thank God for Coelho

Funny how little things can make your day. Like say, a little comment to a post which appeared awkward at first but as you re-read it, it gives you some tingling effect like some sense of euphoria.Then it makes you realize that in life, there's always something to look forward to, that a fall is not entirely a damnation but a profound act of love, more like a necessary tool for a masterpiece in progress.

We are all a masterpiece in progress. No one should be saying you are a 'bad' art, not even after the job has been completed. That act of decreeing is not among our privileges. Ours is only the act of understanding and pardon. We all have tumbled in one way or another, the depths of which vary to some extent. Like what's been written countless times before, it's how we rise after the fall that matters and the lessons we get from the scratches or deep wounds. Cliche it may be but this gives me another refreshing feeling somehow.

***
Two weeks ago, I had my latest addition to my collection of hospital kits. My sisters see this weird. Forming and peeing stones appeared a bit weird to me at first but before I realized that I just got a sore taste of my own obstinacy. I have come into terms with the prognosis that I may be a stonemill (I certainly could still use a third opinion for this) but this is not conceding to the condition. My point is I no longer find any use for whining. I am thankful to doctors and nurses. I am thankful for the easy access to medical attention that is among my employment benefits. I am thankful for the makers of Acalka and the benevolent wi-fi provider outside my hospital room.

***

After many months of hiatus, I'm skimming through a book again. I'm on my third Coelho (this makes me an unfashionably late follower of the sage); The Alchemist and The Zahir both left indelible prints somewhere within. A Coelho is always a powerhouse. There's always something good to be picked in between the lines. His works are brimming with useful insights for the pilgrims in us, his adages a constant guide in my own trip.

***
Finally, my MEG shares are on the rebound (I hope FGEN will follow suit). My sister hurdled the recent NLE...you see, there's never a dearth of things that we should be grateful for, even in the most unpleasant (weirdest) of situations. I just need to see past the grimes to perceive the good. I should be learning this fast.

story of a name

Overheard: a kolehiyala on a trike complaining about how her parents gave her a 'not-so-good-to-hear' name. In a way that she's sees appropriate, they should have given her a handle other than Maria Capra. Ok, I was kidding.

The chat with her collaborator on the front row of the trike did not divulge what her name was for my decree if it is at all ill-sounding but I heard similar stories; even a colleague once commented she didn't 'like' her name that much. (Personally, I think it's somewhat uncorrupted).

Each name is brought into life with a story. In my brood, it's almost about a combination of other names. Our eldest and youngest are combined names of our parents. My name and ditse's are from our grandparents; mines from my mother side, hers from our paternal old folks. Another sister's an ode to her birth month and a queen. My only brother is a namesake of a prince who only my father knows. (He says by the way that he doesn't like this name too).

This scheme appears to me as a sense of self-esteem, honoring forebears and those people we look up to.

More than what has been put in our records of birth, our entire being is reduced to that jumble of letters. How we walk through our waking days spells out the letters that will identify us; what we do is a character that will soon build up to a word. So how good or rotten a name may sound is not something that was given to us. It is something that we spawn ourselves.

There are many ways to create a 'better-sounding' name, one of them acting better than being snotty. It's still not too late. A friend aptly puts it: a name is all that we can truly have. I hope you got that Maria!

changes and nostalgia

The late afternoon air unusually wafts a sudden stream of melancholy as we go off to Nang Beny's garden for some fresh picks. I have trekked these tracks between ricefield and irrigation many times before but with two sisters, scenes of early years on this place somewhat flash in random.

We passed by the pond where we used to pick kangkong for food. One sister suddenly recalled the time when we had nothing else as ulam but this green thing three meals a day. I said, "at least now we get to have a choice between kangkong and ginamus" to which the three of us giggled. Silently, I recalled how I used to sigh about this being served in the table like, "again?". Yet unknowingly, this has become a favorite.

The turod (Ilocano for hill) had a different look now. One of its sides was ripped off a few years ago to fill a collapsed side of a river and now, it lost some of its crowns as well. They cut down some of the trees, including the mangga and salumagi (tamarind) where I held posts in childhood camp games. It was climbing on these trees that I negated the branding of being lampa; even as a kid you have to prove some strength to be deemed acceptable. But one buddy, igso and demi-brother constantly took on my side. Jojo and I would pastol carabaos together by the side of this turod, him teaching me how to tame my beast. In time, I had my own carabao budge at one slight tap on the side and my "ho!'s" were obeyed. On the salumagi, Jojo and I also owned branches as our distinct domains where we would camp while looking after our flocks of ducks after every harvest. We were masters of own territories, thing that may be impossible in the real world. But one thing remains true: I realized that proving your worth is really a way of life.

From Nang Beny's garden, I can already see the highway. Bamboos used to hide this from view but they were all gone now. The tale of constant taking without replenishing took its toll on the riverbanks (bamboos hold the banks from collapsing during floods).

Between the garden and the row of houses on the east, the vast field is green. This has always been a refreshing sight even as a kid. Now, more than appreciating the sight is its purpose and meaning in our lives and in the lives of many of my folks. On these fields is where we are rooted. We owe everything to these tracts.

After we picked camote tops, okras and patola, we crossed the wobbly bamboo bridge unto the other bank of the irrigation. I remember enjoying the swim in these muddy waters. "Burarog", they call it which denotes swimming the indulgent type. We didn't care about getting kagid (skin disease) back then. We simply had fun.

As we were heading back home, a flock of birds make a 'V' formation while hovering the power lines above. In the distance, they made a 'W'. Good that we still see things like these. Many don't get this opportunity.

Going home had its usual effects on me. I hope next time, I'd be able to see more of the spots and the memories they will rekindle.