Tuesday, December 9, 2014

His last, big 5-0.

He would have been 53. But F. lived a full life. It was short, eventful, but it was full. He had touched lives. A little miracle that will continue spreading.To date, two books are dedicated to his memory. I'm not bragging or edifying him. I'm just saying that he must have done something right .... and good. 

I still do not understand the meaning of his premature death but it gives me peace to think of his short life as a sort of spark. It was Enlightening, Inspiring, Dignified, and Humane. Happy Birthday, F.

Saturday, January 4, 2014

Godmother Dada.

Your beautiful, angelic smile
Your kind eyes
Your warm touch
Your gentle voice

Christmas days
The joys I once knew
Were spent
with you.

Your jokes
Your reassuring look
Your laughter
Your advice

Your love
I'll always treasure
Always remember
with fondness

For you were someone
standing at the alter
I'm forever grateful
You are my Godmother.

For there
Aint noone
like you,
like my Ninang Dada.

The tears
I now cry
are only for you
Rest In Peace, Dada. 

Sunday, December 29, 2013

Story of Holland. (2012)

It's been more than 12 years and yet every December, I still find myself thinking of Philippine Christmas: the parol (lanterns); the carolers; the misa de gallo (dawn masses); the bibingca (rice cakes); cafe de arroz (rice coffee); puto bumbong (glutinous rice cake); the aguinaldo (when children visit their godparents on Christmas day); the Pastores, a musical re-enactment of the Nativity story; and Kagharong, also a musical tradition in my hometown (and all over Bicol region).

Kagharong is a re-enactment about the story of the plight of Mary and Joseph in search for an inn for the birth of Jesus Christ. I wrote a lengthy paper (with music transcriptions) on this one.  

I think, this sort of Christmas homesickness stays with you for the rest of your life. 

Since last year however, I have done a search for the Holy Grail kind of adventure on second Christmas Day (December 26th).

And so, on that beautiful Christmas morning of 2012, I found myself walking the old streets of Spaarndam. 

Spaarndam is a small village in the province of North Holland, on the Spaarne and IJ rivers.  They say that the village was created around a dam which was built by Floris V in 1285. 

Today, Spaarndam is quite popular because of a statue whose inspiration was taken from the 1865 novel of Mary Mapes Dodge. The novel takes place in the Netherlands, and is a tale of a boy named Hans Brinker. 

Hans and his sister Gretel want to participate in December's great ice-skating race on the canal. They knew that they have little chance of winning, but the prospect of the race and the price of the Silver Skates excites them and fires their dreams.

The story has generated numerous versions and adaptations. One of them is a lengthy poem by Phoebe Cary called "The Leak in the Dike."  Cary also gave the boy a name: Peter.  He's known around the world as the boy who stuck his finger in a dike to prevent the town from flooding. 

Below's a copy of that famous poem:


The good dame looked from her cottage
At the close of the pleasant day,
And cheerily called to her little son
Outside the door at play:
“Come, Peter, come! I want you to go,
While there is light to see,
To the hut of the blind old man who lives
Across the dike, for me;
And take these cakes I made for him—
They are hot and smoking yet;
You have time enough to go and come
Before the sun is set.”

Then the good-wife turned to her labor,
Humming a simple song,
And thought of her husband, working hard
At the sluices all day long;
And set the turf a-blazing,
And brought the coarse black bread;
That he might find a fire at night,
And find the table spread.

And Peter left the brother,
With whom all day he had played,
And the sister who had watched their sports
In the willow’s tender shade;
And told them they ’d see him back before
They saw a star in sight,
Though he would n’t be afraid to go
In the very darkest night!
For he was a brave, bright fellow,
With eye and conscience clear;
He could do whatever a boy might do,
And he had not learned to fear.
Why, he would n’t have robbed a bird’s nest,
Nor brought a stork to harm,
Though never a law in Holland
Had stood to stay his arm!

And now, with his face all glowing,
And eyes as bright as the day
With the thoughts of his pleasant errand,
He trudged along the way;
And soon his joyous prattle
Made glad a lonesome place—
Alas! if only the blind old man
Could have seen that happy face!
Yet he somehow caught the brightness
Which his voice and presence lent;
And he felt the sunshine come and go
As Peter came and went.

And now, as the day was sinking,
And the winds began to rise,
The mother looked from her door again,
Shading her anxious eyes;
And saw the shadows deepen
And birds to their homes come back,
But never a sign of Peter
Along the level track.
But she said: “He will come at morning,
So I need not fret or grieve—
Though it is n’t like my boy at all
To stay without my leave.”

But where was the child delaying?
On the homeward way was he,
And across the dike while the sun was up
An hour above the sea.
He was stopping now to gather flowers,
Now listening to the sound,
As the angry waters dashed themselves
Against their narrow bound.
“Ah! well for us,” said Peter,
“That the gates are good and strong,
And my father tends them carefully,
Or they would not hold you long!
You ’re a wicked sea,” said Peter;
“I know why you fret and chafe;
You would like to spoil our lands and homes;
But our sluices keep you safe!”

But hark! Through the noise of waters
Comes a low, clear, trickling sound;
And the child’s face pales with terror,
And his blossoms drop to the ground.
He is up the bank in a moment,
And, stealing through the sand,
He sees a stream not yet so large
As his slender, childish hand.
’T is a leak in the dike! He is but a boy,
Unused to fearful scenes;
But, young as he is, he has learned to know
The dreadful thing that means.
A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart
Grows faint that cry to hear,
And the bravest man in all the land
Turns white with mortal fear.
For he knows the smallest leak may grow
To a flood in a single night;
And he knows the strength of the cruel sea
When loosed in its angry might.

And the boy! He has seen the danger,
And, shouting a wild alarm,
He forces back the weight of the sea
With the strength of his single arm!
He listens for the joyful sound
Of a footstep passing nigh;
And lays his ear to the ground, to catch
The answer to his cry.
And he hears the rough winds blowing,
And the waters rise and fall,
But never an answer comes to him,
Save the echo of his call.
He sees no hope, no succor,
His feeble voice is lost;
Yet what shall he do but watch and wait,
Though he perish at his post!

So, faintly calling and crying
Till the sun is under the sea;
Crying and moaning till the stars
Come out for company;
He thinks of his brother and sister,
Asleep in their safe warm bed;
He thinks of his father and mother,
Of himself as dying—and dead;
And of how, when the night is over,
They must come and find him at last:
But he never thinks he can leave the place
Where duty holds him fast.

The good dame in the cottage
Is up and astir with the light,
For the thought of her little Peter
Has been with her all night.
And now she watches the pathway,
As yester eve she had done;
But what does she see so strange and black
Against the rising sun?
Her neighbors are bearing between them
Something straight to her door;
Her child is coming home, but not
As he ever came before!

“He is dead!” she cries; “my darling!”
And the startled father hears,
And comes and looks the way she looks,
And fears the thing she fears:
Till a glad shout from the bearers
Thrills the stricken man and wife—
“Give thanks, for your son has saved our land,
And God has saved his life!”
So, there in the morning sunshine
They knelt about the boy;
And every head was bared and bent
In tearful, reverent joy.

’T is many a year since then; but still,
When the sea roars like a flood,
Their boys are taught what a boy can do
Who is brave and true and good.
For every man in that country
Takes his son by the hand,
And tells him of little Peter,
Whose courage saved the land.

They have many a valiant hero,
Remembered through the years:
But never one whose name so oft
Is named with loving tears.
And his deed shall be sung by the cradle,
And told to the child on the knee,
So long as the dikes of Holland
Divide the land from the sea!

Sunday, February 3, 2013

Why are you still here?

So it's 2013...where did 2012 go? I wonder myself.

How do we deal with anxiety attacks? I've been having this nightmarish experience for almost 7 years now. I've always thought I was strong, calm, and can handle everything. I guess, I was wrong.

It all started on that ordinary morning back in 2007. I was fast asleep....away from it all. When suddenly came the thudding. I ignored it. My heart kept pressing on my chest. It was hard to ignore. I opened my eyes. The room started to swing. Everything was moving in circles. I told myself to stay calm while I prayed. It went on and on, and finally, I decided to wake up Ef. I told him what was going on, and I said that I thought I was having a heart attack. He tried to keep me in calm state. But I started getting scared. The vertigo won't go away. My heart was racing. I could feel the blood run through my veins. Every sound and every movement in the room was magnified a hundred times. That was around 3 AM. A few minutes later, the doctors came with an ambulance. I was rushed to the ER. I had never been so scared in my life.

I was released that very same day. The doctors couldn't find anything wrong with me. They attributed it all to what they decided as symptoms of panic attack. I didn't know whether I should be pleased or more scared. I decided to be pleased. I was healthy, and it was probably a panic attack. No big deal. Next time, I know how to handle it. Or so I thought.

The second attack came a year later. It was just before midnight. I was watching the late night news. Then my heart started to pound again. I felt cold... extremely cold. I started to shake. After going through what felt like a non-stop convulsion for 10 minutes, I decided to call my friend C. She asked me if I could walk. I said, I could. She came 5 minutes later and drove me to the hospital. I was all cold, pale, couldn't breath, heart beating almost thrice as fast. I thought I was going to die that night.

I have outlived the attack. They sent me home, but thought that it was wise to send me to a neurologist. The neurologist didn't find anything. They decided it was possibly a panic attack.

The third one came last year. Two weeks after Ef was buried, I went through the same ordeal again. Only this time, it was a combination of the first and second attacks. And because I didn't and couldn't recognize the symptoms, I called again some friends and had asked them to take me to the hospital. At the hospital, they found nothing. I was sent home. My friends decided to keep me that evening at their place. The next day, I was ok-ish again.

This January I had again another severe attack. I was fast asleep. I woke up with a very fast heart beat. It caught me offguard. I didn't think for a moment that it was another anxiety attack because my heart was beating close to 200 hundred per minute. I tried calling my friends. Nobody was picking up. I called my brother and sister, they didn't pick up. Finally, I decided to call 112 (911). A few minutes later, a doctor and his assistant was at my house.

He took my pulse and blood pressure. He instantly administered an oral medication for the heart. He called an ambulance. He tried to calm me down and sat beside me inside the ambulance. He was asking questions about the Philippines. I could barely talk but I tried giving him answers.

When I was finally at the hospital, they checked everything again. Lungs were normal. ECG and EKG stabilized and back to normal. BP is back to normal. Pulse also back to normal. The cardiologist said there was nothing wrong with the heart and I could go home.

So I went home again. But eversince that attack last January, I noticed that I have panic attacks almost everyday already. And sometimes, even during the day. Because I'm alone and am too freaked out to sleep, I try to stay awake.

So I became and still am a regular visitor at my family doctor's clinic. I have pride of course. I feel like that child who cried wolf. I don't know how to deal with the attacks. I have medicines and breathing exercises. But now, the doctors are treating three things. My anxiety attacks, lack of sleep, and mild depression.

Whenever I go and see my family physician, he would smile emphatically and has only these words to say to me. "Why are you still here? Don't you want to go home to your country?"

You're probably wondering the same thing. I'll tell you what I always tell him. "My story here is not yet finished. My home is nowhere. Help me find it again."

Monday, September 10, 2012

still blogging.

I wonder... Should I write it here? Post it here? Should I blog about my story? Not to make myself look like a victim, but just to tell my story....

When one stands face to face with the wall...
suffers in silence....
When one's pain is unbearable...
one's hope is dwindling away...

There is blogging.

So... I wonder. I understand that speculating is not really a very productive way to stay in the race. I understand that life's not fair. I understand that I'm not a victim. And I understand what Ghandi said about "nobody can hurt me without my permission."  I understand all these things.

And yet.

There are days when I want to run, run, run.
There are days when I wish things had been different.
There are days when I want my grief to go away.
There are days when I want people to listen.

There are those days when I question.

Why are they blaming me for his death?
Why are they taking everything away from me?
Why are they being so cruel to me?
Why can't I even bury my dead?

And so... my pain
my grief
my agony
my tears

They will always seek justice.
From whom?
From what?
From where?

I don't know.

But there's blogging.... and it's good enough for now.