If There's a Will, There's a Grace!

All my adult life, I had always had this gift of becoming instant friends with gays. Working as a volunteer for a children’s museum, one guide instantly warmed up to me. He would rather design gowns than give tours to children. And the hours we spent together, he would tell me of his creations. The summer I spent volunteering there did not pass without him sketching a gown for me. I think I still have that sketch hidden with my countless memorabilia.

I was thinking maybe it is just the industry I am in, media and the arts, where there are lots of gays. But somehow I naturally have a great connection with them from a potter, to a painter, chefs, TV directors, magazine editors, … it cuts across cultures from Americans to Japanese to of course Filipinos! I later realize it is beyond the industry I work in. Maybe it is shared interests – we both love good food, arts, and beautiful things. Perhaps. But maybe it is my lively spirit. I don’t know what it is, but it is a joy having gay friends.

Moving to Singapore has been filled with so many blessings. But one of the bonuses of my move here is making real good friends. And one of them is E. We met some six months ago, just in passing in a very crowded bus headed to Orchard. I asked him how work was for him in Singapore. He answered my question. We then exchanged mobile numbers. It was quickly followed by an invitation for a dinner party in his home the next day. A lovely friendship immediately blossomed effortlessly. We’ve had many meals together, from spontaneous cheap and cheerful dinners to exciting food finds we’ve discovered, or making our own discoveries together. Often times, without our knowing it, we like the same take-out stands, or cheap sotong sticks sold in the street.

What binds is not just our love for food, but also our love for God. We sing together for church. And on Sundays, we don’t sing together, we’ve gone to church together. It’s not a fixed rule or anything like that. We just enjoy each other’s company. And he has mentioned many times, “I feel like you’ve been my friend from way back.”

What makes this relationship really special for me is how he lifts up my spirit. One day he told me, “You know Maida, you’re a stunner!” He then went on to make his point, by saying how many heads turned when I arrived at mass that day. I felt somewhat embarrassed for people rarely tell me I’m beautiful. He said it was something about my statuesque presence and the confidence I exude. I silently took it in… but I guess he knew I didn’t really believe him. Two weeks later, we went to church together again. I was so excited to see him. I was so caught up with his stories of his week, and telling eventful moments in the week that passed for me. We walked several blocks from church to his office.

Later that night he tells me, “Fifteen! Fifteen men checked you out from church to my office!” I stare at him in shock. “You’re making it up,” I accuse him. But an expert advertising executive, he is always ready to substantiate his claims. “I counted. I was watching them look at you. They would check you out. Then they would look at your eyes, hoping your eyes would meet theirs. But you never looked at any of them.” I tell him, “ I was so engrossed in telling you stories, I didn’t even notice them looking.” He answers, “I know…, I was hoping they would stop looking at you and your black dress and look at me instead.” We both laughed.

What amazes me is how E sees not just my beauty, but also my talents. As I start to push my writing career with Maida’s Touch, my new writing and styling company, he propels me to pursue greater projects and bigger dreams for myself. He believes in me so much, seeing potential talents that I yet have to see in myself. He loves my company’s name, as he sincerely believes I can turn things into gold and that I truly have that golden spark!

They say friends are people who give birth to a life, yet waiting to happen. E reminds of how my mom has been the cheerleader in my life, who always saw my talents and great potentials, giving me the boost to believe in myself. Or my spiritual director, who could see beautiful things in me, I often didn’t see.

I so enjoy the time we spend with each other, from buying mung beans in the market for a comforting soup, or a leisurely Sunday afternoon in the mall (mind you I don’t usually like going to the mall), or just hearing his most soothing voice sing Lamb of God in church. I didn’t realize we had spent five straight weekends together. When I had not seen him on the sixth weekend, it didn’t seem right. I developed withdrawals prompting us to have dinner three days later.

I tease my boyfriend telling him, he has to share me with E. I am filled with so much gratitude for such a special relationship. Imagine having a man you enjoy being with, who gets your emotional side, who sides with your boyfriend when you’ve been acting like a brat, and is honest enough to tell you what a brat you are, who listens to your stories, who shares your taste for music, food and art (yes, we like the same songs, dishes, have the same painting, and our rooms coincidentally both have bold touches of red), sees the best in you, and is not after sex with you!

Pondering and relishing this wonderful relationship, I’ve realized what it is. We are the real life version of Will and Grace. E is the Will, and yes, I’m the insane, sometimes, annoying Grace, but who Will still loves. That’s just the way it is if there’s a Will, there’s a Grace.
6:45pm.4/20/08-singapore

ZEN & ME

I have been a food and travel writer for nine years now. And, no two days of my life are alike. It is cruel punishment to confine me to an office setting, to wear a suit, or to force me to attend meetings. My attention span can be likened to that of a five-year old. But this outgoing, energetic, adventurous, non-typical artist found solace in zen meditation two Decembers ago.

This otherwise bubbly person was for the first time in her life faced with deep sadness and major personal problems. I found myself crying for days. It was a pain my family or friends could not ease or take away. It was something I alone should face. Upon a friend’s casual invitation, I joined him to sit in Benpres building one Thursday night in December, two years ago.

Sitting with my sadness was not easy. In fact, it was scary to sit on my cushion. Without television, books, music, work, noise, or conversation to distract me, there was no escaping all the pain I was going through. I learned to be present with every breath- to breathe in and out.

I kept doing this practice even if I was back in Australia. I would sit every day alone in the morning prior to my first cup of coffee. And every Sunday I would sit with the sangha for two hours prior to attending Sunday mass. Zen got me through the most difficult phase in my life. When things were all too overwhelming, sitting reminded me all that mattered is that very breath. For that very breath was all I have, not the breath of the past or the future.

This hyperactive artist still struggles with every sit. When I am not present to my breathing, sitting is very difficult. It is tempting to burst out laughing, to be distracted by hunger, or to be bothered by an intense scent, or to get bored. Countless thoughts still come through my head. Emotions still fill my heart. But I still come to sit every Thursday. Often no words are exchanged. Yet, by quietly sitting next to each other, positive energy is transmitted.

As the lights are dimmed, darkness fills the room. I notice the silhouette of my shadow become distinctly visible. The silence is no longer deafening. I no longer fear the intensity of my thoughts or feelings. And if there is pain, it no longer scares me. After all, every breath is all I have. And that is all that matters.

8/10/07.11:43am

IN BETWEEN A PRIEST & A COP

I found myself in a rather interesting position two nights ago. I took my friend out for dinner, a priest in his 40’s. He is the Provincial Superior of one of the religious orders in the country. We try to catch up once in a while over coffee, or breakfast. This time it was dinner and I chose a cozy Italian restaurant in Mandaluyong. I couldn’t have asked for anything more: my favorite cheeses, dry red wine, salami, al dente pasta with porcini, rich dark chocolate gelato and stimulating conversation. We rarely have opportunities to catch up for this dear friend of mine is always traveling around the country and around the world as part of his duties as Provincial Superior. He definitely travels more than this travel writer. So, when we get the opportunity to catch up, the stories go on and on for hours. And tonight the conversation flowed.

When we left the restaurant, I was faced with the difficult task every female driver hated. I had to skillfully maneuver my old van (without any power steering) out of parallel parking, with an inconsiderate driver parked very close to my front. I successfully managed with the assistance of my friend and a security guard. I thought my driving ordeal was over for the evening. My sense of direction is not the best. In a confusing web of little roads, I begged my friend’s help to navigate back to the main road. After a couple of wrong turns, we overshot the portion of the main road we were aiming for. And the only solution seemed to be making a U-turn under a flyover. But I was unsure if it was allowed. Three cops stood in a huddle under the flyover. In the process of turning, I tried to get their attention to ask if it was allowed. There was a white cab in front of us. Father suggested perhaps it was allowed because the cab was making a U-turn, and they didn’t catch him. But simultaneously both the cab and I were apprehended.

Right there, I found myself literally in between a cop and a priest. The cop immediately asked for my licence, and I explained that the sign was not clear. It should have read, “No entry.” He asked me to move my van. And I obediently did. The young lean cop (obviously still new in the game, minus the pot belly of older cops) then said, “So papaanong gagawin natin?” (So what will we do?”). He then went on to say, “Pwede namang wala nang seminar at tubosin mo na lang ang licensya mo.” (I could spare you the seminar and you will just have to pay the fine to get your license). It was obvious he was hinting at grease money I would give him. But I was more annoyed that he was leaving a bad taste to my delicious evening. And, it irritated me to get a ticket when I never had a traffic violation before. But the thought of bribing him didn’t even cross my mind. Perhaps, it didn’t help I had a priest next to me.

I then attempted to explain one more time to the cop. I told him I was trying to get their attention prior to turning to ask if I could make a U-turn then, Father pointed to the cab turning. Without realizing it, I had named dropped “Father.” The young cop still did not want to budge. Two other young cops came to join in. And when they found out I was a priest, they said. “Eh kasama mo pala si Father….” (“Oh, so you’re with a priest!”). “Finally, a breakthrough!,” I thought to myself. I then explained that I was driving the priest home and we got lost. And instantly, he handed my license back to me. What a relief!

I immediately, stepped on the gas and drove away. My friend noticed my tension pointing how quickly I drove away. But my nerves were still shaken. He then said, “You should have apologized right away. It always works.” I apologized to him for unconsciously name-dropping that he was a priest. He said, “No problem, at least you got your license back.”

For the rest of the drive home, I continued to be affected. And, my friend noticed how bothered I was with every pothole I carelessly drove over. Women are emotional that way. We easily get shaken and affected. Men often suffered emotional amnesia. They quickly forget their emotions. And, my friend admitted how something like that would not shake him.

But something else struck my friend. “Despite all the flaws and scandals of priests, it’s amazing how much respect we still get.” He then went on to say, “Perhaps this is unique to the Philippines or maybe Boston where there are large Irish Catholic communities.”

It then struck me. I was placed in a unique position of being in between two men of uniform. I was in between two men of power- one representing the church and the other the state. My friend insists it was not because he was a priest that I got my license back. What was it then my persistence, my charm, or that tiny voice that apologized in the end?

I teased my friend that he should have worn his “costume” – the clergy garb he dons at mass. That would have easily done the job. Interestingly, men in uniform have a different effect on me. While men dressed as priests or cops should command authority, in the end, it is their behavior will merit my respect for them. It is rare to find yourself in between a cop and a priest. I am not a big fan of all priests. But they still generally gain my respect. Regarding cops, well, I’d rather have no contact with them.

THE UNEXPECTED LAUGH TRIP

I have been generally a happy person most of my life. But in the past year and a half, a more sober, a more serious, a more pensive me has been emerging. Getting huge doses of reality, my life is far from perfect. I am facing many trying circumstances, but there is still much to smile about. But what I really long for is laughter. Laughing so hard, you burst into tears. You get so lost in the moment and giggles turn into an infectious laugh that lasts into minutes. You forget why you were laughing in the first place, but you still can’t stop laughing.

Last Saturday, a group of friends went on an impromptu trip to Chinatown. It all started with a friend, Rodney, forwarding an email on an importer having a sale of the overstock of Samsonite suitcases, Jansport knapsacks, laptop bags, etc. It is hard to drive to Chinatown and find parking. And since most of us were women, negotiating these narrow and crowded streets would be an ordeal. Using my doughy eyes and in my sweetest voice I asked if Rodney could pick us up on his way to work. After some negotiation, he agreed. Right before midnight, we sorted it all out. Two friends would leave their cars in Rodney’s house. And another friend would drive to my house and Rodney would pick all of us up, just like a school bus. At past midnight, I invited Kathy, a friend I was supposed to have breakfast with that Saturday morning to join us. She delighted at the word “Sale!,” and gladly drove to my house to join the gang.

It was past nine in the morning when all of us converged in my house. As every one boarded the van, all six of us were in the best and brightest spirits. We were all teasing each other, in carefree moods, and there was definitely an abundance of laughter. We were laughing so hard, we were crying. We were expending so much energy, shaking, giggling in uncontrollable happiness that we realized we were tired when we stopped laughing.

We eventually made it to the luggage sale. We only bought three items. Abby and Kathy were the most practical ones in the group. They were the wise ones I would turn to in my indecision, whether to buy a black Samsonite duffel bag I had grown attached to the minute I saw it. Maella was in a frantic buying mode, almost purchasing items she did not even need or shoes that didn’t even fit properly, only priced nicely. Nilda got a little backpack.

After shopping, we then had a most delicious lunch in a small hole in the wall Chinese resto tucked behind the fruit stands. It did not have flashy interiors. Only white tiles. And service was crude and orders were imperfect. Most notable was the Salt and Pepper squid that was more of a sweet spicy squid. But it didn’t matter we were all happy. This moment reminded me that the dining experience is not just about the food, or the ambiance. In this case, it was definitely about the company.

After lunch, we walked in and out of the little stores buying cans of bamboo shoots, loa (my dad calls it tae ng pusa), and hopia. We spent a long time buying office supplies from Rodney’s Stationary store. We disturbed his staff for about an hour, choosing different colors or different styles of notebooks and CD cases. It occurred to me. Rodney supplies to bookstores around the Philippines. What he earned from our purchase in that hour, he probably earns more in a minute of the bulk purchases his staff usually attends to.

When the heat and humidity hit us, we refreshed ourselves with ice-cold black gulaman, ice coffee jelly, and a fresh coconut in The Volunteer Fireman’s Coffee Shop. With the waiters and waitresses as willing accomplices, we could not help but document this special moment. The firemens’ hats were on display. And each one wore a hat, posed in a wacky pose to capture this moment. Of course we burst into uncontrollable laughter again.

I’m glad I had my camera to document those special moments. Every time I look at those photos, it is best summed up by the one word, “PRICELESS!”
June19’07.6:45pm

When “Looks” Matter….

I have not fallen in love with a man for his looks. It is personality that makes my knees weak and my heart melt. Yet, I cannot fully say “looks” don’t matter.

I just realized “looks” do matter.

A few minutes ago, I left my house. I returned a minute later, realizing I had forgotten my eyeglasses. And, as I left the second time, there it was---that “look” It is the “look” my beloved bestowed on me, lamenting my departure, yet again.

While “looks” or the physical appearance does not factor much in my decision to love. One “look” matters. It is how your loved one lovingly looks at you. It is a look, which clearly conveys you are the only person in the world that matters. It is how your loved ones eyes light up when he sees you after a day of work or several hours apart. It is how his eyes are glued on your every move even in a room full of people.

It has been many months since a man lovingly gave me that look. The only one who gives me that loving look is Snort. He’s my nine-year-old Shih Tzu. He entered my life when I started my career as a travel writer.

He was a young puppy in his playpen when I would creep out of the house in the wee hours of the night to leave for my shoots. I would spend several days traveling with a TV crew, writing stories about the different provinces in the country. Waking him up, he would have that disoriented look. He grew familiar with this routine, of me disappearing for days, or weeks. I would always make it a point to say, “Goodbye!,” explaining that his “Mommy” would come back soon. Sometimes, I would even leave him an old shirt so he could smell my scent, and be ok. But he always gave me that sad look as if to say, “You’re leaving me again.” Then he would sigh and press his head sadly on the marble floor.

Today, as I dashed off to leave him again, our eyes met. In his eyes, I saw the look of love. And at that moment, I knew “looks” matter.

6.6.07. 1:55pm

“If you knew how a story would end would you still care to read the rest of the tale?”

I found a most fascinating book to read. It was the memoir of a travel writer. The writer’s life seemed to resonate with my own. The pages found me laughing, crying, nodding my head, and passionately agreeing with her. Midway through the book, I did the unexpected, I flicked through the last page to see how it ended. And, it was not the ending I had wanted for this fascinating woman I oh so connected with. Her story ends with her finding love in the arms of a 52-year old divorced man with two grown children. Wow, exactly the opposite of what I had chosen to the do in my own love story.

From loving every page of the book, I found myself not wanting to go on reading the rest of the story. My friend asked me, “Why did you do that?” I guess I desperately wanted to know where this would go. Since I don’t exactly know where my own love story is headed. Then the question hit me, “If you knew how a story would end would you still care to read the rest of the tale?”

I then realized my question does not just pertain to the love story of this writer, but pretty much to every thing in life- even life itself. We know for sure that there is no escaping death. We will all die. (Whether we believe in life after death is a whole other story). But it doesn’t mean we stop living. Despite knowing we will die in the end, we still live each day allowing our stories to unfold. We wake up, brush our teeth, fall in love, sprain an ankle, win some awards, excel in class, get lost….

I was on a trip when I was reading the book. I knew the inevitable would happen. The excitement of the journey will fade. The rigors of the trip will take its toil. Eventually at the end of the journey, my companions and I will be sick and tired of insect bites, weary joints, living out of a suitcase, unfamiliar living conditions, and ready to head home. Naturally, this happened. But it didn’t stop me from allowing the trip to unfold- getting a few laughs, a golden tan, shedding some tears, making some friends, and learning a whole lot of life lessons along the way.

I guess that’s what makes life beautiful- the journey, not knowing how every day will unfold, even if at times we have an inkling of its inevitable ending. After a brief separation from my favorite book, we were reunited in a few hours. And, despite knowing its ending. I enjoyed reading every page, savoring its twists and turns.

6:15pm.june1.2007

FLOATING MEDITATION

For almost a year and a half now, I have been practicing zen. I guess it would be more accurate to say I have been trying to discipline myself to sit and meditate. The practice requires that I sit before a blank wall every day, at least for 30 minutes and to gather with others practitioners in dark loose clothing at least once a week. While I stare at a blank wall, my mind has been anything but blank. I am a hyperactive and restless person. Sitting still and being quiet does not come naturally to me. But it was a trying point in my life. I was desperate for help to get me through my difficulties. It was timely to be introduced to Zen taught by a Catholic nun.

While zen meditation is a new practice, my Catholic faith has been part of my life since birth. My family religiously went to church. And as a young girl in my plaid Catholic school uniform, I learned to get down on my knees and pray. I learned to call unto to the Saints for help depending on my specific needs.

Whether zen or Catholic faith, religion is merely a tool for spirituality. And spending eight days traveling around the islands, there were no cushions to sit on, or a gong to mark the beginning and end of a sit. There were no nuns or priests in sight. And, I was nowhere near a Catholic church. Yet I found perfect way to pray and to connect to my Source.

On the last day of my trip, I woke up bright and early. As the fishermen were reeling in their nets, the sweet waters of Sugar Beach lured me in. It invited me in and I willingly obliged. I plunged in to its perfect temperature, not too cold, or warm. I knew exactly what I had to do---float. I was in the company of waves with no other person swimming. There I was- my back relaxed on the water, completely trusting the sea and moving with its rhythm. With my partly submerged in the water, I could even hear my every breath. My arms were outstretched to receive what the universe had to offer. And my gaze naturally stared straight upward to the bluest sky, nary a trace of clouds. At that very moment I was communing directly to my God- a majestic Higher Being.

And the conversation began. I asked for my three wishes. Although I try to pray every day, on this occasion I would clearly articulate my deepest desires. It was not my usual roundabout list of demands of needs and wants, but true longings of my heart. The moment became timeless. Instead of worrying about being swept away into the deep end, I trusted. I floated and floated. I was conversing and listening. But most importantly I felt I had been heard. I stayed in the water until my fingers were shriveled up, but my body and soul felt light and relaxed. I had been energized. And God had whispered to my soul that "All Shall Be Well." I walked away from Sugar Beach with the sweetest spiritual experience and a golden caramel tan.

May 21 ’07.