The other night I was at an engagement party at the church. The night was filled with encouraging testimonies and stories bursting with true love—unconditional and beyond measure. And I never thought that it would actually turn out to be my own “re-engagement” with the things that matter most in life. I was kind of reminded—and rather rebuked—about my perspective of and attitude towards love. I thought I already had enough of what love can be; of what it can do. I thought I already had an idea or an understanding of how beautiful love can unfold. But I realized until last night that I was left with no clue. I felt so humiliated (in a positive way) regarding my lack of proper perspective, and I felt so naïve about my experiences with love. With reasons I still keep to myself, I thought that at my age I already came full circle when it comes to relationships. Again I was wrong.
The love story that unfolded last night before my eyes is different. It is different in its capacity to love beyond the human heart. It is different in its willingness to understand. It is different in its unconditional way to forgive. It is different in its faith in the unlimited goodness and unrestricted grace of God, the author and writer of best and lasting love stories.
And since my heart is still filled and bursting with realization (and love), I want to share these three things I learned from what our pastor shared last night. It is actually taken from 1 Corinthians 13:13 where Paul talks about three important things in this life: Faith, Hope, and Love. And with so much anticipation for the God who is in the process of writing my love story, these three are my prayers and affirmations for myself:
FAITH.
I choose to live by faith, not with what I can see, hear, or feel. I choose to throw my life in the hands of the Promise-keeper, knowing deep in my heart that even though I can not see Him working now, I can expect that He is doing something amazing for me and that He will unfold it for me in His perfect time. I choose to believe in the beauty of waiting patiently for something, or someone. That even though I may get tired of waiting and may even be tempted to take a detour and a short cut, I’d willingly submit myself to hold fast to my faith and realize that everything worth having is worth waiting for. And I believe by faith that with God, it will all be worth it.
HOPE.
In this life, I choose to hope for the best. I have a God whose promises never fail, whose ways are far higher than mine, whose thoughts are far greater than all the world’s combined. I choose to hope confidently even in the midst of despair and frustration. When the time comes that my patience and strength is tested with all the mad realities of this life, I would smile at them and let the hope that springs forth abundantly from God’s throne of grace shine in the darkest night and lead the way. That may sound too cliché-ish, but you’ll never know what hope does until you hope in Someone who is unshakeable and unstoppable.
LOVE.
I choose to fill my life with love and loving people. I will not miss every single chance to love life. I will not lay waste the opportunities to show love, and be kind to, and honor other people. Someone said that one had not lived life in its fullness until he had filled every place and every space with love, and leave these places with indelible traces of love. So I choose to live. I choose to love. I choose to let love be the motivation in all that I do. I may get tired of loving people, but the Source of this love will never get tired of loving me. My supply will never run out. It will overflow in such a way that I have no choice but to share it and give it away. It will tumble like flood and leave a mark.
And when it comes to romantic love, yes, I will believe. In true love. In a love that is unconditional. In a love that is self-less. In a love story that is written by the hands of the Master Writer. So I give the pen in God’s hands, and allow Him to work on that grand and lofty masterpiece He has for me. Why do I believe in such things? Very simple. I’ve seen it unfold last night. I’ve seen it unfold in the lives of other people I know who made God the Author of their stories. And it was very, very beautiful.
Well, love has always been idealized by people and by romanticists (like myself, I admit), but only because love is too immense and too encompassing to ever be given meaning and description. Love is too great to contain. But we all have the capacity to know and feel it. Because it is real. In itself, love is a meaning. In itself, love is a reality.
In the bestselling book, “The Fault in our Stars” (and in the movie with the same title), Augustus Waters exclaimed that love is just a “shout into the void”. But I am persuaded to disagree. For me, love is not just a shout into the void—into nothingness—but rather, love is a resounding cry of celebration and an exhilarated shout trumpeting the wonders of life and existence. And spilling over and bursting forth from the deepest recesses of the human soul towards another, love is the greatest miracle, the only miracle, that has ever given this lonely world a chance at wholeness, and happiness, and joy.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
To meet an Angel
"Angela". Her name is Angela, like angel.
She’s quietly sleeping in her father’s arms as the creaky old bus rumbles its way through the pouring summer rain, drenching at once the parched ground which eventually emitted that all-too-familiar pungent yet pleasant smell. With his voice breaking, the father seated beside me hesitantly told me how at a young age, their daughter broke their hearts. And mine, too…
It was raining like mad when I took the trip home to Pangasinan the other day. After thinking that my further stay in CLSU will drain my allowance or what’s left of it (I’m unemployed, for goodness’ sake!), and since it was already vacation and the heat of the sweltering summer and the erratic weather are already getting into my nerves, I decided to go home. I didn’t have an umbrella or anything that would spare me from rain so by the time I arrived at the San Jose City bus stop and stepped onto the platform of that rusty old bus, it seemed like I’ve just emerged from the bathroom: wet and dripping with water. I was like rain-drenched and all. Well I guess that’s what you get when you decide not to take a bath because you’re thinking that the one-and-a-half hour trip home will just be a breeze no one can smell you. I didn’t even change clothes when I left CLSU. I was too anxious to go home. And besides, the ordinary commuter bus that I took stinks more than I do.
(And what was that quote again? There are two things in this world one can never fully understand: the weather and women? I can better tolerate the weather, though. And I digress from attempting to understand women. I’d rather blame my misery on the rain—even rain on a summer season.)
I deliberately chose one of the seats at the near-end of the bus—two rows from the rear—so I can freely dry myself up with the used clothes I had in my backpack, hoping that water didn’t seep through in there. What choice do I have? With all effort, I negotiated my way through the rear, hurdling baskets filled with varying vegetables, bags of—what was that, rice or fertilizer?—and careful not to step into boxes and trays packed with eggs and salted eggs all lining the whole stretch of the aisle. Oh wait, did I hear chickens and ducks somewhere? Well this was an ordinary public commuter line, so maybe then it’s possible even to bring a chicken coop inside. Perfect. I wonder if there was some exodus happening here: people leaving a doomed village in search of another, bringing with them their entire household with their crops and livestock and pets and all.
When the bus pulled from the terminal, it was almost packed with people who appear restless due to the heavy rain. The atmosphere in the bus was a mess, and because of the thick humidity in the air, the stink intensified all the more. I tried to ignore if it’s just me or the bus. Maybe it’s the flock of chicken.
Despite its heavy downpour, the rain failed to dampen the lively chatter of mixed languages that filled the atmosphere inside the bus. Men, women, children minding their respective businesses completes the typical scene of a life in motion, sharing a momentary space on this speeding vehicle, headed to a cycle of endless journey. Seated across from my seat, an elderly woman with a bush of unkempt white hair and few front teeth tries to negotiate the price of a chicharon baboy with the itinerant vendor who climbed up the bus to sell his goods. While drying myself up with the moist clothes from my bag, I caught the vendor say “makulit” while scratching his head, but nonetheless gave in to whatever price the old woman demanded. The vendor heavily shook his head and clicked his tongue as he moved ahead. Another vendor came and offered me boiled quail eggs and peanuts. And when I declined, he too shook his head.
The rain slowed down by the time the bus pulled at another stop near the military installment in the Lupao-Umingan boundary, and a man and a woman climbed the platform. I later noticed that the man carries a baby in his arms as the woman tries to make way for them through the rubble of boxes, stacks of tray and vegetable baskets. And since the only seat available that can accommodate them was my three-seater, I gave way to them and perched myself nearest the window. The man heaved a sigh of relief as he collapsed his weight in the seat beside me after having to hurdle the obstacles. Her wife, so it seemed, positioned herself in the seat near the aisle, across the elderly woman happily munching her chicharon. I abashedly smiled at the new passengers out of courtesy. They smiled back and nodded their heads.
I attempted to start a conversation by asking the usual questions about their destination when I glanced at the baby sleeping quietly in his father’s arms. Surely it was a girl, not more than two-years old. As if something is tugging my eyeballs, I couldn’t look away. I held my gaze at the baby he is carrying, and noticed that something was distinctly wrong with the beautiful, innocent face. Something that’s out of proportion, like a glitch or a distortion…like in an abstract painting in which something was out of place and you try to figure what. I don’t know whether to hold my smile at her or at the couple, I don’t know how should I look like at that moment or what kind of words will I say next that will matter.
“Meron siyang cleft palate”, the father said, if only to make clear to me what I already perceived as obvious. I forced myself to nod at this. No, I deliberately shook my head up and down and up and down to emphasize that I understand, but mostly to spare me from commenting with the right words that became so elusive at that moment. Will I say she’s beautiful? Will I say it’s alright? I honestly don’t know what to say.
“Ano po ang pangalan niya”, was all I can ask, as if knowing her name can give me a proper excuse.
“Angela…magda-dalawang taon na siya sa July”, the father replied in the midst of the rumbling cry of the vehicle's engine.
Angela, like angel, I thought.
Angela was their first baby. He and his wife were married six years ago, when he was 27 and she was 25. They have planned to start a family immediately after the wedding. But two years into their marriage, nothing happened. On the third year the wife got pregnant, but just four months away from giving birth to their first child, she had a miscarriage. The father said it was too painful to bear, but they’ve managed to move on. After another year, the wife had another pregnancy and it continued until the final month. And so they were very happy when the baby came out. They were filled with joy and earnest expectations for their baby girl. Until they saw her little face and it broke their hearts to pieces.
“Wala na kaming nagawa. Ganyan na siya simula nung pinanganak…”, the father said with a heavy heart. Again, I can only manage to nod, as if it's the only proper thing to do when words have lost all meaning.
He then said that they are going to Baguio City to see a specialist there, to hopefully correct their daughter’s distorted face. He said he’d been saving up from his meager income by the time Angela was born, so as to give her daughter a fighting chance. He further said that he researched a lot about cleft palate in order to understand it better. There have been a lot of successful operations concerning cleft palate, he said. So they are giving it a shot. Or a leap of faith. They are not giving up hope that someday their daughter can smile like the rest of the world.
When there were no more words left to say, I absentmindedly diverted my attention to the images flashing on the road before my eyes. The rain has picked up its strength again, pelting my glass window with all its might. I glanced toward the front of the bus where I can have a better view of the road in the large windshield: the road was blurred by thick threads of driving rain, but our bus showed no signs of slowing down. We were moving forward despite the odds. The flurry of scenes from beyond my window failed to form a coherent mental picture as I try to take in Angela's and her parents' battle with her cleft palate, a battle which--if it has any consolation at the moment--reminded me of my own, personal battles. I have fought them hard, was defeated at times, but just like this creaky, old bus, I am bouncing on the high road of life and continuing the journey. And until the next bus stop or the last destination, I must persist and resolve to move forward.
And I realized then, like Angela, I am a child in the Father’s arms. In the midst of chaos around me, despite my imperfections and flaws, He still carries me gently through wherever life may go, reassuring me again and again with grace and truth, prodding me to trust in His will. Like Angela, I was given a fighting chance. And that I don't have to face my battles alone.
They named her Angela, like angel.
She’s quietly sleeping in her father’s arms as the creaky old bus rumbles its way through the pouring summer rain, drenching at once the parched ground which eventually emitted that all-too-familiar pungent yet pleasant smell. With his voice breaking, the father seated beside me hesitantly told me how at a young age, their daughter broke their hearts. And mine, too…
It was raining like mad when I took the trip home to Pangasinan the other day. After thinking that my further stay in CLSU will drain my allowance or what’s left of it (I’m unemployed, for goodness’ sake!), and since it was already vacation and the heat of the sweltering summer and the erratic weather are already getting into my nerves, I decided to go home. I didn’t have an umbrella or anything that would spare me from rain so by the time I arrived at the San Jose City bus stop and stepped onto the platform of that rusty old bus, it seemed like I’ve just emerged from the bathroom: wet and dripping with water. I was like rain-drenched and all. Well I guess that’s what you get when you decide not to take a bath because you’re thinking that the one-and-a-half hour trip home will just be a breeze no one can smell you. I didn’t even change clothes when I left CLSU. I was too anxious to go home. And besides, the ordinary commuter bus that I took stinks more than I do.
(And what was that quote again? There are two things in this world one can never fully understand: the weather and women? I can better tolerate the weather, though. And I digress from attempting to understand women. I’d rather blame my misery on the rain—even rain on a summer season.)
I deliberately chose one of the seats at the near-end of the bus—two rows from the rear—so I can freely dry myself up with the used clothes I had in my backpack, hoping that water didn’t seep through in there. What choice do I have? With all effort, I negotiated my way through the rear, hurdling baskets filled with varying vegetables, bags of—what was that, rice or fertilizer?—and careful not to step into boxes and trays packed with eggs and salted eggs all lining the whole stretch of the aisle. Oh wait, did I hear chickens and ducks somewhere? Well this was an ordinary public commuter line, so maybe then it’s possible even to bring a chicken coop inside. Perfect. I wonder if there was some exodus happening here: people leaving a doomed village in search of another, bringing with them their entire household with their crops and livestock and pets and all.
When the bus pulled from the terminal, it was almost packed with people who appear restless due to the heavy rain. The atmosphere in the bus was a mess, and because of the thick humidity in the air, the stink intensified all the more. I tried to ignore if it’s just me or the bus. Maybe it’s the flock of chicken.
Despite its heavy downpour, the rain failed to dampen the lively chatter of mixed languages that filled the atmosphere inside the bus. Men, women, children minding their respective businesses completes the typical scene of a life in motion, sharing a momentary space on this speeding vehicle, headed to a cycle of endless journey. Seated across from my seat, an elderly woman with a bush of unkempt white hair and few front teeth tries to negotiate the price of a chicharon baboy with the itinerant vendor who climbed up the bus to sell his goods. While drying myself up with the moist clothes from my bag, I caught the vendor say “makulit” while scratching his head, but nonetheless gave in to whatever price the old woman demanded. The vendor heavily shook his head and clicked his tongue as he moved ahead. Another vendor came and offered me boiled quail eggs and peanuts. And when I declined, he too shook his head.
The rain slowed down by the time the bus pulled at another stop near the military installment in the Lupao-Umingan boundary, and a man and a woman climbed the platform. I later noticed that the man carries a baby in his arms as the woman tries to make way for them through the rubble of boxes, stacks of tray and vegetable baskets. And since the only seat available that can accommodate them was my three-seater, I gave way to them and perched myself nearest the window. The man heaved a sigh of relief as he collapsed his weight in the seat beside me after having to hurdle the obstacles. Her wife, so it seemed, positioned herself in the seat near the aisle, across the elderly woman happily munching her chicharon. I abashedly smiled at the new passengers out of courtesy. They smiled back and nodded their heads.
I attempted to start a conversation by asking the usual questions about their destination when I glanced at the baby sleeping quietly in his father’s arms. Surely it was a girl, not more than two-years old. As if something is tugging my eyeballs, I couldn’t look away. I held my gaze at the baby he is carrying, and noticed that something was distinctly wrong with the beautiful, innocent face. Something that’s out of proportion, like a glitch or a distortion…like in an abstract painting in which something was out of place and you try to figure what. I don’t know whether to hold my smile at her or at the couple, I don’t know how should I look like at that moment or what kind of words will I say next that will matter.
“Meron siyang cleft palate”, the father said, if only to make clear to me what I already perceived as obvious. I forced myself to nod at this. No, I deliberately shook my head up and down and up and down to emphasize that I understand, but mostly to spare me from commenting with the right words that became so elusive at that moment. Will I say she’s beautiful? Will I say it’s alright? I honestly don’t know what to say.
“Ano po ang pangalan niya”, was all I can ask, as if knowing her name can give me a proper excuse.
“Angela…magda-dalawang taon na siya sa July”, the father replied in the midst of the rumbling cry of the vehicle's engine.
Angela, like angel, I thought.
Angela was their first baby. He and his wife were married six years ago, when he was 27 and she was 25. They have planned to start a family immediately after the wedding. But two years into their marriage, nothing happened. On the third year the wife got pregnant, but just four months away from giving birth to their first child, she had a miscarriage. The father said it was too painful to bear, but they’ve managed to move on. After another year, the wife had another pregnancy and it continued until the final month. And so they were very happy when the baby came out. They were filled with joy and earnest expectations for their baby girl. Until they saw her little face and it broke their hearts to pieces.
“Wala na kaming nagawa. Ganyan na siya simula nung pinanganak…”, the father said with a heavy heart. Again, I can only manage to nod, as if it's the only proper thing to do when words have lost all meaning.
He then said that they are going to Baguio City to see a specialist there, to hopefully correct their daughter’s distorted face. He said he’d been saving up from his meager income by the time Angela was born, so as to give her daughter a fighting chance. He further said that he researched a lot about cleft palate in order to understand it better. There have been a lot of successful operations concerning cleft palate, he said. So they are giving it a shot. Or a leap of faith. They are not giving up hope that someday their daughter can smile like the rest of the world.
When there were no more words left to say, I absentmindedly diverted my attention to the images flashing on the road before my eyes. The rain has picked up its strength again, pelting my glass window with all its might. I glanced toward the front of the bus where I can have a better view of the road in the large windshield: the road was blurred by thick threads of driving rain, but our bus showed no signs of slowing down. We were moving forward despite the odds. The flurry of scenes from beyond my window failed to form a coherent mental picture as I try to take in Angela's and her parents' battle with her cleft palate, a battle which--if it has any consolation at the moment--reminded me of my own, personal battles. I have fought them hard, was defeated at times, but just like this creaky, old bus, I am bouncing on the high road of life and continuing the journey. And until the next bus stop or the last destination, I must persist and resolve to move forward.
And I realized then, like Angela, I am a child in the Father’s arms. In the midst of chaos around me, despite my imperfections and flaws, He still carries me gently through wherever life may go, reassuring me again and again with grace and truth, prodding me to trust in His will. Like Angela, I was given a fighting chance. And that I don't have to face my battles alone.
They named her Angela, like angel.
And I knew why.
11:11
It all started with a wish.
You’ll never think that magic was real the moment you are captivated by it face to face. You got to believe it was real because you can see it, because you can feel it, because you just knew deep inside you that if this isn’t real, then what else is real?
I was already disillusioned that love for me was just a romantic notion of an idealized fairy-tale; that love is nothing but hyper-reality and that romantic feelings are nothing more than that: ‘feelings’.
I’ve already grown accustomed to exclusion and silence ever since my first attempt at a romantic relationship failed and came crashing on me like tumbling flood—it left me devastated at the least. And that is just an underestimation. When you give your all for the sake of love, you’re giving a big part of yourself to that person who came to compliment your existence. And when that person—your all, your reality and dream, your center, your meaning—leaves without promising to return, you feel so isolated, you feel so denied of the right to be happy…you feel so broken that the next thing you want to do was to end it all and vanish.
But then I came through, like all people do. I moved on, like we always do. I lived.
Coming from that experience, I willed to myself to avoid the call of romantic love for the meantime and focus on more necessary matters in my life that calls for my attention; and also to get rid of unnecessary entanglements which have become my worst battles. I almost succeeded in doing that, and I was so proud of myself. I was slowly taking progress. Getting over a painful experience is really hard, but it was possible. It was necessary.
So I was on my way to thinking that love is just a Hollywood construct. I was ready to dismiss it as a myth that has been told to generations so that people can make sense of their world in the absence of a concrete and more acceptable explanations. I’ve grown skeptical about its meaning, and the more I refer to my past experience the more I strongly feel that it is not really necessary to one’s existence.
Or at least mine. (Read: Bitter. Haha)
But then, whoever said that corny, shallow, insensible, exaggerated, hyper-reality quote “love moves in mysterious ways” maybe right, and I admit. I didn’t imagine that love is indeed a force that will make or break you, or a magic that puts you under spell. I wasn’t prepared for that magic this time inasmuch as I’m still not prepared to be swooped by it again. But then, there is no telling what love can do when it comes. There is nothing one can do to rationalize love because love is not an intellectual pursuit, nor a state of emotional delusion, but something that gives you clarity. I realized then, it is not something to be found, but it is something that finds you.
And so, right before my eyes—in the most unnatural ways, in the most unexpected time, in the most unexpected place—it came all of a sudden. Without hows or whys or what ifs.
It has found me. And the world since then was filled with magic.
But I am writing this now not to tell a personal story (really?). Although mine and yours are stories which will always be interconnected in some ways by some invisible thread which holds life and destiny together.
I am writing this for you—to you who once taught me about magic and wishes and stories. I am writing this for you who once believed in the magic of love but seemed to have lost it because of life’s difficult situation and harsh realities.
I am writing this for you, to let you know that you are not alone. That people are there to stand side by side with you, to fight with you, to go with you. Just when you thought that nobody really understands, someone does. Just when you thought you already came full circle in your situation, life can still be better. And it will be. You just have to keep going, like you always did.
Your courage and determination is commendable, did you know that? No one really knows the real nature of your battles, but only because you are keeping a happy face and a head held high in the midst of life’s blows and mighty insults. Your strength lies on your ability to lighten up other people’s burden by simply being there, even though you yourself is in the midst of difficulty. You emit something positive wherever you are. You’re a powerhouse, an energy ball that sparkles even in the dark.
And to me you've given more than you can imagine. You allowed me to know that not everything can be understood by logic or reason. You made me realize that if I rationalize everything in this life, then I will miss the single chance to live. You taught me not to question all things, because not all things can be satisfied with an answer. You made me believe that I am capable of going beyond myself and be better than what I am.
You taught me the magic of happiness. You made me smile at simple things and laugh at the ordinary. You made me look up to the sky, in the light of day and in the dark of night. You made me enjoy the moon and the stars and their patterns...looking at them for signs and wonders, and making fancies and wishes... and that if this moment was already bound to happen, like you and me looking at the same constellation of cosmic objects floating in space, then it was just perfect. Magic and reality became one.
When it came to me that life is a circle of chaos and illusions, you offered me a clarity of vision...you encouraged me to trust again and take the step towards love and life. And when I'm about to surrender to the idea that I will never be good enough for someone, you proved me otherwise. You let me feel accepted for who I am.
You taught me to believe in myself and find courage even when things are complicated or impossible. It was you who taught me that I am capable of loving beyond my heart. To give and to understand more than I thought possible. To let go of myself and be true to what I feel... In the place called life and reality, you were the teacher, I was the student.
Yet in the end, words can not exactly tell it all. I can only say I’m glad and grateful. I will always will.
So let me remind you this time of what you already seem to have forgotten: that magic was real. That wishes can come true. That promises can be fulfilled. That forever, even though it’s hard to figure out, can be possible. That loving beyond your heart, although it seems to be so idealistic, and unreasonable (and sometimes stupid), is all worth it...it is all we aspire to do and what we all wish to have.
And that despite our mistakes and stubbornness, we can look ahead of our life with contentment and a happy heart, knowing that we can never really lose, we will never be defeated... because we have loved so deeply and completely.
And remember, true love exists. And because it exists, it is real. And because it is real, it is possible.
I know that for a fact. Because you taught me how, and you taught me well.
You just got to believe:)
You’ll never think that magic was real the moment you are captivated by it face to face. You got to believe it was real because you can see it, because you can feel it, because you just knew deep inside you that if this isn’t real, then what else is real?
I was already disillusioned that love for me was just a romantic notion of an idealized fairy-tale; that love is nothing but hyper-reality and that romantic feelings are nothing more than that: ‘feelings’.
I’ve already grown accustomed to exclusion and silence ever since my first attempt at a romantic relationship failed and came crashing on me like tumbling flood—it left me devastated at the least. And that is just an underestimation. When you give your all for the sake of love, you’re giving a big part of yourself to that person who came to compliment your existence. And when that person—your all, your reality and dream, your center, your meaning—leaves without promising to return, you feel so isolated, you feel so denied of the right to be happy…you feel so broken that the next thing you want to do was to end it all and vanish.
But then I came through, like all people do. I moved on, like we always do. I lived.
Coming from that experience, I willed to myself to avoid the call of romantic love for the meantime and focus on more necessary matters in my life that calls for my attention; and also to get rid of unnecessary entanglements which have become my worst battles. I almost succeeded in doing that, and I was so proud of myself. I was slowly taking progress. Getting over a painful experience is really hard, but it was possible. It was necessary.
So I was on my way to thinking that love is just a Hollywood construct. I was ready to dismiss it as a myth that has been told to generations so that people can make sense of their world in the absence of a concrete and more acceptable explanations. I’ve grown skeptical about its meaning, and the more I refer to my past experience the more I strongly feel that it is not really necessary to one’s existence.
Or at least mine. (Read: Bitter. Haha)
But then, whoever said that corny, shallow, insensible, exaggerated, hyper-reality quote “love moves in mysterious ways” maybe right, and I admit. I didn’t imagine that love is indeed a force that will make or break you, or a magic that puts you under spell. I wasn’t prepared for that magic this time inasmuch as I’m still not prepared to be swooped by it again. But then, there is no telling what love can do when it comes. There is nothing one can do to rationalize love because love is not an intellectual pursuit, nor a state of emotional delusion, but something that gives you clarity. I realized then, it is not something to be found, but it is something that finds you.
And so, right before my eyes—in the most unnatural ways, in the most unexpected time, in the most unexpected place—it came all of a sudden. Without hows or whys or what ifs.
It has found me. And the world since then was filled with magic.
But I am writing this now not to tell a personal story (really?). Although mine and yours are stories which will always be interconnected in some ways by some invisible thread which holds life and destiny together.
I am writing this for you—to you who once taught me about magic and wishes and stories. I am writing this for you who once believed in the magic of love but seemed to have lost it because of life’s difficult situation and harsh realities.
I am writing this for you, to let you know that you are not alone. That people are there to stand side by side with you, to fight with you, to go with you. Just when you thought that nobody really understands, someone does. Just when you thought you already came full circle in your situation, life can still be better. And it will be. You just have to keep going, like you always did.
Your courage and determination is commendable, did you know that? No one really knows the real nature of your battles, but only because you are keeping a happy face and a head held high in the midst of life’s blows and mighty insults. Your strength lies on your ability to lighten up other people’s burden by simply being there, even though you yourself is in the midst of difficulty. You emit something positive wherever you are. You’re a powerhouse, an energy ball that sparkles even in the dark.
And to me you've given more than you can imagine. You allowed me to know that not everything can be understood by logic or reason. You made me realize that if I rationalize everything in this life, then I will miss the single chance to live. You taught me not to question all things, because not all things can be satisfied with an answer. You made me believe that I am capable of going beyond myself and be better than what I am.
You taught me the magic of happiness. You made me smile at simple things and laugh at the ordinary. You made me look up to the sky, in the light of day and in the dark of night. You made me enjoy the moon and the stars and their patterns...looking at them for signs and wonders, and making fancies and wishes... and that if this moment was already bound to happen, like you and me looking at the same constellation of cosmic objects floating in space, then it was just perfect. Magic and reality became one.
When it came to me that life is a circle of chaos and illusions, you offered me a clarity of vision...you encouraged me to trust again and take the step towards love and life. And when I'm about to surrender to the idea that I will never be good enough for someone, you proved me otherwise. You let me feel accepted for who I am.
You taught me to believe in myself and find courage even when things are complicated or impossible. It was you who taught me that I am capable of loving beyond my heart. To give and to understand more than I thought possible. To let go of myself and be true to what I feel... In the place called life and reality, you were the teacher, I was the student.
Yet in the end, words can not exactly tell it all. I can only say I’m glad and grateful. I will always will.
So let me remind you this time of what you already seem to have forgotten: that magic was real. That wishes can come true. That promises can be fulfilled. That forever, even though it’s hard to figure out, can be possible. That loving beyond your heart, although it seems to be so idealistic, and unreasonable (and sometimes stupid), is all worth it...it is all we aspire to do and what we all wish to have.
And that despite our mistakes and stubbornness, we can look ahead of our life with contentment and a happy heart, knowing that we can never really lose, we will never be defeated... because we have loved so deeply and completely.
And remember, true love exists. And because it exists, it is real. And because it is real, it is possible.
I know that for a fact. Because you taught me how, and you taught me well.
You just got to believe:)
Dear Vice Ganda
Ginising ako ng kanta mong "Boom Panes" na tumutugtog kanina sa aming kapitbahay. Except for the line that refers to “God”, your new 'song', dear Vice, is an insult to the musical giftedness and talent known to Filipinos by the world over.
And if, by chance--which is not at all impossible in our culture that gradually discourages sensibility and depth--the song despite its shallowness becomes a gold or a platinum record, then congratulate yourself but only for having successfully proven once again the shallowness of your listeners/audience who had become so used to your pranks that it made them miserably ignorant of their own ignorance.
Is the song a work of art, a product of good taste, intended for good entertainment? If it has any bearing at all, your song only testifies to the irresponsible, predatory, and thoughtless marketing of the industry in which you are a part of. You and the media empire often justify shallowness and shameless marketing by way of entertainment--"oh the madlang pipol are entertained, let's do it some more!"--and prey on the vulnerable people that lack choices only because you deliberately deny them.
You guys have created so many ways of celebrating mediocrity in our society, and in so many ways you have succeeded. And you guys are a proud and happy bunch of entertainer-capitalists. And here I am with my opinionated rants and disturbed sleep. And I'm not entertained.
Sincerely yours (but not a fan),
Marvin D'Martian
PS: hindi ako hater at basher, inistorbo lang ng kanta mo ang pag-tulog ko. Stop the violence! Boompanes! Haha. Toinkz.
And if, by chance--which is not at all impossible in our culture that gradually discourages sensibility and depth--the song despite its shallowness becomes a gold or a platinum record, then congratulate yourself but only for having successfully proven once again the shallowness of your listeners/audience who had become so used to your pranks that it made them miserably ignorant of their own ignorance.
Is the song a work of art, a product of good taste, intended for good entertainment? If it has any bearing at all, your song only testifies to the irresponsible, predatory, and thoughtless marketing of the industry in which you are a part of. You and the media empire often justify shallowness and shameless marketing by way of entertainment--"oh the madlang pipol are entertained, let's do it some more!"--and prey on the vulnerable people that lack choices only because you deliberately deny them.
You guys have created so many ways of celebrating mediocrity in our society, and in so many ways you have succeeded. And you guys are a proud and happy bunch of entertainer-capitalists. And here I am with my opinionated rants and disturbed sleep. And I'm not entertained.
Sincerely yours (but not a fan),
Marvin D'Martian
PS: hindi ako hater at basher, inistorbo lang ng kanta mo ang pag-tulog ko. Stop the violence! Boompanes! Haha. Toinkz.
(Vice Ganda is a local actor/comedian whose fame and influence has now become popculture among the young generation.)
Star-crossed Lovers
I still look at the stars
just to remind myself that once upon a time,
there had been you and me
there had been you and me
beneath the glittering sky,
you and me--us making a rhyme.
And because the stars were there,
you and me--us making a rhyme.
And because the stars were there,
I knew it was real,
But tomorrow their flickering lights
But tomorrow their flickering lights
will soon fade,
And just like them--the stars--
And just like them--the stars--
you and me and "us" are ephemeral.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)