Thursday, August 9, 2007
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
Friday, July 20, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
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
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
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
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
Friday, June 1, 2007
“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
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
Thursday, May 31, 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.
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.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
POKEY POKEY CULTURE
For the past eight days I have been traveling with a foreigner named Scott for work. While he was a joy to work and travel with, I was faced with a very peculiar situation. I was constantly probed whether he was my husband. Total strangers in the beach,women collecting fish fingerlings, families swimming in the beach, drivers, even the woman selling pasalubong in the airport. If I had a dollar for every person, who asked the question, I’d be sleeping in a bed full of dollar bills tonight.
What shocked me is people don’t even know me. And when I do tell them that he is just a friend, they go on to say, “oh, you should be married to him?”, “He seems like a nice guy.” They have all their opinions on the matter. I guess Filipinos have no qualms poking into lives of total strangers. It is not enough to for Filipinos to be a society of mirons, to be front row bystanders. They feel a need to pry into other people’s lives and have their say.
When I arrived at Campomanes Island, I cooled myself with a swim. As I walked into the water, I could feel about fifty pairs of eyes following my every move. Is it because I was the only woman wearing a swimsuit and everyone else was wearing a pair of shorts and a shirt? I started swimming and amusing myself with the fish. I played with a ten-year-old girl. And the silence was finally broken when the young girl’s grandma finally asked in Ilongga something to the effect of “Is he your husband?” I shook my head. “Ay sayang (Too bad),” because perhaps he was foreigner. While I had only spoken to one woman, the entire swimming community knew. As I left the water to head to the boat, a woman smiled at me and said, “Sayang, di mo pala siya asawa.(What a shame, he's not your husband)” Strange, I didn’t even exchange a single word with her. It became clear to me that to most Filipina women a foreign man is a prize catch regardless of who he is. They feel so strongly about it, they don’t have any hesitation verbalizing their thoughts. Perhaps, that’s how Filipino culture is. Live are so much intertwined. Personal affairs of total strangers are their business, even if should not concern them.
In eight days, we have gone in and out of the domestic airport at least eight times. In Butuan, Scott was rather annoyed at how the security check was done. The man clad in barong repeatedly asked him about the tripod in his suitcase. And as if that was not enough, a lady guard, pulled every single lens out of his bag. But asked me, “hey, Maida there was no x-ray there, what was that about?” I refer to our security check in the Philippine airports as the “Pokey-pokey” method. The designated checker randomly uses his or her fingers to poke in your bag. Sometimes security guards even have this magical wooden stick they poke in your bag. As if poking the stick, will assure that no bombs or explosives are in our bags.
Scott laughs at my made up term, “Pokey-pokey.” But on our last day together, after buying some dried mangoes, butterscotch brownies, and mango tarts just outside the airport in Bacolod, the unsolicited commentary went on again. “Dapat asawa mo siya! Bagay kayo (He should be your husband. You make a good couple) ” referring to Scott the white guy with me. Perhaps, it is odd to see a single girl travel with a foreign man and for them not to be married. But hey, he’s a married man. I’m a writer. He’s a photographer. This is a work trip. We sleep on separate beds. And the most we’ve shared on this trip is a bathroom. But at the end of the day, as we subject our bags to security check one last time, I realize. I don’t owe anyone an explanation. I should just smile, after all, this is the Pokey-pokey Filipino culture.
4:34pm.blog-may21.07.bacolodairport
What shocked me is people don’t even know me. And when I do tell them that he is just a friend, they go on to say, “oh, you should be married to him?”, “He seems like a nice guy.” They have all their opinions on the matter. I guess Filipinos have no qualms poking into lives of total strangers. It is not enough to for Filipinos to be a society of mirons, to be front row bystanders. They feel a need to pry into other people’s lives and have their say.
When I arrived at Campomanes Island, I cooled myself with a swim. As I walked into the water, I could feel about fifty pairs of eyes following my every move. Is it because I was the only woman wearing a swimsuit and everyone else was wearing a pair of shorts and a shirt? I started swimming and amusing myself with the fish. I played with a ten-year-old girl. And the silence was finally broken when the young girl’s grandma finally asked in Ilongga something to the effect of “Is he your husband?” I shook my head. “Ay sayang (Too bad),” because perhaps he was foreigner. While I had only spoken to one woman, the entire swimming community knew. As I left the water to head to the boat, a woman smiled at me and said, “Sayang, di mo pala siya asawa.(What a shame, he's not your husband)” Strange, I didn’t even exchange a single word with her. It became clear to me that to most Filipina women a foreign man is a prize catch regardless of who he is. They feel so strongly about it, they don’t have any hesitation verbalizing their thoughts. Perhaps, that’s how Filipino culture is. Live are so much intertwined. Personal affairs of total strangers are their business, even if should not concern them.
In eight days, we have gone in and out of the domestic airport at least eight times. In Butuan, Scott was rather annoyed at how the security check was done. The man clad in barong repeatedly asked him about the tripod in his suitcase. And as if that was not enough, a lady guard, pulled every single lens out of his bag. But asked me, “hey, Maida there was no x-ray there, what was that about?” I refer to our security check in the Philippine airports as the “Pokey-pokey” method. The designated checker randomly uses his or her fingers to poke in your bag. Sometimes security guards even have this magical wooden stick they poke in your bag. As if poking the stick, will assure that no bombs or explosives are in our bags.
Scott laughs at my made up term, “Pokey-pokey.” But on our last day together, after buying some dried mangoes, butterscotch brownies, and mango tarts just outside the airport in Bacolod, the unsolicited commentary went on again. “Dapat asawa mo siya! Bagay kayo (He should be your husband. You make a good couple) ” referring to Scott the white guy with me. Perhaps, it is odd to see a single girl travel with a foreign man and for them not to be married. But hey, he’s a married man. I’m a writer. He’s a photographer. This is a work trip. We sleep on separate beds. And the most we’ve shared on this trip is a bathroom. But at the end of the day, as we subject our bags to security check one last time, I realize. I don’t owe anyone an explanation. I should just smile, after all, this is the Pokey-pokey Filipino culture.
4:34pm.blog-may21.07.bacolodairport
Friday, May 18, 2007
The never ending journey
I am on location today in Siargao, an island South of the Philippines known for great surfing. Getting there and getting out of there has turned out to be quite an ordeal. Starting at 4 in the morning, my companions (a photographer and a model) crept out of our cottage before the sun even came out, took a van ride for about 30 mins, followed by a ferry ride in an overloaded ferry (I was seriously afraid the boat with sink as the tiny ferry was definitely packed with more people it could legally contain), a multi-cab to the bus terminal,then a two hour wild van ride to make it in time to the airport where the three of us were chance passengers in the plane trip to Manila. We were eventually rewarded with seats on the flight. But getting to Manila meant exiting the arrivals gate only to enter the departure gate again to another flight to Bacolod.It is a series of connections to get to where we are destined to go. And as I am about to sleep tonight, we have not yet arrived at our destination. I guess life is that way.
In the plane from Butuan to Manila, I sat next to a woman I had seen earlier in the week. We took the same plane from Manila to Butuan. Recognizing each other, we exchanged stories like old friends.... I guess that's how life's journey works out. You never really know who will journey with you. It could be a model, it could be a photographer, or even scummy men from the bus terminal trying to get a free ride in your van to the airport. Whether you like it or not, they may ride with you, hover behind your back, slow you down on the journey, or even be a friend a long the way. Regardless, you just have to make the journey happen.
Sometimes you stop to rest, to eat, to recharge. Today, we went on... and on. It was only at 5 in the afternoon as we boarded our flight from Manila to Bacolod, we realized we haven't had a meal all day. We survived on bottles of mineral water, gatorade, chips, and peanuts....
Perhaps, a journey never really ends....you never know where it will take you, who will travel with you and the adventure that it brings with it.
And as I am ready to collapse in my hotel bed in Bacolod, I can still dreamily smile for tomorrow continues this never ending journey.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
GOING AGAINST THE CURRENT:Wisdom from a Goldfish
Another story from my silent retreat...
Going Against the Current:
Wisdom from a Goldfish
By Maida C. Pineda
Inspiration comes from everywhere. I’m finding much difficulty praying today. I’ve tried sitting quietly in the prayer room. I’ve gone back to my room. I lay in bed trying to read the bible but that didn’t seem to work. I tried getting comfortable in the Chapel. I sat Indian style with the fan directly aimed me. That lasted for about an hour or so. Taking a cup of instant coffee with Milo, I decided to take a break outside. At two in the afternoon, the summer heat is oppressive. But an artificial waterfall gushes water down stream. At the base are some tiny orange goldfish quietly swimming together. I watched them for a while, but all they did was swim in circles. I then walked a few steps where the falls gushes step by step with rocks channeling the flow of the water. Then there he was. One tiny goldfish was swimming upstream. The flow of the water was pushing him down, but he was determined to swim upstream. He was swimming with all his might. I got lost in the moment. Then he landed on a flat rock. “Oh no!,” I cried thinking he could die. He then slid himself off the rock and proceeded to swim up stream, pushing against the current.
Perhaps, no one has told him to go with the flow. I thought he was crazy. The water was gushing so forcefully through the rocks. “There was no way he’d make it upstream,” I thought to myself. There I was leaning to the railing watching every moment of his fight. He negotiated rock after rock. He would try the left side and if the current was too strong, he would shift to the right. Watching intently, he proved me wrong. And, I became his number one cheerleader. “Go, go, go!,” I said out loud with all my attention on this goldfish. (I’m glad no one witnessed my cheering).
Compared to the tiny goldfish, I felt big and mighty. As I was watching the whole thing unfold, I wondered if God felt this way. As we boldly swim upstream when the current flows down stream, does he cheer us on and watch our every move as we persevere to conquer our dreams? Does he hold his breath as I did when the odds seem against us? Does he finally sigh in relief when we succeed?
The goldfish made it to the top of the falls. He disappeared into a tube under the bridge. I left the falls enriched by the experience. The little goldfish taught me to persevere, to go against the flow even if it meant swimming with all your might. The little creature also taught me of a Higher Being watching cheering us on, believing in us, and smiling when we make it.
Inspiration not only comes from churches, chapels, or being still and silent, but also from little creatures. Just be present.
Wisdom from a Goldfish
By Maida C. Pineda
Inspiration comes from everywhere. I’m finding much difficulty praying today. I’ve tried sitting quietly in the prayer room. I’ve gone back to my room. I lay in bed trying to read the bible but that didn’t seem to work. I tried getting comfortable in the Chapel. I sat Indian style with the fan directly aimed me. That lasted for about an hour or so. Taking a cup of instant coffee with Milo, I decided to take a break outside. At two in the afternoon, the summer heat is oppressive. But an artificial waterfall gushes water down stream. At the base are some tiny orange goldfish quietly swimming together. I watched them for a while, but all they did was swim in circles. I then walked a few steps where the falls gushes step by step with rocks channeling the flow of the water. Then there he was. One tiny goldfish was swimming upstream. The flow of the water was pushing him down, but he was determined to swim upstream. He was swimming with all his might. I got lost in the moment. Then he landed on a flat rock. “Oh no!,” I cried thinking he could die. He then slid himself off the rock and proceeded to swim up stream, pushing against the current.
Perhaps, no one has told him to go with the flow. I thought he was crazy. The water was gushing so forcefully through the rocks. “There was no way he’d make it upstream,” I thought to myself. There I was leaning to the railing watching every moment of his fight. He negotiated rock after rock. He would try the left side and if the current was too strong, he would shift to the right. Watching intently, he proved me wrong. And, I became his number one cheerleader. “Go, go, go!,” I said out loud with all my attention on this goldfish. (I’m glad no one witnessed my cheering).
Compared to the tiny goldfish, I felt big and mighty. As I was watching the whole thing unfold, I wondered if God felt this way. As we boldly swim upstream when the current flows down stream, does he cheer us on and watch our every move as we persevere to conquer our dreams? Does he hold his breath as I did when the odds seem against us? Does he finally sigh in relief when we succeed?
The goldfish made it to the top of the falls. He disappeared into a tube under the bridge. I left the falls enriched by the experience. The little goldfish taught me to persevere, to go against the flow even if it meant swimming with all your might. The little creature also taught me of a Higher Being watching cheering us on, believing in us, and smiling when we make it.
Inspiration not only comes from churches, chapels, or being still and silent, but also from little creatures. Just be present.
4/7/2007.2:30pm.maida pineda.manila, philippines
CELEBRATION
I'd like to share a story I wrote while on retreat last Holy Week. I'm not sure if it makes good food for thought for you. I was on a solo silent retreat at that time. I spoke to no one but my spiritual directress, who was a nun. Most of the day and night, I was alone in thought. Writing was a good companion and friend especially in my silence. I am a very restless and talkative person. You can imagine what a discipline silence was for me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Celebration
By Maida C. Pineda
I don’t think people celebrate life enough. Tomorrow is Easter. It occurred to me, I must celebrate it. The holiday means so much to me. But the last time I joyfully did was ages ago. I was a youngster in an Easter egg hunt. Two years ago, my classmates and I in grad school had a big party. Our class of foodies all cooked a specialty dish to share. We all brought wine. And, we all had too much to drink. The pictures reveal a giddy kind of happiness.
Celebrations need not be splurging lots of money or spending hours laboring in the kitchen. Financially dry right now, I wrestled with my desire to celebrate Easter and my lack of money. I also struggled with not having my own place right now. Then, it hit me, “Why not have a picnic?” I make fantastic dips. My friends love it. It can be an afternoon thing. I’ll bring my dog, look for the kite I’ve wanted to fly for years and viola an instant party. So, I did text some of my friends.
There are so many reasons to celebrate. An old wise priest with the kindest face told me last night for penance to tell myself every morning, “Maida, you are God’s Beloved daughter”- that in itself is reason to celebrate!
I generally have a jovial personality. I distinctly remember getting an award in First Grade for Cheerfulness. There’s so much to smile about. There’s a so much to celebrate.
As I cooked a quick dinner of pancit canton (stirfry noodles) for my family one night, I shredded some leftover chicken ham. Using my bare hands to get as much meat from the bone, I hit the wishbone. Excitedly, I ran to my mother to hand her the other end of the wishbone. “Make a wish,” I said. I then pulled with all my might and she got the longer end. She then said she didn’t make a wish. I was aghast how she wasted a wish and how she didn’t share my excitement.
There is much to celebrate: a picnic, a wishbone, dancing in the rain, an impromptu road trip, an email from a long lost friend… the list goes on. Go ahead, indulge, there is so much to be happy about.
1:55pm 4/7/2007.maidapineda.manila,Philippines.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Celebration
By Maida C. Pineda
I don’t think people celebrate life enough. Tomorrow is Easter. It occurred to me, I must celebrate it. The holiday means so much to me. But the last time I joyfully did was ages ago. I was a youngster in an Easter egg hunt. Two years ago, my classmates and I in grad school had a big party. Our class of foodies all cooked a specialty dish to share. We all brought wine. And, we all had too much to drink. The pictures reveal a giddy kind of happiness.
Celebrations need not be splurging lots of money or spending hours laboring in the kitchen. Financially dry right now, I wrestled with my desire to celebrate Easter and my lack of money. I also struggled with not having my own place right now. Then, it hit me, “Why not have a picnic?” I make fantastic dips. My friends love it. It can be an afternoon thing. I’ll bring my dog, look for the kite I’ve wanted to fly for years and viola an instant party. So, I did text some of my friends.
There are so many reasons to celebrate. An old wise priest with the kindest face told me last night for penance to tell myself every morning, “Maida, you are God’s Beloved daughter”- that in itself is reason to celebrate!
I generally have a jovial personality. I distinctly remember getting an award in First Grade for Cheerfulness. There’s so much to smile about. There’s a so much to celebrate.
As I cooked a quick dinner of pancit canton (stirfry noodles) for my family one night, I shredded some leftover chicken ham. Using my bare hands to get as much meat from the bone, I hit the wishbone. Excitedly, I ran to my mother to hand her the other end of the wishbone. “Make a wish,” I said. I then pulled with all my might and she got the longer end. She then said she didn’t make a wish. I was aghast how she wasted a wish and how she didn’t share my excitement.
There is much to celebrate: a picnic, a wishbone, dancing in the rain, an impromptu road trip, an email from a long lost friend… the list goes on. Go ahead, indulge, there is so much to be happy about.
1:55pm 4/7/2007.maidapineda.manila,Philippines.
When You Come to a fork in the road, take it!
I have resisted writing a blog for the many reasons. It seems too self-indulgent. It seems too exposed to have your raw thoughts read. And, my full-time job is already writing. I am a food and travel writer. But more and more, I realize a blog could help me organize my thoughts. Or at least a blog can help organize my bits of writing into one accessible source. I would mention to friends, oh you should read this bit I wrote. Then, I forget where I had written it, or even what filename it is in my laptop. And, any writer knows... we write any where and any time. I find myself writing in bits of paper, used Starbucks napkins, or on the edges of a newspaper.
While I have many articles that have been published and even a book, there is much of my writing lurking in odd places.
Why Fork in the Road? It is Yogi Berra's wise words, "When you come to a fork in the road, take it!" I have heeded his advice and taken the many forks I have encountered. My life has been truly rich and blessed. Two Thanksgivings ago, my classmates in my graduate class in Gastronomy and our professors were celebrating this American holiday in Australia. My British Professor stood up to impart some holiday cheer and some food for thought as we were soon going our own ways. He said, "When you come to a fork in the road, take it!" I may have forgotten the flavors of the four different bread stuffings that evening, or the different pies made by my American classmates....but those words linger. They still remain with me today.
Join me in my delicious journey called life. As I partake in different adventures, as I ponder on the lessons, and as I chew on food for thought.
While I have many articles that have been published and even a book, there is much of my writing lurking in odd places.
Why Fork in the Road? It is Yogi Berra's wise words, "When you come to a fork in the road, take it!" I have heeded his advice and taken the many forks I have encountered. My life has been truly rich and blessed. Two Thanksgivings ago, my classmates in my graduate class in Gastronomy and our professors were celebrating this American holiday in Australia. My British Professor stood up to impart some holiday cheer and some food for thought as we were soon going our own ways. He said, "When you come to a fork in the road, take it!" I may have forgotten the flavors of the four different bread stuffings that evening, or the different pies made by my American classmates....but those words linger. They still remain with me today.
Join me in my delicious journey called life. As I partake in different adventures, as I ponder on the lessons, and as I chew on food for thought.
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