a*musing

The old key

2007-09-12T17:07:00.000+08:00

I lost an old key.

...The key to a wooden chest that knows many things. Big things. Things that can make distant worlds appear before my very eyes. Most are magical; they can lift me to the skies. A few are a somewhat melancholy but always with wee bits of rosy sparks by their edges.…

Oh, a tiny pouch that once belonged to a bear with a band of silver hearts is in there. A scrawny note. Long letters. Some folded funny things. Stamps. Ribbons. Rose petals. Two big hearts…

Every single thing in that chest is a piece of awe. Once in there, it does not lose its sweet, fresh smell. Whenever opened, lovely chimes even hum a tune, lulled by a soft breeze that would gently blow.

My special wooden chest is indestructible and heeds only to that one key. So unlike any other...

Yet, for all its magic, only the past can reveal itself in an endless shuffle. It cannot see the future. Nothing spills a premonition.

A big flood came to my charming, modest land, one awful day. In a glimpse, we were all washed ashore. A bit broken here and there but all in one piece. More than enough to be thankful for.

Little else was left of what has been though. It was a hapless sight.

But hope sprung like wings on my feet when the special wooden chest appeared. To which I thought, “There are so many magical things in there… they can save us amidst this sad affair.”

But another tragedy came in the heels. Despite its nifty place close to heart, I lost the key. And as tragedies come in three’s, notions of what life is slowly faded… I simply plunged in misery.

And so, a search that spanned many seas was immediately set in pace. My beautiful friends with their delicate wings, bright halos and sparkly wands joined in great haste.

Deep prayers. Incantations. Spells. All that in vain.

The key was swept into the ocean’s deepest trench. It is a place where even a faint glow of hope has no chance of thriving. Or was it deliberately tossed in there by some green-eyed little creatures, which, in their tiny, obscure and hollow existence, everything is just pure mischief?

The world’s grief is their recreation.

The greatest shaman can only do miracles where miracles are supposed to work, I was told.

It took a million years for a stubborn thing called “acceptance” to snuggle in my old, weary heart. My special wooden chest had been locked forever. That is the truth.

Nowadays, a little smile has come to my lips nudged by a little sunny thought. A new chest will, one day, beckon to a special song. Maybe it will come in colors of glee. One can never tell. I’ll be patient for that one pretty mystery.

But this time, I’ll make sure it does not come with lock and key.

For what is a treasure when it is not shared? In a sad twist of fate everything can be forgotten. Nothing spared. And in this world of ours where virtues are dared, odd events, indeed, cannot be rare.

Image: http://www.publicsurplus.com/smsweb/images/ps/img_indexllave.jpg

Singapore Post No. 4: Where you'll find the most curves

2007-09-06T19:21:00.000+08:00

There are just too many curves in this place that apparently, many men have manifested temporary insanity seeing them…

…someone lost this boot

…another, this spoon!!!

I know… you must be thinking of Orchard Road... and that vivid imagination of yours with well-endowed women sashaying the street just leaped out of my screen!!!

Nope. This road is much too subtle. Rather quaint but can rival that shopping strip’s financial “ka-shing!” for its rich albeit tragic history.

Welcome to South Buona Vista Road!!! The only road in Singapore with more than a dozen twists and turns! Some cabbies love cruising along this sloping and winding road in Kent Ridge Park. They know by heart how many curves there are. Or so they seem. One cabbie said, fourteen? Another said, thirteen? Hmmm. I would also try to count each time but… I get dizzy!

Of course, some simply hate it. They have serious doubts over navigating this road. You just know they do. With them you pray real hard for the road to suddenly turn straight. But if I happen to have a bad cabbie—you know, the morose and ranting, or the rock-a-bye-sleepy baby, or the tire-screeching types—this one surely zaps the “evil spirits” out of them. They become quiet, with both hands on the wheel, and eyes focused on the road. Yes.

I love this road. It suits my sedentary lifestyle which needs a bit of low-impact walking exercise every now and then. When in a reflective mood, the trees on the slopes and the pavement are good company. Really. Never fails to remind me of how life is, in general—a meandering obstacle course.

Speaking of obstacles, during the World War II the British thought they had their best defense against the Japanese invaders in Kent Ridge. It was invaluable, having the best vantage point for incoming enemy ships. Sadly, as the British had their eyes towards the sea, the Japanese conquered Singapore in a stealthy come-from-behind attack by foot and bike.*

See how this bit of history deepens our insight on life? But let’s not get into that.

See you at the next curve!

*Mahbubani, Kishore. "Can Asians Think?," Times Books International, Singapore, p. 38.

Pico Iyer: The eloquent sounds of silence

2007-09-05T00:34:00.000+08:00

Breathtaking sunset in the southernmost tip of the Philippines
... a moment of peace in a place of strife

PICO IYER is one of the most accomplished travel essayist of our time. Here is his beautiful piece on silence, printed in 1993 by Time magazine.

EVERY ONE OF US KNOWS the sensation of going up, on retreat, to a high place and feeling ourselves so lifted up that we can hardly imagine the circumstances of our usual lives, or all the things that make us fret. In such a place, in such a state, we start to recite the standard litany: that silence is sunshine, where company is clouds; that silence is rapture, where company is doubt; that silence is golden, where company is brass.

But silence is not so easily won. And before we race off to go prospecting in those hills, we might usefully recall that fool's gold is much more common and that gold has to be panned for, dug out from other substances. "All profound things and emotions of things are preceded and attended by Silence," wrote Herman Melville, one of the loftiest and most eloquent of souls. Working himself up to an ever more thunderous cry of affirmation, he went on, "Silence is the general consecration of the universe. Silence is the invisible laying on of the Divine Pontiff's hands upon the world. Silence is the only Voice of our God." For Melville, though, silence finally meant darkness and hopelessness and self-annihilation. Devastated by the silence that greeted his heartfelt novels, he retired into a public silence from which he did not emerge for more than 30 years. Then, just before his death, he came forth with his final utterance -- the luminous tale of Billy Budd -- and showed that silence is only as worthy as what we can bring back from it.

We have to earn silence, then, to work for it: to make it not an absence but a presence; not emptiness but repletion. Silence is something more than just a pause; it is that enchanted place where space is cleared and time is stayed and the horizon itself expands. In silence, we often say, we can hear ourselves think; but what is truer to say is that in silence we can hear ourselves not think, and so sink below our selves into a place far deeper than mere thought allows. In silence, we might better say, we can hear someone else think.

Or simply breathe. For silence is responsiveness, and in silence we can listen to something behind the clamor of the world. "A man who loves God, necessarily loves silence," wrote Thomas Merton, who was, as a Trappist, a connoisseur, a caretaker of silences. It is no coincidence that places of worship are places of silence: if idleness is the devil's playground, silence may be the angels'. It is no surprise that silence is an anagram of license. And it is only right that Quakers all but worship silence, for it is the place where everyone finds his God, however he may express it. Silence is an ecumenical state, beyond the doctrines and divisions created by the mind. If everyone has a spiritual story to tell of his life, everyone has a spiritual silence to preserve.

So it is that we might almost say silence is the tribute we pay to holiness; we slip off words when we enter a sacred space, just as we slip off shoes. A "moment of silence" is the highest honor we can pay someone; it is the point at which the mind stops and something else takes over (words run out when feelings rush in). A "vow of silence" is for holy men the highest devotional act. We hold our breath, we hold our words; we suspend our chattering selves and let ourselves "fall silent," and fall into the highest place of all.

It often seems that the world is getting noisier these days: in Japan, which may be a model of our future, cars and buses have voices, doors and elevators speak. The answering machine talks to us, and for us, somewhere above the din of the TV; the Walkman preserves a public silence but ensures that we need never -- in the bathtub, on a mountaintop, even at our desks -- be without the clangor of the world. White noise becomes the aural equivalent of the clash of images, the nonstop blast of fragments that increasingly agitates our minds. As Ben Okri, the young Nigerian novelist, puts it, "When chaos is the god of an era, clamorous music is the deity's chief instrument."

There is, of course, a place for noise, as there is for daily lives. There is a place for roaring, for the shouting exultation of a baseball game, for hymns and spoken prayers, for orchestras and cries of pleasure. Silence, like all the best things, is best appreciated in its absence: if noise is the signature tune of the world, silence is the music of the other world, the closest thing we know to the harmony of the spheres. But the greatest charm of noise is when it ceases. In silence, suddenly, it seems as if all the windows of the world are thrown open and everything is as clear as on a morning after rain. Silence, ideally, hums. It charges the air. In Tibet, where the silence has a tragic cause, it is still quickened by the fluttering of prayer flags, the tolling of temple bells, the roar of wind across the plains, the memory of chant.

Silence, then, could be said to be the ultimate province of trust: it is the place where we trust ourselves to be alone; where we trust others to understand the things we do not say; where we trust a higher harmony to assert itself. We all know how treacherous are words, and how often we use them to paper over embarrassment, or emptiness, or fear of the larger spaces that silence brings. "Words, words, words" commit us to positions we do not really hold, the imperatives of chatter; words are what we use for lies, false promises and gossip. We babble with strangers; with intimates we can be silent. We "make conversation" when we are at a loss; we unmake it when we are alone, or with those so close to us that we can afford to be alone with them.

In love, we are speechless; in awe, we say, words fail us.

Credit: The scenic sunset was snapped by Queenie Rojo

Kidapawan Post No. 2: A pair

2007-09-03T23:11:00.000+08:00

I found these two rather ordinary-looking, neglected poles many years ago in my walks around the backyard. I haven’t quite figured out what they’re for… but I was drawn to them because they look so peaceful and comfortable beside each other.

Quite a nice pair.

Humans like things in pairs. We are wired for symmetry. Whatever is on the left side of our bodies must have something alike on the right. Something to that effect. That’s why babies find perfectly symmetrical faces more appealing.

I’ve also come across some study saying that our bodies have naturally occurring “pheromones”… some kind of odorless smell which helps us find our pair. Although this claim has been much debated since, I still find it cool. Neat.

And, yes, that great biblical story on the great flood cannot overemphasize the importance of pairs.

The underlying message in both stories is this: people are not “designed” to be alone. People need or are bound to find someone, their best possible chemical or spiritual match. Two lives can have separate meandering journeys but will cross paths somewhere. Meant to be, as they say.

For those who have found theirs, natural and biblical truths must have worked for them at a much faster rate. For those who haven’t and for those who thought their search was over but were mistaken (a false positive, according to statisticians), that someone must be just a “sniff” away.

Isn’t that a relief?

…Just pray it doesn’t have to take another biblical event to find that right pair.

On turning 30

2007-09-03T01:47:00.000+08:00

Ya, many of you know that was four years ago but I was kind of inspired to think of how it was when I read this blog. Somehow, I was able to relate with the author’s anxieties over having her “BIG 3-0” next year…

I remember when I was a lot younger I thought 30 was pretty old. Of course, I know now that nothing can be farther from the truth. Hmm.

Looking back, most of the memories have been brought to life by the many photos we have on year 2003. When I turned 30 it was no big deal, no hoopla... I found a picture of a little but fun office birthday treat... My circumstances had been very different at that time. I did not have the "chance" to ask my “existential questions” the year before.

It was a bit anti-climactic actually… Growing-old-by-leaps-and-bounds moment happened for me two years back when our then-newborn Enzo went through a very rough patch... My personal version of skydiving or bungee jumping. Sort of... Hard-earned lessons on life’s essentials. On what else I want to prove to myself. On what my purpose is in this world.

But I remember 2003 was a very beautiful year because we started to live like any ordinary family. The heartbreaks of two years ago healed. And the best gift for turning 30 thankfully came a year early. My son has been able to hear, see, talk and walk. Despite his dreaded "terrible two stage" everything about it was a "happy problem."

A whiney toddler one moment...

A sweet little angel the next.

I realized just now that, indeed, I had a fresh page when I turned 30. It was the start of our charming little family life. And my accidental foray into social development work has really taken root.

Still, I think being 30 did not make me feel THAT old. Even so, at 34… When I’ll turn forty (with the grace of my Maker), I think, only then can I start calling myself OLD. And I would embrace it with as much fervor as I could.

We can grow old like this.

Singapore Post No. 4: Rejoinder to my "kiasu" day

2007-08-31T09:47:00.000+08:00

As a rejoinder to my blog yesterday, here is a link to the online version of a local newspaper's headline: "Expats want the right school too."

For the entire story click here: http://www.todayonline.com/pdf_index.asp

Singapore Post No. 3: Oh yes, I can be “kiasu,” too

2007-08-30T16:33:00.000+08:00

We all woke up early, Enzo, Ate and I. Today is Phase 3 and last day for Singapore’s Primary One Registration Exercise, the only day left for children who are not citizens or Permanent Residents of this country. That is our category. Enzo has turned six and there is no other way for him to enter school come January 2008 if we miss this process.

Being last in the pecking order, I can only wait in frustration and dismay while primary schools recommended by friends have either disappeared from the on-line list (yes, there’s an on-line update of available slots) or they simply do not do Phase 3. With whatever is left, one can just say, “whatever.” But as I am, without shame, an academically-inclined parent, I had to choose the one with the best annual competitive scores.

Ate, Enzo and the nice sidewalk...

If there is one thing Singaporean’s are so obsessed about, it would be sending their children to the RIGHT school. Nothing abnormal, I share the same passion. While this, to me, is a normal parenting exercise, in here it IS a ballgame. Much like managing a football team where tightly-lid strategies are carefully laid-out. There is no other goal but the championship which, in this case, is getting there FIRST. Stories abound of mothers doing volunteer work for years just to get a slot in a very reputable school. Or of camping out on the queue the night before.

“Kiasu” that’s how they call this attitude. An online dictionary on Singlish says, in Hokkien, it means “to be scared to fail” and due to the varying degrees Singaporeans would manifest this, its connotations can mean something that is very endearing, to one that is outright derogatory. Very much a part of the Singaporean DNA, you would also witness this whenever new HDBs (their public housing) open to the market. People line up a day before. They bring food, water, collapsible chairs, little cushions, and chatting partners whose more important role is to serve as a “linebacker” whenever nature calls. Oh, there can be an endless list where being kiasu can be evident.

Hmm... a mushroom shed.

Nevertheless, in a country where students “fit” for university are determined early on and follow a different stream of education; and where the government and the society, in general, hold in high esteem and give real merits to the brightest, I think kiasu-ness is very understandable.

So this morning, armed with a stern advice from Singaporean friends, I had to be kiasu and I had a big plan. Ate, "my linebacker," left the house at the crack of dawn, traveled 15 minutes to West Coast and, with whatever glint of daylight, navigated the streets with confusingly similar signs. The school is at West Coast Avenue but this avenue is not so straightforward after all… it would disappear somewhere and you would come across a West Coast Road… West Coast Lane… West Coast Drive… West Coast Walk… West Coast Terrace… West Coast Grove… West Coast Rise… I’m not joking!

Ahh… such costly digression! She lost a good 15 minutes! But as I was as kiasu as I can get, such scenario was carefully anticipated. And when she finally got there, we were rewarded with THE stub with the big, fat number “1” on it. Hah! Ate told me that a few minutes later, a Singaporean arrived and had disbelief written all over his face upon seeing her at the first row chair holding THE coveted stub.

First in the finish line!

Dragging along a visibly sleepy Enzo, I arrived just in time, when the tables opened at 8 a.m. We were back at home, before 9 a.m., victorious... and drowsy.

Mi Qifa.

Tokyo Post No. 1: Lost in Translation

2007-08-28T16:15:00.000+08:00

With apologies to my dear friend Rika who strongly felt the movie was unfair to them, Japanese… I remember though that she was very adamant to hear my honest opinion on both the film and my experience being in Tokyo. This blog is how I would recall my reply was to her—that whatever reference to the movie only hovers on a literal interpretation.

I traveled to Japan upon the invitation of the Global Environmental Forum (GEF), an NGO that had a research on the corporate social responsibility (CSR) practices of Japanese companies all over the Southeast Asian region and I represented the Philippine Business for Social Progress—a well-recognized NGO that advocates CSR. It was my first opportunity to be in that lovely country and also my first to be speaking in a crowd using a simultaneous translation process.

Two hours before the symposium, my host from GEF gave a serious briefing on how the system works and what to expect. I thought it was simple but still endeavored to remember all his tips.

Speak in simple straightforward sentences.
Absolutely no idiomatic expressions.
Adjust the volume of earpiece.
Remember the voice of your translator and how her voice flows as she ends her translations.
Wait five beats to make sure a translation has ended.
Always look at the moderator (who would not be speaking in English!) for visual cues.

And it was not easy!

I had an uncomfortable “lost in translation” moment and went through rough patches the first 20 or so minutes. Thankfully, I sort of winged it thereafter… As I am the type who would prefer looking at the eyes of whoever I am communicating with, maintaining this eye contact, listening to the translator and checking on the cues from the moderator proved to be VERY daunting! The following pictures are odd reminders of how unnatural I was in that situation.

Hmm... adjust the volume and keep the hand off the earpiece, please.

May I look at the audience... but the hand...

May I now look at the moderator... still the hand.

But heck! I think I did well. An article on the symposium came out of a local newspaper and the writer kindly sent me a copy through courier. I do not know much about Nihonggo or katakana (their script) but I think this piece is a good story.

Look ma, no hand!

Singapore Post No. 2: Everyday gift

2007-08-25T23:52:00.000+08:00

The weather in Singapore has been overcast for weeks with intermittent rains and thunderstorms. Last Wednesday, August 22, the sun had a shy performance and gave us more reason to head for the beach at Sentosa. Perhaps it was nature’s way of conspiring to make a boy feel special. It was my son’s sixth birthday.

Six years and he is still surprised and giddy every time Mommy and Ate would show him this early morning balloon surprise.

My Enzo is a precocious kid who took on reading even before reaching the age of four; knows his musical instruments by heart; has interesting perspectives on whatever he draws; has perfect spelling quizzes; can seriously navigate Google Earth to “travel” to places he read from the books… a typical pre-schooler whose hearty laugh echoes from the pool area; plays rough games with his friends and has an early love affair with airplanes and big trucks.

His side of the beach...

Not bad for someone who had been gravely ill from the moment he came out of this world. The doctors said his chance for survival was slim and if he did survive, he will not be able to walk, talk, see, and hear. That whatever may change their heart-breaking prognosis is beyond the reaches of medicine.

Digging... digging...

Each time August 22 comes I am reminded of how my son fought hard to have his place in the world. It was a long battle and an experience that showed me the beauty and strength of the human spirit... what real blessings my family and true friends have been... and the profoundness of an answered prayer.

My little gentleman

We do have our little fights. Enzo can be picky with his food… forgets to return all the toys, books, drawing pads and coloring stuff to their places… can have a tantrum. Yet, he is more than perfect for me. At the end of each day, we hug and say our earnest thanks to the One who brought us together, whatever the weather may be.

I'm six!

Fighting poverty one hug at a time

2007-08-25T02:23:00.000+08:00

It was an ordinary day and I was catching up on some news at CNN. Then I was struck by their feature on India’s “hugging guru,” Mata Amritanandamayi. Everyday, Amma, as she is fondly called by her followers, has hordes of people from all over the world waiting in line to feel transformational love through her hug and motherly advice. Makes you wonder why a stranger has to give somebody else a hug... In an interview, she said:

"There are two types of poverty in the world, financial poverty and the poverty of love; the second is more important."

It is awe-inspiring that Amma has embraced so many lives not only in her own country… Proof of what sublime powers a simple hug can have. Know more about Amma and her philanthropic works here.

Have you had your dose of hugs today? Maybe you need to give some hug, too.

On a lighter note, if we are in a desperate need of a hug and nobody around us is willing to give us one, perhaps, we will have to be content with THIS… (Pls. click on the link to see how. Yeah, this copyright stuff can really spoil the fun.)

Kidapawan Post No. 1: The most beautiful woman

2007-08-20T02:02:00.000+08:00

Ten days ago, we quietly celebrated the sixty-fifth birthday of this very special woman. My hero in this world where real virtues and high ideals have slowly lost their meaning.

In her youth, that captivating beauty belied a life of deprivation. Her quiet perseverance, intelligence, and elegance made her taller than any young woman worth her silver spoon… charmed many and fell for another charmer…

She is a woman of her generation—fiercely loyal to her family, loves unconditionally, hardworking, and sacrificing. Her charity is legendary. Nothing for herself, always for others… And thus, we grew up without the usual comforts. I still remember how we used to recycle old notebooks from her writing classes, carefully choosing the clean pages, binding them together and covering them with artworks—just like new and yet, much better. I never felt we had less in life because she was good in making us understand we should only have what is necessary.

No provocation demands her speaking ill of anybody—a sigh and a wistful look, that’s all you get. Small talk and gossip were not allowed at home and if guests started some yarn, her silence is a kind rebuke.

In my father’s twilight years, he sang her many songs… songs of gentle pleadings… of forgiving and forgetting heartaches from the past… adoring songs for his true muse.

A brave cancer survivor, her peaceful demeanor can only come from a deep understanding of life and an indomitable faith in her Maker’s plans. She has been guiding us with wisdom and gifted us with a “sense of rooted-ness” to simple values that have served as our anchor amidst the vicissitudes of life.

My Mom is one amazing woman. My one true north.

Cause your love is like a river
It runs through my heart and soul
It's deep when I'm thirsty and warm when I'm cold
And when I feel forgotten
I come running to your shore
And find peace of mind time after time
You give me everything and more
--Everything and More, Barry Gillman

Singapore Post No. 1: Weaning over

2007-08-18T12:53:00.000+08:00

The weaning period has been going on for a little over a month… no more endless readings (or I’d say bibliographic ruminations if I’m writing an academic paper), hand-straining laptop clucking (carpal tunnel syndrome), heavy handwritings (dis-cursive writings), high-blood inducing team projects (group dynamics), and the balancing anemia due to lack of sleep (sleep deprivation).

Warming up to another day of reading... A typical scene in my study room.

The day-long comprehensive exam (academic synthesis) had been dealt with; all remaining drops of energy dispensed or better yet, wrung out. Interestingly, they call such exams here as “capstone.” I thought a fair warning to put on our hardy caps for the final stone to be smashed into these thickened skulls.

It's night time... feverishly beating a midnight deadline to upload a paper.

Hardwired to a year of academic flogging (discipline), I reckon my biological system (circadian rhythm) is yet to evolve (homeostasis) to its new routine. Nowadays, the brain has random rewinds (reminiscences) of its former hurdles. Classic withdrawal symptoms.

Desperately seeking a dose of Starbucks and a fun conversation to celebrate a minor victory--paper uploaded a few minutes to the finish line... Heck, if you can't have the company at this ungodly hour at least, you can still bring the coffee in. Bravo, Starbucks!

One person once told me I should rather not share so much on these boring stuff. Hmm. It was never boring actually. It has been a swell year for absorbing new things anytime, anywhere. Asynchronous learning, I’d say.

Dawn creeping in... Time to call it a day...

Photo credit: Photo Number 2 was by Celes using a lomo camera. The rest is mine, using my ever-reliable Nokia 6280.

Have a bag, will travel

2007-08-15T00:51:00.000+08:00

Like most women, I also live by this aphorism: a woman can never have too many shoes or too many bags. Carrie Bradshaw is alive in me, just like in you. It does not matter if they are spanking new or segunda manos found in the ukay-ukay. I always believed bags and shoes are tools for expressing both our creative and practical sensibilities. They manifest our personalities more than our consumerist or faddish urges.

Most of my bags have their own stories to tell, from the reason of their purchase to the many (mis)adventures shared thereafter. In this respect, my leather teal bag stands out among the rest. A trusty companion in many of my travels, it has been an object of envy and an easy subject for many a pick-up line.

An object of envy

Incident No. 1: Buckinghamshire, London
I was having tea and some serious conversation with colleagues from Europe and Africa. As we were winding down, the Italian lady gestured towards my feet where the bag was peacefully parked. She said, "Can’t help but notice your beautiful bag. Where did you buy that?" At the end of that girly chat, she shared what seemed an elaborate plan to pass by the Philippines in her future travel to Asia.

The bag, ready to go to bed. At my hotel room in Buckinghamshire.

Incident No. 2: NUS, Heng Mui Keng Terrace, Singapore
On the other side of the table, one of the school administrators was seriously checking the documents I submitted. After what felt like an eternity of silence, she declared everything was in order. When I gathered the rest of my files and stuffed them in the bag, she suddenly had that very big, childlike smile and said, "I love your bag." Then in a split second, her face went back to its former mask. Weird, but a breakthrough in an environment where a staid personality means more credibility.

A subject of pick-up lines

Incident No. 1: On board the Emirates airplane above the Middle East skies
After all the hassle at the Dubai airport, I was so tired I wished to spend the rest of that long flight to London in stillness and silence. After more than an hour of self-imposed catatonia, I decided to pick up my bag and retrieved something. Out of thin air, my seatmate said, "You have such an elegant bag." Then went on and introduced himself as an Indian-American architect. I gathered my manners, said my name and added, "My husband is also an architect. This bag is a gift from him." That it was a pick-up line never crossed my mind until, on a separate occasion, an American program partner told me how gullible I was. Tsk.

The bag taking a seat. At my hotel room in Tokyo.

Incident No. 2: Akasaka, Tokyo, Japan
Before the sake’s spirits have descended, the post-symposium party room was a virtual parting of the Red Sea—the Japanese male executives on one side and women on the other. Two hours later, a flushed gentleman approached me with a courteous bow and said, "I would like to tell you that we were impressed by your presentation. You are a beautiful speaker… Er, that’s a beautiful bag you’re holding…" (Eject button, pls...)

At a museum in Tokyo.
‘Love my bag!

Samar Post No. 2: A fascination was born

2007-08-14T01:03:00.000+08:00

Samar is a hardship post. Many typhoons pass through this island each year. Most areas are upland, difficult for farming staple crops like rice and corn. Some would say people there are either fisherfolk or they tend huge coconut plantations owned by only a handful of landowners. Scores have also migrated to urban areas or become OFWs to find that elusive pot of gold. Yet the other end of the rainbow has set foot in Samar and not many people knew this.

In recent years, the hardy Samarenos have seen the potential of our lowly “banig” or traditional mat, enhanced its design and has built a cult of avid user and collectors. I’ve seen these mats when I went there and the infatuation was instant. But I was terribly dismayed… As in many fascinating Philippine-made products, they are not to be found in your local shops. Yes, there they are in those swanky home decorating ateliers—a few locals but mostly, abroad—tagged with prohibitive values.

It took three years for a chance to get hold of one or two... And when it came, thinking was out of the question. Let me show you some of the loot—

It takes a month or more to finish one piece.
This is one of their gaudiest designs.

Understated elegance...
This large piece with matching floor pillows took much longer to make because the design and color are more arduous to the eyes. According to my supplier only her mother can weave this pattern and has yet to teach one of her siblings the technique.

The same mat with small colored pillows of the same material.

What I have seen in Samar created this ardent fascination for Philippine crafts. I love them for their beauty but more than that the rich heritage imbued in each piece is truly invaluable. Fanatic as I am, you can only imagine the pains I have to go through in getting hold of them as well as in ensuring they come with us when we moved here in Singapore.

Samar Post No. 1: That which started all the crying

2007-08-11T02:28:00.000+08:00

After only about three months in my previous office, I had to travel to Samar with a well-respected Filipino journalist who used to write for Reader’s Digest. It was a good break on three counts: the person I’m with; my first time to see Samar; and my first visit to one of the organization’s most respected programs.

But all the excitement were quickly forgotten as my husband and I were on our way to the airport. I was crying my eyes out because it was also the first time I would be away from our son. He was only ten months old then. After taking care of him 24/7 for seven months, going back to work had been a guilt-ridden, painful experience. The husband kept on assuring me five days would be over fast and burned the lines to cheer me up. Still, I cried each night.

I could never thank my good fortune for having the opportunity to travel far and wide. Yet, I never got used to the loneliness of being away. I only got better in hiding my tears as I enter the airport. And in making sure I put cold compress on my puffy eyes in the mornings and do my work as though nothing bothered me the night before. I would describe myself as mildly sentimental but the anguish has been really due to the fact that I have become fully aware of the consequences of each moment of absence on the child and on the bond everybody has been building for the family.

Samar opened my eyes to all these. Admittedly, there is serious fun involved in traveling but serious work is also needed to get back on the groove of family life once again. The people we left are not on suspended animation waiting for us to press “play” when we return. All our lives evolve. While we are apart we could miss a chance of a lifetime. Or just a pixel which completes the family picture. Or which leaves it undone.

It did not help that Samar is mired in poverty. I have never been to a place where concrete structures can only be found in town centers. The long road trip from Tacloban, Leyte to Maqueda Bay in Western Samar was only punctuated by these and by little huts displaying a few bunches of bananas, hoping to attract the palate, or the pity, of travelers. Yes, we crossed the San Juanico Bridge which to my consternation was the only thing I knew about this area at that time, aside from the infamous family who could have made a lot more difference. Unbelievable. It used to be a source of pride for the nation, notwithstanding the many issues shadowing its stature, but there it was—as lonely as the whole landscape.

Or maybe it was the gloom I had in me. Even now, I could not be too sure which one fed the other. Lest I would be accused of painting such a sorry image, I believe Samar is one of the amazing places I had been to. In no small measure due to its rustic nature—however pillaged it has been—but mostly, this admiration springs from the resilience and creativity of its people. This is a subject deserving of a full entry so watch out.

After that fateful trip, I came home much more thankful of what I have. Cliché. This was one of those places where these words can truly mean what they mean.

Someday, I should be able to include photos of that trip in this blog.

London Post No. 3: A constellation in Buckinghamshire

2007-02-12T19:52:00.000+08:00

If there is one photo I would cherish the most in my entire professional life, this would be it. Or until something else bigger comes along. (I'm still young, a lot can still happen in the future :>) Gathered here is a veritable constellation of the social development world. It just so happened that my star has aligned I am somehow thrown into its nexus. This was a fascinating experience. A life-changing one. I always say 2005 was my luckiest year. Despite the challenges of a career change and the husband working overseas, all these events pointed to a positive direction.

Coming from the distorted world of PR and advertising in my previous incarnation, I always had a jaded view. Then when I was in a room with all these people, I realized there is a lot that the world could still hope for. We may never be able to erase poverty and deprivation from the face of the earth but hoping for a better future will not remain a dream. I am happy I could confidently say that to my little boy.

London Post No. 2: My first OFW encounter

2007-02-12T17:29:00.000+08:00

As we were heading out of Central London from Victoria station, the bus stopped along Hyde Park. A woman hopped in and smiled as soon as she saw us. It was an instantaneous, eager yet wistful smile. Then she spoke in the dialect with much excitement: "Kagagaling nyo lang po ng Pilipinas?" My huge luggage was a giveaway. I was caught by her cheerfulness. It was as if she was there to meet me, too. Then she said it's been almost ten years since she went home. There was a brief silence after that. This was one of those awkward moments when I am not sure how to emphatize.

She asked many things about the country. I didn't know if I should just say the nice things. There were a few, come to think of it. She said she has not seen her children since but she's so happy mobile phones and the internet have made their absence more and more bearable. I looked at her hands. She still had her ring on. I said she should make plans to go home soon. A lot has changed in the country and that it would surprise her, in a positive way. She was very excited to talk about her family at the same time yearning to know about any news from back home. There was some sadness and a tinge of "inggit" on her part when I responded that I am not actually in London for the long haul. "Mabuti ka pa," she said.

Then came her stop near a hospital. It was as if we've known each other for a long time. Suddenly I felt so tired and so wanting to go back home. My friend said the number of Filipino nurses in UK is quite significant. Perhaps sensing my loneliness, she said it's quite an experience when you become a recipient of such instant affinity and when they begin to openly talk about their dreams and aspirations.

I was actually surprised that I felt surprised. After all, having OFW relatives is commonplace in the Philippines. I read somewhere there's an average of one or two in each household. My family being a very recent addition to that statistic. But it was different seeing them in another country.

What I saw was a different face of an OFW--not the happy, exhilarated "balikbayan"--and made me start looking at our OFW phenomenon with a different set of eyes. Questions ran on my mind. They still do. How come the government never seriously looked at how this phenomenon would shape the foundation of our nation--the family? Many studies have shown increasing incidence of breakups, legal or otherwise. But no study is ever needed to tell every Filipino about the kind of alienation it has created in families all these years.

For all that OFW money, why can't the government develop programs that will mitigate all these adverse impacts? It is hard to even think about this if you're an OFW trying to relieve your family from hand-to-mouth existence. Or if you're a housewife or a house-band left waiting for the next remittance not knowing you've been sharing your spouse's salary with his or her new family somewhere. Or that the spouse has become a totally different person--a stranger who can no longer fit in your family. You'll hear too many of these on AM radio. Most of us just choose to keep a blind eye. Money seem to find all the justifications for what has been clearly a tragic erosion of our society's fiber. Some would argue these are personal matters but I would argue that the welfare of an OFW and his family is a clear public good. The least a government can do is to do something.

I can only hide my disbelief when a top government official recently spoke at the school proudly showing off his charts announcing that on the strength of its diverse remittances alone, the Philippines can actually withstand any major crisis happening in any of the major economies. Tsk. The foreigners in the room were equally incredulous. For a major government officer on a major PR campaign for the country, saying that certainly left a bad taste on the mouth. If our country's future is largely hedged on this, perhaps, I might never see the reverse of Filipino diaspora in my lifetime?

London Post No. 1: Eyes wide open

2007-02-12T11:18:00.000+08:00

Yes, this is the spectacular London Eye. So massive it takes 30 minutes to complete the turn. I rode on it once on my 30th birthday. And I'd consider it a most wonderful debut to my succeeding journeys... London is a world city, no less. And nothing ever beats a 360 degree view. I knew from then on that on my succeeding trips I should get on another wheel or the tallest building so I can see the whole scene.

London was my first time to leave the Philippine soil. I knew nothing about how things work there. I was only armed with the assurance that there is quite an extensive network of Filipinos and social development workers who would be taking care of me. My colleagues would say: while it's unfortunate to figure in an accident, that's about the fastest way to find a Pinoy in London. Of course, every Pinoy knows the city is teeming with top notch nurses the Philippines used to have. Brimming with excitement and wads of very useful maps such as this...

...I felt completely confident. Thankfully, I reached Victoria Station from Gatwick Airport still in one piece. Hours ago, I had a physically daunting sprint from Dubai immigration to that far-and-away boarding gate while I hear in the PA that my connecting flight was about to take off. I have never ran that fast in my entire life, I swear I had a mild nose bleed. Back at the train station, I was met by one of the most wonderful Filipinos on earth. Then we took the iconic double decker bus to the beautiful suburb of North Finchley.

This trip was among those very few special gifts that came my way partly for being at the right place at the right time-- sheer luck. Some well-meaning friends would say "we just reap the fruits of our labor." I'd say it's all of those reasons put together plus some hear-headed sense of adventure and a never-say-no attitude to a professional challenge. Of course, a chance like this was a no-brainer because it came with the privilege of getting to that side of the earth without having to go through the endless queue at the embassy. Although that is something I can never be very proud of knowing a friend of mine had to endure condescending Q&As to get that elusive seal on her passport. She's still trying. All because of love. And I'm going off the course here :>

But there is one thing I realized -- despite all that, we all eventually get off on the same plane. It doesn't matter who we are or where we come from as long as we don't quite tick off some alarm bells on terrorism. Huh? Unfortunately, the only other Filipino who joined that workshop in London did not have the same peaceful landing as I did. My program partner (he landed at Heathrow on another day) was accosted and was questioned for some time for the sole reason that he was taking some pictures while inside the airport. Were there warnings against it? None. One thing led to the other as the police found he is from the Philippines and from Mindanao, no less.

I also grew up in Mindanao and directly correlating this with some remote connection to terroristic activities would be unfair. Of course, in the world we live in nowadays, these "alarm bells" evidently becomes par for the course. We cannot blame the authorities. It is their role to ensure public safety. Well, my partner survived relatively unscathed. These were really uncertain times as more than a month after this trip, the horrible bombings happened. Not that there is any relation..What was ironic in that "little airport incident" was that we were both invited to London because of our peace-building initiatives in Mindanao.

The picture above was my take of Gatwick.