The Human Condition

It is a human condition: that love, especially if true, will always involve a letting go. – Secret History of the World by Jonathan Black

Isn’t it the greatest irony that we spend our days on a romantic quest, jump from one failed attempt on love to another in search of the elusive soulmate, and as soon as we find it, we realize it’s simply not working out and we have to let them go?

We tell ourselves that if we could just find The One, we would finally be happy and complete. But the happiness we find with them is fleeting, and we have not caused them happiness but misery, and the only recourse is to part from them so they may search what will make them truly happy. And the cycle never ends.

What is the point in all this searching? What is the point in feeling a sense of certainty that everything led you to this moment if the moment only ends too soon?

Why do you have to let go of the very thing that makes you happy? Why do we always have to choose?

But the point is, I did let go. And he came back.

In Remembrance and in regret

It is only human to have regrets, never trust anyone who tells you they don’t have a single one. It is a simple reality that everyone goes through. It tells you what you could have done better and teaches you to be conscientious the next time so you don’t repeat the same mistakes you made. It is a great teacher, sadly it teaches a lesson a little too late, when there is nothing more you can do about it.

I have my share of regrets and for the last two weeks, there is one that has stayed with me and I carry with me even until now.

My grandma passed away. She was 89, a few months shy of 90. She died peacefully, in the arms of one of her daughters. My aunt barely felt the life leaving her. Even though, they had expected her passing for while now, her death was a shock and left everyone trying to hold on to anything they can grab.

She had lived a full life, seen so much and had been loved. Her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren who lived alongside her could only try to make sense of the loss and the void she was leaving behind. As her wake went on for days, the grief only intensified, culminating on the day of her funeral—the final moment, the final goodbye.

As the cries filled the air and the emotions ran heavy, I thought of the all the memories I shared with my Lola. And to my shame, there wasn’t much.

I could make all sorts of excuses for myself and my family that we lived far from them, we were too busy, life was too complicated. But it all boiled down to one thing, I just didn’t spend enough time with her, didn’t make a real effort to see her.

And as I sat there and watched the world cry over their loss, I couldn’t cry. I didn’t know how to mourn for her. But I did feel sad for the people she had left behind, how they lost a parent, a grandparent, a friend, an ally. I sympathized, for I have known loss, and the grief that comes along with it. But for all my sympathies, I knew that it didn’t amount to much of anything. My empathy could not for the whole world compensate for what I wasn’t feeling.

But regrets are regrets, and as much as I want to turn back time and undo whatever I’ve done, or do the things I haven’t, everything is just wishful thinking. I do hope for forgiveness, for absolution. And I do send her my love wherever she may be.

Lola, Godspeed.

Surviving Writer's Block

I live inside my head now. Words, images and emotions swirl in one gigantic mess in my head and I can’t seem to get them out no matter what I do. My tongue trips and I am rendered inarticulate. I was talking to my sister a while ago, and I can’t seem to get the ideas straight. She looked at me confounded, and trust me, I am as confounded as much as she is. To make matters worse, I am now suffering from a terrible affliction: the dreaded writer’s block.

Okay, if the only thing affected is my writing for this blog. Unfortunately, bigger things are at stake. My work in both the academe and publishing is likewise suffering, and my deadlines are looming over me. I have exactly six days to finish an important research, and currently three magazine articles that I need to get out of the pipeline same day as my research is due. And I have no idea how I’d be able to manage everything in time. If only I could draw things out from my gray matter and into the pages of whatever I need to accomplish...

I sometimes have lucid moments where everything seemed clear, but it doesn’t last long enough for me to put it down on paper. M suggested that I I bring a recorder around so I can simply record my thoughts as soon as I have them, catch them before it evaporates again. I tell people it must be the summer heat, it fries my brain cells to oblivion.

Even as I write this entry, I forget what my point is, or even if I have one. I figured writing this entry could be some sort of exercise, but it’s turning out to be an exercise in futility. (sigh)

Maybe this is a call for help. To anyone who has ideas how to cure this writer’s block, throw them my way. I am desperate.

The Grass is Always Greener..

I went up to the mountains in search of something. No, not my soul, but something just as rare these days: traditional Ifugao houses. One of the many indigenous communities in the North of the Philippines, the Ifugaos are a hardy bunch, living high up in the mountains and carving its sides into stepped terraces where they plant anything from rice to vegetables and root crops.

So what interest could I possibly have with their traditional dwellings? A research documenting Ifugao architecture and its many implications on their culture and gender roles is what. And so we, myself and the team, embarked on this great expedition, traveling 12 hours from Manila to Banaue, trekking for six hours just to get from one village to the next.

We walked on sides of cliffs and along the edges of the mountain terraces, going as high up as we can possibly go. One misstep and we would literally plunge to our deaths, or drown in the muck of the rice paddies, whichever the case may be. And on top of that, it was unexpectedly cold. We were freezing. Well, okay, freezing may be a bit too much but still, I suddenly felt silly for bringing summer clothes with me to the trip. No one actually thought we could actually suffer from hypothermia in the middle of summer, much less in the Philippines.

Also, I am not the most fit person. I smoke and drink and quite adept at living a sedentary lifestyle, which makes me the least candidate to be to climb a mountain. We would be passed occasionally by grandmothers during our climb, and I swear they were in better shape than I was, and they gave all of us a serious run for our money.

But I did it, even as the muscles in my thighs burned and my breath labored with every climb. And at 3200 feet above sea level, where the air was thin, my mind was clear and at times, I felt like I could see forever.

Just like everyone who’s ever been on a nature trip, I was enthralled by what I saw. It was beautiful, and just like anyone, I hungrily snapped pictures although after a while, it felt like I was taking the same pictures over and over again. I guess sometimes, beauty can be tiring.

As memorable the views were, so were the locals. I know, everyone says that whenever you find yourself as a tourist in new place that the people are friendly and nice. But the Ifugao people are more than just nice, they are resilient and happy. Banaue and the rest of the Mountain provinces are not exactly the easiest places to live in, but these people are doing more than surviving, they are thriving, “Life is hard here, but we are happy,” our guide told us. You look at his face, and you know he’s telling the truth.

With so little, people are content. I somehow felt envious of their uncomplicated lives, thinking maybe a life like that could make me happy. But you realize that no matter how much you romanticize things, no matter how much you think the grass is greener on the other side, it’s never as simple as that. Chances are, they probably think our lives are better than theirs. It’s all a matter of perspective, and it’s really about finding happiness wherever you are.

A Strange Calm

I feel strange. I had expected to fall into a deep blue after things ended between us, but I can’t seem to find the appropriate emotions. I wanted to wallow in the memory of us (whatever little there was), and cry in regret for what could have been. Yet, I feel light. Maybe I did make the right decision, and peace is finally washing over me.

I admit I have the tendency to be a drama queen (my friends will disagree that it is more than just a tendency), but at least I am conscious of the fact that I do love the drama, and maybe a bit too much. In the words of D, an architect friend, “You are needlessly complicated.” He doesn’t mince words, does he? Bastard, but god bless him for his honesty.

Well, anyway, what I’m driving at is this: I think I’m missing out on the drama by not even feeling sad that it’s over. Yes, I did cry for two days, and yes, I did go back and forth every small detail—what you said, what you did, and even the very first time we met—in an attempt to understand what and where it went wrong, or if it even meant anything to you. A part of me didn’t want the drama and the hurt to end too soon. But in the end, I found that I didn’t care anymore. In the end, I realized, it was about me. It will always be about me and what will really make me happy. You won’t.

I’m not even sour graping. I know that for months on end, I have written how you affected me, how you moved me, and whatever I felt at that time couldn’t be more real. If I ached for you, it wasn’t just in my head. It was almost physical. So maybe this is what makes me feel strange, the fact I was able to let go of you just like that. I am learning. I am finally learning. Isn’t that wonderful?

You may have your reasons and motivations. And for all your declarations that you are happy where you are, I somehow sensed that you were trying to convince yourself more than you were convincing me. I knew your game and I was on to everything. I had been a willing accomplice more than you think I did, and I went into this whole thing with my eyes wide open. You, my dear, were just being a coward.

I do hope you find what it is that will make you truly happy. I earnestly wish you that. Don’t get me wrong. I do have regrets being with you. I knew that even before we started. But it would have been a bigger regret not being with you, even if it were only a really short while, I knew that too.

I could not say with finality that I will never want to be with you again. If one day, fate intervenes and finds us together again, I hope you’re ready by then. And I just hope I’m still there.

Finding Peace

“I always have a recurring dream of you where you’re always fighting. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose,” he said. I made a joke out of his dream. Then, I told him about mine, “we were playing tennis, and neither one was winning.” But it wasn’t the dream I wanted to tell him, I wanted to tell him about my recurring dream too, where he always seemed torn, but it was always me he chose. He chose me.

But I know that it’s really just a dream and I should have known better than to put stock in it. He said he’s happy where he is at his life now, but could not understand why he seems to do all of these things with me, yet he does them still. It’s not love, I know. Although sometimes I wish it were. Despite that knowledge, whenever he does what he does, I couldn’t help but fall for him, couldn’t help myself from falling apart.

We saw each other briefly, and not in the way I would have preferred. He seemed distant, dismissive. Maybe he, too, knew that we were reaching the end of the road, and couldn’t bring himself to face it. Even until the end, he couldn’t be man enough to own up to his part in this game we played.

“Can we be friends?” I asked. “Yes,” he chuckled. Did I sense bitterness? Maybe it’s just my imagination. It’s quite hard to tell when you’re ending things over the phone. And though I’m not sure if things will ever be entirely over between us, let me settle with the fact that for now it is. And just like I thought, it went down quietly, there were no hysterics, no crying, nothing of that sort. It was even…friendly.

He once said we had chemistry, and I believed him. It felt real, after all. It even convinced me he was the one. But chemistry can only take me so far with him, and it’s time to loosen my grip and begin to let go.

“Are you okay?” he asked. Yes, I will be, I thought.

I imagine sometimes that he reads this blog, and who knows, maybe he actually does. So let me imagine I am talking to him right now, as if he were here:

You asked me one time, if I would be willing to fight. I told you, “if he was worth it,” and last night as we talked, I wanted to tell you what I have always wanted to tell you since that conversation we had, I did fight. And I thought you were worth it.

In a Parallel Wonderland

“Why are you always too small, or too tall?” asked the Madhatter. Alice thought intently and replied, “I guess, everything is timing. Maybe for you, we just seem to catch each other in a bad time. But we are always where we are supposed to be at any given time.”

“Maybe we were meant to meet each other—a perfect meeting in an imperfect time, because we needed to learn something,” Alice added, “the fates may have even wanted for both of us to change our courses, to jar us out of our complacency, to find union and acceptance in each other even if everyone tells us that we don’t deserve it.”

The Madhatter was silent. “You ask me why I’m too small or too tall, too little or too much of anything,” Alice said, now angry. “I ask you, why can’t I be enough? And why is it always about me? What about you, you’re half-mad all the time, but you don’t hear me complaining, do you?”

“I only ask because you have a mission, to fight the Jabawockee,” said the Madhatter, “would you be willing to fight even if all the odds are against you?” he further asked.

“Me?” asked Alice, “why me? I’m no champion. I could die trying, you know.”

“But the compendium,” the Madhatter explained, “shows you slaying the Jabawockee. You won over it. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“It’s just a book,” Alice said, “it could mean anything, it could mean nothing.” Alice paused a moment, paced back and forth, thoughtful. Then she spoke: “I have risked so much to be here,” Alice said. “I’ve run through the wilderness, slept under the shadow of your hat, uncertain of what’s outside it, jumped over heads and god knows what else. If that’s not fighting, I don’t what is.”

“But if I do fight the Jabawockee, and I could, what would you do? Would you be willing to fight the Red Queen? Would you be willing to fight at all? Because I can’t be the only one fighting.”

“If you fight the Jabawockee,” the Madhatter said, smiling, “you get to stay with me.”

“But this is all a dream,” Alice replied, “I would be mad to think that this could be real.”

“If this is just your dream, then it means I’m not real,” the Madhatter said, half-asking. “Sorry,” said Alice, “you’re just a figment of my imagination.”
“But that means you also have to be half-mad to have even dreamed about me,” the Madhatter said, triumphantly.

“You’re right,” Alice conceded, “I must be mad. I must be very mad.”