May 13, 2012, a Sunday, being Mothers’ Day, forced me to write a little tribute for my own mother, whom we have fondly called Nanay, ‘Nay.

She died in 2003 at a very young age of 65, because we have expected her to live longer than that; maybe reaching 80s. When God called her up to surrender everything, we were unprepared; who would ever be prepared for this? We have imagined her taking care of her growing crop of apo (grandchildren), joining us in nightly conversations, being with us in local travels to enjoy life and bonding moments with the family. We have foreseen great years of hers cooking her staples for us during important family events;  accompanying us in memorable occasions such as our birthday, birth of a new family member, or, in my case, graduation in the graduate school.

But the Lord has far more important reasons that we couldn’t simply understand or easily accept; we must just let things be and give in to His reason. The Dominican priest, who said the mass during the last night of her wake, somehow made us see this reason. He said her death brought her to a place where there’s no more pain, where everything is plain peace and comfort. Yet no matter what we do, no one, nothing could ever replace her. There’s always a lull, a vacuum, because there could never be another person like her. We cried, and found solace from those words… but true enough, there couldn’t be another mother for us, like her, our Nanay.

Two days ago, I was in a renewal program, where we were made to stay silent, somehow alone, in our rooms. There I found time reading old magazines, which were the only communication materials made available for us. I happened to read a 2004 article on a writer’s tribute to her father, whom she has fondly called a ‘champion.’ Inspired by that, I also thought of writing a piece telling the story of why our late Nanay would always be the best mother for us. Hence, this blog entry.

The last time I saw Nanay alive was that summer morning I was about to go to work. She was asking for biogesic , because Tatay wasn’t feeling well that day. On her last day, she was there taking care of our father, who sadly went with her there in heaven almost a year later after her death. Even in the afterlife, Nanay and Tatay couldn’t afford to be away from each other, because they were practically together all the years of their marriage life. Nanay was caring and affectionate. This made her a real champion for us.

She was never judgmental. From her, I learned the value of humility and not fighting back, of not saying words that you would later on regret of saying. I could remember one time running to her, crying, because I was too problematic and wishing to find some peace by returning back to where I once was. Without being harsh, without judging and condemning, she simply said I should stay where I was then. Nanay always had that ability to listen patiently and express her love for us. I could remember the many Sunday mornings we, including my youngest sister Che, have shared attending the first morning mass at our parish; the many nights we have spent talking and laughing our hearts out with the rest of my siblings in the terrace of our old house that would later on lull her to sleep — we miss the good times — truly, she had given us enough of her time that we could remember her by now that she’s gone. She, indeed, was a full time Nanay for us.

Most of my siblings would remember Nanay for her delicacies, the foods she had painstakingly cooked for us. I couldn’t get enough of her pineapple jam. It is the same penchant for cooking my three sisters and even some of my brothers have imbibed from Nanay. They said I got my attention to details and drive to excellence, not to mention patience, from her; I couldn’t help but agree. If only Nanay were given an opportunity to finish school, she could have achieved greater than what we have so far achieved.

We could always remember her, almost endlessly. My other siblings could have their own story of Nanay, because they have lived with her longer than I have managed. Che, Ate Len, and Ate could remember her by their side whenever they would give birth and welcome another family member; Kuya, Kuya Lito, and Agie could remember her with the fun jokes we shared with her leading to more laughs and hilarious stories, or the many instances she would defend us to Tatay and more. Nanay will always be remembered. The passing years wouldn’t be enough to fill in the gap she had left or to find a replacement for her person whose sense of endearment and effortless affection no one can ever surpass.

She truly is a  champion for us. Happy Mothers’ Day, Nanay! Thanks for a story we couldn’t ever forget and will never grow tired of re-telling. Life is too kind for us. God has enabled me to tell your story now, when it is less painful to re-tell, because you now share a happy space with Tatay at heaven. You are our real protector and even up until this time, you make possible our prayers, because you help us pressure God, when we are most in need of His help. Che, your youngest, said you are our angel up there.

We miss you, Nanay. I hope you can see us now and read this story, your story, with a sweet smile. Words aren’t enough to tell you how much we love you — and how much we are grateful for all that you’ve done for us, and still doing for us until now. You will always be remembered; your story treasured. We’ll pass on your story until we can, and tell others to do so  if we can no longer.

BK Calamba City — Seems to be the longest summer ever. Hot. Fiery. Real agonizing. Folks escape the heat, staying inside malls. In my case, killing time here inside a wi-fi- and aircon-free zone!

Summer reading list. I want to think that summer could provide me enough time to read. So I hoard reading materials. Kundera. Roy. Personal Interest Magazines.

Since I’ve started earning, a greater part of what I take home during payday goes to books and related reading materials. Because if there’s a passion that is worth investing for moi, it’s this. Of course, I invest too on weekly (oftentimes, twice-a-week thing) massage. But such is ephemeral, the pleasure is fleeting.

Books endure. I keep them on shelves, atop my tv, everywhere on my working space, at home, at work. They gather dust. Their pages yellow in age. Truly, they live longer than their owners or readers. They’re the first thing I’ll save during floods and other disastrous events. Or, the first ones I’ll dry when made casualty of unexpected calamities.

This summer, let’s see how far I’ll go reading, and still hoarding some.

The Mystical Number 4. There’s something mysterious or magical about the number four, 4!

I finished elementary fourth. Many years later, in between college and graduate years, there I was finishing Top 4 among PhD graduates of my university for this acad year!

I enjoyed basking under the sun, literally and otherwise, wearing the proof of that Number 4. I appreciate the 100+ ‘likes’ I’ve received from FB; the 50+ album comments, etc., not to mention the beautiful text messages sent to me on the day of my graduation. End of the day, the award, as I’ve seen it, was a bonus for the hard work. As I’ve said to a sibling, it came like an unexpected gift; I really didn’t ask for it.

A painful, stressful validation. To Him, I always bring back the Glory. It’s a validation of the many doubts I have had of getting this higher degree. I knew even then it’s worth it. Yet when you’re flooded with works to do at all sides, pursuing this degree is a pressure-filled task. It had consumed me. But as a friend said: it’s a “hard-earned, well-deserved, backbreaking (pursuit) of the three stripes.” It was. And it still is a challenge: to live up to what the degree entails. Maybe staying grounded, while not forgetting to be critical and balanced at the same time.

To be a sensible thinker. To be understood, more than anything else. That’s what a doctoral degree for me is. To be more understanding and accommodating of other ideas. Maybe to be more respectful of differences; of accepting diversity, without compromising one’s view or giving in to what others impose. This my personal construction. A story others may share or contest. But the beauty is, it is told, and can be re-told. The cycle begins. And wouldn’t simply end. It’s just a matter of time.

Future stories. Later on in my life I want to pursue special interests, which wouldn’t require grades. I eye photography. Maybe creative writing also. Or, special courses on house design. A lot!

Simply everything under the sun.

The idea of ‘waiting’ and the many emotions it creates (feeling of boredom, nausea, goosebumps, stress, paranoia, etc.) is always a favorite writing subject for moi. So this piece is another rumination on such a topic. Call it discourse if you may. I’ll call it a think piece, a way of making sense. Or, in quali tradition, a way of making strange the ordinary.

Waiting is sacred. I’ve seen that in many instances. In my own experiences. In my graduate students waiting for the results of their exams. In my own struggle to wait for April 27 and finally break the good news. In the moments I have to endure waiting for my weekly masseur. In the idle time I have to spend browsing books in a nearby bookstore because I must kill time waiting for something else. In a few minutes I must make productive waiting for the take-home pancit I often bring home to my oldies because it’s their favorite.

Life is always a waiting game. Traveling is. Embarking on a figurative journey is. Waiting for the right time. Not pushing it hard. Because it comes when we least expect it. And it’s doubly sweeter when it finally arrives. In a package custom-made for us, only for us.

My own grad school journey was a test of my own endurance as well, waiting, anticipating for things to fall within their rightful, designed places. It happened while I was burdened by a lot of things on all sides: my demanding job, the pressures of my scholarship grant, the challenges of supporting my family–moving onto a new house included–of understanding people and keeping sadness within yet celebrating happiness loud and open.

Whatever it’ll bring me later or wherever it leads me would come like real bonus from Him. My own dissertation was the culmination of all that waiting,  enduring pains, beating deadlines, making time despite strong currents from all other responsibilities. It’ll soon see its own place, if God permits, as it finds voice in the scientific community, which embraces a qualitative, constructive handle of things. It makes me become excited more and more!

Waiting sometimes leads to disappointments, to boredom, to a feeling of lost and dismay or disillusionment. Like waiting for a delayed flight. Or just being there sitting down while letting the sea brings you wherever it pleases. It mustn’t be this way, never. This is not the kind of waiting I dream about. It kills excitement, the thrill of looking forward to things although they are not meant to come. It stunts imagination. It simply is not my thing.

Onwards to Pandan Island at Puerto Princesa, Palawan late last week, I caught myself sitting on the boat, letting the boatmen direct the journey. Just there feeling the heat of light, the warm breeze engulfing everyone. While on the sea, the waves struggle, fighting back; waters get crystallized (at least in my subjective eyes), like bright stars on the clear, blue ripples, shining, entertaining us, freeing us from the fear of ‘not getting there.’ Such is the kind of waiting I nurture, of which my dreams are made.

It took me a month to write anew here. Between March 2 and now were weeks of hard work and transition to a new work. Life went on fast and unpredictable. Suddenly I must attend to events I have often eluded. I must stay in the workplace practically from early morning to late, late night. In between, I must squeeze in as well time for my dissertation, which has finally seen its official completion at the end of this month. Indeed, if there’s a most challenging month that I’ve ever had so far, this was March of this year!

Thank God I’ve survived these all. I emerged from these drained out but ironically enriched and more blessed.

Braving stressful weeks. Every Sunday, a new routine has cropped up out of my system since we have transferred here in our new place. I’ve discovered Thai Baiyok through the recommendation of a friend. It’s somewhere Calamba Crossing. I’m addicted to its Swedish massage that gently soothes tired muscles and nerves. My addiction earned me discount and loyalty cards enough to keep me coming back for its services again and again. It’s worth trying as I would always tell folks who are massage enthusiasts as well. It’s plain addictive.

Living with less, living solo. The Time Magazine has recently came out with its ‘signs of the times’ issue. And one of the items there is the phenomenon of ‘living alone.’ It isn’t just a fad, so says the article, but it has become more and more a way of meeting an individual need to find the self in the silence of one’s sanctuary. I could just relate with this growing need.

Lately, also, Dwell Magazine featured how it is to live minimally given the limited space of our own houses. It seemingly goes with the mantra of living solo. What I enjoy most about this issue is how one can creatively make do with a minimal space. This comes out ironically in a world that adores maximalism. And because we ourselves now live in a small space, the magazine has hit a familiar chord in me. There are always lessons and tips to be learned here.

Off to a long break.  It’s great to be on a long vacation after braving deadlines and fighting off stress. Now I have more time to read, write, and be more of myself, sans the superficial titles and posts. I’ll dwell more here.

As myself.

As a Bobbet-centric person.

Real and unmasked.

In the world where I live in and breathe, changes happen every day; bigger changes happen when we least expect these–leaving me surprised, others not believing (ha ha!).

When I started working years ago, all I wanted was to lead myself more than anybody else. I wanted a worry-free job. Hence, I kept on going back to teaching after sporadic years of working for research offices. I wanted an empowered job that could empower others as well. The classroom is always a perfect setting for this.

But I realized, the call towards something greater would always be there. No matter how much I have eluded the call for me to give in to leading and serving others, time would always offer a chance. It has nurtured me to be the risk taker that I was often not. Because over comfort and uncertainty, I would always be tempted to choose the former.

Starting yesterday, I moved on to take a brave decision. A move that leads me more and more to uncertainty and risks. Very un-me. A leap that somehow makes me happy but to an extent afraid. I know this is a normal feeling. Every beginning is an entrance to the unknown. Yet I also know that He is in control and He has plans; the more it shouldn’t give me reasons to be afraid–despite silent critics voicing out doubts and insecurities.

True enough, my world is a world of many beginnings: almost endless and relentless. With Him, no discouragement could impede me from performing; no doubts could ever stop me from believing.

Like a story that keeps on unfolding, to live and believe and to put all these into newer narratives is only a matter of time. And faith, as well.

Two weeks have gone but the details of that HK trip with the family are still etched in mind.

I could still remember the extreme cold of HK streets. The symphony of lights viewed from Water Front. The dainty Bridal Tea House: its clean and bright spaces; its cute cafeteria with a perfect view of the complicated streets of Kowloon City. The awe-inspiring sights and sounds of HK Disneyland. The opportunity to roam around the city to simply window shop and explore the busy corners of this touted “Asia’s world city.”

The HK adventure was all worth it. Despite the difficult efforts to connect and communicate with folks around: with taxicab drivers, fast-food chain crew, with almost anyone we have met in places we have been. Yet whenever they would hear us speak, there would always be a Filipino radar open to react and reply us back in the vernacular. Because so obvious as it may sound, Filipinos are everywhere too in HK. Lost in subway, looking for the Night Market, we found our way to the right direction through the help of a Filipina who accompanied us until she was able to show us the right path. Truly, we are more caring and hospitable to strangers than others.

I couldn’t forget as well the busy streets of HK lined up with fresh, alive roses. Here I felt how it was to literally pause to smell the flowers. Because of the favorable clime, flowers stand fully bloomed in makeshift plant boxes. There were no dusts to ruin their beauty; there were no pesky pedestrians picking them up when authorities are not around. They were there alive and smiling at us like friends welcoming strangers to the embrace of their homes.

Despite the tall buildings and cramped spaces of what they call homes in the  busy city of HK, contradictions abound in the well kept temples and historical sites. Despite modernity, we were awed by that peculiar smell of foods cooked in the most traditional ways. Truly HK is a site of contrasts and contradictions. Of the traditional jibing well with the postmodern.

We can always go back here and relive the experience. Maybe next time, we’ll have more budget to really shop around the city’s expensive malls and eat around their fine dining restos. We’ll save more for this next time. We’ll be more familiar of its streets then. And we’ll travel lighter when that time comes. The family who was with me during this first HK trip couldn’t help but agree more on my penultimate statement (wa ha ha)!

I’m now yawning. Sleep has dawned early for me during the last two weeks. It still is. It is a welcome change. I could remember sleeping early midnight to dawn during the height of my dissertation days. Gone are those days.

Things have changed lately. But they stabilize enough to make me feel I’m back to being normal. The last two weeks of planning and preparing for our transfer to our new place was a bit taxing and stressful. Yet I enjoyed the task: of scouting for smaller beds and a cute ref that would fit in our limited space. I liked the job of choosing what minimalist thingies I should bring here from our real house: the few books I should bring; the basic and barest necessities I should choose to keep.

And a real positive change, I am never late in my work  now. A few walks away from where I live, Letran is now a distance away; I can even go home for lunch that reminds me of those years I was teaching peacefully and happily in my own hometown.

I never realized 2012 could bring me these changes. This early. Funny also that I’m adapting to these quickly as well. Good for me. God plans what’s best for us. Plans we cannot fully grasp or even critically question. We couldn’t help but just heed–like a voice we unquestionably follow or a belief we wholeheartedly embrace.

This is a rushed entry as I must fit in the time I must write this to 15 minutes left before I have my weekly body massage.  Obviously I am outside the house (read: apartment) using a public, commercial Net connection.

Hopefully next week I’ll have my connection transferred to where I stay now so I can do the usual things I do here. The week went on as usual. Works drained me, as always. But nothing had seemingly changed with where I am now. Normal sleep went back after a night of adjustment. Being closer to work affords me to wake up late in the morning on time for my 9-a.m. work. The sounds of train passing signal time to rest as these usually come when I am about to go home from work (when I have an after 5-p.m. teaching session) or when I’m at home after dinner.

Thank God we were installed cable TV on our third day in the apartment. It further normalized things. Before finally calling it a day, I usually sit on my small desk (which is also our dining table) to read, check, and sign papers.

One week later after our transfer, it’s good to say I’m still well.

Life is moving on inexorably.

Works go on as usual. Research works in the office. Admin meetings. Late-night classes. Beating the rush for prelim grades. The end of my GS class.

Always, there’s something to do. A few endings that make me hopeful and lead me to sometimes unforeseen, hazy future. But dreams endure.

There are some plans I want realized. Maybe a new place, a new space. For the past, few weeks I have this feeling of aching for an escape. I want to be somewhere else. I want to start a new life, whatever that means. It has nothing to do with my work because I love my work immensely. Maybe I’ll grow old serving it.

It has something to do with where I live. I’d like to settle somewhere near my workplace.  Maybe that’s how ‘new life’ could be defined right now. A place stress-free and less prone to worries. Away from unwanted memories.

I ache for a dream place, better yet a dreamed-of place. A small space with total strangers. A place closer to what I do to earn a living. I want a breather.

Coelho speaks to me directly:

There’s no point explaining that all we achieve by exacting revenge is to make ourselves the equals of our enemies, whereas by forgiving we show wisdom and intelligence.

I’m impressed by how quiet everyone is; none of us wants to talk, because we are all dreaming about what might happen, and no one, I’m sure, is thinking about what they’ve left behind but about what lies ahead.

We drink and talk about everything but the journey, because that is the present, not the past.

If you spend too much time trying to find out what is good or bad about someone else, you’ll forget your own soul and end up exhausted and defeated by the energy you have wasted in judging others.

My voice: I hope one day, when things are more peaceful and when I can afford it well, I could travel alone, just like Coelho, and realize these things while on train seeing a splendid view of life’s moments as they pass through me, like visual slides, frozen, making me want to go down the trail to re-capture these one by one.