundless energy. At the toy store, he spent so long in front of a keyboard with a microphone, and I just laughed as he put on a show for me. 

He wanted to be carried around for the most part, and though my arms were tired, I figured he's only going to get heavier, and I resolved to carry him for as long as he'll let me. When we got home, I set out some dinner, and he uncharacteristically sat in his chair for the entire meal. He finished all the food I  prepared for him, and even managed to feed himself (and the floor).

Later, after he asked me to sing and dance my way through Hi5's house hits (his version of a lullaby), we were lying in bed in the dark as I waited for him to fall asleep. Out of the blue, he said, "Mommy? Love you!" It was the first time he ever said "love you" unprompted. I don't know if two-year-olds even know what that means, but my heart just melted. It made this--this day, the doing-it-by-myself, the exhaustion--all worth it.

Today was amazing.

A Prayer for Rosemarie

Walking back to the office from dance class, I would normally pass beggars on the street. Shamefully, I've somehow become inured to street kids, blind people holding out cups, mothers cradling babies on a sidewalk. Perhaps it was a conscious effort to put up a wall, because if I don't, I would just feel so incredibly helpless. When a kid knocks on my car window, or a man in crutches holds out his hand as I make my way down the MRT stairs, I feel my heart closing up. Sometimes I even close my eyes. Because I can't take it. I often think that what little I give can't help anyway. Or that if I help one, I have to help everyone else. Or that they're just part of a syndicate.

Maybe this is what happens when you've lived in a developing country all your life.

But tonight was different. As I hurried along on the sidewalk, I stopped dead in my tracks. There, right by the bottom of the stairs of the Boni MRT station, in front of 7-Eleven, was a mother holding a kid in her arms. This kid had an enlarged head due to hydrocephalus (a condition wherein fluid accumulates in the ventricles of the brain). And I don't know if it's because I'm a mother now, or because I recently hung out with a real-life good Samaritan who always does random acts of kindness (hi, Mark), or because I was still on a high from dance class and my defenses were down, but I felt compelled to help. I fished out a bill and put it in their bowl filled with coins. But that just felt useless.

I bought them some bread and water from the convenience store, then I crouched down and talked to the mom. The child's name is Rosemarie. She's 9. The mom (Rosalinda, if I remember right) can't work because she has to take care of her kids. "Sinasabi ng iba na ginagamit ko lang ang anak ko," she said, "eh paano naman ako magtatrabaho?" The noises from EDSA would drown out her voice, but from what I could gather, they would go to National Children's Hospital whenever fluid had to be removed from Rosemarie's head. There are plenty of people who are willing to help (in fact, while we were talking, quite a few handed Rosalinda some bills), but it's the doctors who don't want to operate on the little girl. So there's nothing that can be done. All I could do was meekly offer to pray for them.

I cried the rest of the way back to the office. I kept asking, why does this kid have to suffer? What is the point of it all? Being poor is hard enough without throwing an incurable sickness into the equation. I just cried and cried. And kept asking why. And I hated that there was nothing I could do.

I remembered a book I read a long time ago. It was about a man who didn't believe in God because of all the suffering in the world. A monk took him to see a gorgeous mosaic picture, and the monk explained that there are dark tiles and there are light tiles, but if you put them all together, it is a thing of beauty. The atheist scoffed at the idea of comparing suffering to a dark tile.

I felt that way as I walked and cried, walked and cried. Was this all just part of a bigger picture?

Then I remembered the little girl who asked Pope Francis during his Manila visit, "Why do children suffer?"

And if the pope doesn't have an answer, what hope do I have of figuring it out? He's right about one thing though. I've learned to weep again.

Say a prayer for Rosemarie please. And her mother.

First Love

For the past few months, life has been more hectic than usual. My workload increased significantly because my mag went through a revamp (keep an eye out for it next month!), we were working on two issues at once, plus I was editing two books on top of already demanding magazine work. A typical day would have me leaving the house in the morning, and going home to spend a bit of time with my son in the evening (whether it was to have dinner with him, give him a bath, or just say goodnight), then heading back to the office and working until late. I was working 12- to 16-hour days. Even on my trip to Vietnam, I was in front of a laptop every chance I got. After weeks and weeks of this, I was starting to burn out.

So I went back to my first love. 

It seems counterintuitive, but I really believe that the busier you get, the more you need to pay attention to yourself. But who has the time? I've come to realize that moms never have the time—so you have to make time. The kid will always be there, needing your attention. Work will always be there, with an endless to-do list. And if you let these rule your life and you forget about you, well something's gotta give. You have to shut off the mommy guilt and believe that a happy mom is a better (more efficient, less harassed) mom, and the people around you—your kids, your co-workers—will benefit from that.

The minute I started dancing again, I felt happier. Dancing is the only thing in the world that can make me forget about everything else. I'm so focused on memorizing the choreography, and then on mastering the nuances, that for an hour there are no deadlines, there is no stress—it's just me, the movement, and the music. And the effects last well beyond that one hour in class. I go back to work or go home on a high, and the anticipation of the next class helps keep me afloat.

What's one thing that you want to do for yourself? Even if it's just an hour a week? Think about it. Then go out and do it.

Lots of people have been asking—I take dance classes (usually jazz funk) at Acts Dance and Arts Academy (Unit B Messanine GA Tower 1, EDSA cor. Boni Ave., Mandaluyong City), which is a short walk from my office. Join me!
 

Fear of Flying

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about dreams. It started when a friend told me about his amazing goals for the year, and I was so impressed by how he seemed so driven and confident that he could check them all off his list. And then (and this is going to sound kind of ridiculous), I caught The Princess and the Frog on cable, where everything Tiana did was in pursuit of her big dream of owning a restaurant. It hit me that I don't have that—a dream that I relentlessly pursue, that serves as my North Star. Of course there's my son, and my dream of a great future for him, but I don't have a dream that's purely for me.

When I thought about it, I realized that the last two years of my life have just been about getting my bearings. (When I met an astrologer, he asked for my sign, looked at his chart, and said, "Well, you've had a shitty two years.") My thoughts were on recovery and on just getting through each day, working hard and raising my son, and just keeping everything steady despite whatever inner turmoil I was going through. But now that the dust has settled, I'm starting to wonder: What's next?

I've always been afraid of dreaming big, because the "hows" get in the way. I want to travel the world! (But how will I fund it?) I want to be a children's party stylist! (But how do I even start?) I want to teach a dance class! (But how can that happen when I'm not a certified anything?) That last bit is also telling of another barrier that I've erected for myself: Before I get serious about something, I want to know as much as I can about it. And when I get so overwhelmed thinking about the skills I need to develop and everything I (feel I) should learn, I end up being paralyzed. Often, I can't just jump in and do it. 

For the longest time, I held on to just one dream. And when that came crashing down, it not only added to my fear of dreaming, but it also left me without direction. Where do I go from here, after all my heart desired is no longer possible? And what's the point of dreaming when, even after giving it my all, it still crushingly doesn't come true?

Maybe the point, I've come to realize, is for me to be redirected towards a new path. Maybe the point is for me to have the courage to dream again, despite failing spectacularly the last time I allowed myself to do so. Maybe the point is to dream a bigger dream.

CHAROT.

It's an interesting place to be. It's a scary place to be. But I feel in my heart that it's exactly where I'm supposed to be.

Nagpapaka-Martha

This morning felt like one massive Pinterest fail.

I had my day all planned out. I was going to wake up early, get a workout in, bake cookie cups (to be used for ice cream), decorate the tree with A (quality time!), then leave for lunch at a friend's house by 11:30 a.m. Take that, Martha Stewart!

By 12:15 p.m., my experimental cookie cups looked like hardened golden-brown blobs that I couldn't manage to remove from the muffin pan (I ran out of butter for greasing), and I feared that the regular cookies I popped into the oven were burnt because I was so distracted by my extra-clingy son. A, being very good at being nearly two, decided to throw a fit, and I was left to decorate the tree on my own, while simultaneously trying to calm him down. The classic Christmas carols I was playing over Spotify ("for ambience") seemed like a discordant soundtrack to his sobs. A little later, I gave him a bath, and not for the first time did I wonder if I was bathing him or if it was the other way around, because I came out of the bathroom drenched.

I felt frazzled as I arrived at my friend's place, and was apologetic as I presented my container of freshly baked, nearly burnt cookies, which I deposited beside fantastic-looking store-bought desserts. But the delicious food and great conversation with the girls I've known for over two decades allowed me to let go of my disastrous morning. Plus, they devoured my cookies, so I suppose I did something right?

I had to go home earlier than everyone else as I had work to do. (Still do.) As my son napped, I decided to quietly finish trimming the tree, before buckling down to transcribe (my most detested work chore) and write. When A woke up and cried the cry of just-woken-up toddlers everywhere, I turned on the Christmas lights on the tree. He was mesmerized. I think he even said, "Wooow!"

I had a crate made using wood scraps, and went with a Filipinana theme for the tree: capiz stars from Dapitan, raffia angels and twigs from Kultura, and sinamay from Carolina's.

I wasn't able to pull off the whole baking-decorating-looking fantastic thing the way Nigella would have done it, but in the end my cookies turned out OK, and my son seemed in awe of our tree. My domestic diva dreams weren't quite so perfect in reality, but eh. Whatever gets the job done! 

P.S. I have two containers of crumbled chocolate chip cookie cups in case anyone's interested.

Infatuated

I hadn't even left Ho Chi Minh yet, and already I was daydreaming about my return.

I didn’t expect to fall in love with this city, but I guess love has a way of sneaking up on you like that. (May ganon?) Ho Chi Minh, a.k.a. Saigon, wasn’t even on my list of places to visit—I just booked a flight on a whim, while my brother was still working there (free accommodations + foodie tour guide = why not?). We landed at past midnight, so I didn’t get a good view of the city as we headed to District 2 (very Hunger Games), where my brother is currently staying.

A few hours later, as the sun came up and I still lay in bed, my brother walked in and asked, "Have you looked outside?" I stood up, pulled back the blackout drapes, and looked out of the 13th-floor window: On the highway were hundreds and hundreds of people on motorcycles. "Parang mga langgam!" remarked my tita. Being from Manila, I thought about how hellish it would be to drive amid all those motorbikes, but I've discovered that people here are much more disciplined riders, and I'm told that there's hardly ever an accident. There's a rhythm to the way the motorbikes move here (in fact, when you're crossing the street, you're not supposed to stop, and it's second nature to them to avoid you), and entire families of four pile onto one motorbike, so you have to trust that safety is foremost in their minds.  

We flagged down a cab—something that's remarkably easy to do in Ho Chi Minh—which took us to District 1. We stopped at what looked like an alley lined with knock-off Van Goghs and other paintings, and came upon a decrepit (but clean) building bearing a sign: “L’Usine.”

We made our way upstairs, and found ourselves outside the most charming-cool café—black and white tiles, slate gray walls, sunlight streaming through picture windows. I was smitten; if HCM had little gems like this hidden all around the city, then I was in for a treat.

As the day progressed, I found many other things to delight in: My mom and my tita said that the tree-lined streets and quaint shops reminded them of old Manila. (Never mind that one of these “quaint shops” was actually a Louboutin store.) I didn’t tire of seeing the French colonial architecture, and I appreciated how the chipping paint and worn facades gave buildings so much character. 

And the food! A few days before my trip, a nutritionist told me that carnivore me had to watch my red meat intake as my uric acid was higher than average. Vietnamese food was just what the doctor ordered—fresh spring rolls, steaming bowls of pho, and lots and lots of vegetables.

Even with all these things, I still had a hard time determining why the city seemed to have such a strong pull. After some reflection, I realized it was because it offered the less frenetic pace that I’ve been looking for. Even while in Ho Chi Minh, I was perpetually answering text messages and email from work, and sitting in front of a laptop every chance I got. I’ve been working so much—leaving early, going home just to have dinner with my son and give him a bath, then going back to the office to work til 11 or 1 or 2; working on weekends—that my psychosomatic stress symptoms (hives, for one) have again begun to manifest. My life was (is) just all kinds of crazy, and Manila reflected that—the never-ending to-do list, the demands, the traffic. Being in Saigon reminded me of the kind of life that I crave.

I want a life where I get to eat at cute little restaurants tucked away in old buildings...

...where I get to have an amaretto sour and oysters at sunset, while laughing with family...

  

...where I get to meet interesting new people, and hang out at a bar and just have good conversations...

And I have to stop myself from getting carried away and plotting a move to Saigon, and just appreciate the lesson it’s taught me: I can find these things back home. I just need to make time to do so and bring some balance back into my life. It’s not the city that needs to change—it’s me.