Category Archives: Life

Adventure, Art, Childhood, Church, Family, Goodbyes, Life, Love, Travel

What makes your soul happy?

July 17, 2015. Taywanak, Alfonso. “Take time to do what makes your soul happy.” This post on Pinterest caught my eye yesterday morning, and I reposted it immediately, determined to carve out me time from the busyness of work and commitments. And then, I got to thinking. What makes my soul happy?

The first thing that entered my mind was I’ve always been happiest loving someone. Love makes my heart sing. With Mike and my children, life was perfect. When Mike died, I died too, going through the motions of life with a big dark hole where my heart used to be. That is, until Rollie came barging into my life and for a blissful and exciting six months, I felt alive again. But then, God took him away too. Once again, I burrowed into work. The busier the better, so I would not have time to dwell on my unhappiness. Time and again, though, grief would make its presence felt. Yes, my beloved children are there, but they are now grown up and have their own lives to lead.

One thing Rollie taught me was that I was responsible for my own happiness. When he lost his wife to cancer four years ago at the same time he turned 60 and retired from work, he coped with his grief by keeping busy, writing a book, traveling, biking, meeting people, helping develop young leaders at AIESEC, and more.

And so, I’m back to thinking what makes my soul happy since the two people I’ve loved are both gone?

Painting. One of my earliest memories is sitting on the floor drawing and coloring, and my mom commenting that I was just like her sister Conchi, a talented artist. I treasured my coloring books, read and reread my art books, and hoarded my art supplies. I was chagrined when my art teacher in elementary declared I had no talent at all. This didn’t stop me from spending recess time in first year high school drawing on the chalkboards at the empty music room. The manang was probably wondering who the culprit was who left the drawings and used up all the colored chalks.

I desperately wanted to take up Fine Arts in college, but we didn’t have the funds for this. Nevertheless, I took the entrance exam, which required us to draw still life. Dean Faustino passed by, looked over my shoulder at what I was drawing, and told me I must take up FA as I had the gift of drawing. Unfortunately, we simply could not afford it so I ended up instead taking up AB Psychology. I was overjoyed when my Aunt Jill enrolled me one summer in Art Classes at CHS. Learning how to use charcoal, watercolors and oils, and do pen and ink drawings, I was in seventh heaven!

This helped me earn funds to buy my college textbooks. Summers, I taught young children drawing lessons. My aunts’ co-teachers at CHS would commission me to sketch their family members. When I had an oil painting framed at an art shop, the proprietor told me that a customer wanted to buy it. I refused to sell it, as I wanted to keep that painting.   It is still hanging in my mom’s house.

One day, acting on my Aunt Jill’s request, I drew a young child with big round black eyes. She loved that drawing so much that she had it framed and hung in her office, and later, when she retired, in her home. I had forgotten about that drawing until I visited her almost two decades later with little Bea in tow. I was amazed that Bea looked almost exactly like that child in the drawing.

At 25, I went to Spain and lived with Tia Conchi and Tio Mariano. While they were at work, I would paint. Tia Conchi mentored me in watercolors and oils, her forte. Weekends were spent in the Museo del Prado. I learned that the best art was in churches, and so while my aunt and uncle prayed, I soaked in the art of the masters, and marveled at the beauty around me.  When I visited my aunt a year ago, I was pleasantly surprised to see all the paintings and sketches I had done during my apprenticeship framed and displayed in her house.

Painting requires a lot of time, and this I had in short supply when I started work and more so, when I was raising a family. It seems that the only free time I had to take up my pencils and brushes was when I was pregnant and had to stay at home, or much later, when we had our family vacations in Club Paradise. No wonder then that most of my paintings are of beaches and the people I love.

Rollie got me painting again, or should I say we encouraged each other. We had painting sessions together. Once, I sketched him and emailed him the sketch. He was so proud of it that he had it enlarged, framed and hung in his living room. For Christmas, he gave me a box of oils. I have yet to open it. Someday, when I can bear to open it without crying, I will. For now, though, I will stick to another thing that makes my soul happy.

Writing. I never thought I could write until second year college when my English teacher asked me to take the exams to join the editorial team of Veritas and Action, the school papers. We were instructed to write an essay on whatever topic we wanted within half an hour. My mind was a blank. Where to start? Listless, I moved my chair, and promptly got bitten by a little ant. And then, I saw the procession of ants crossing in front of me, resolutely carrying tiny bits of food that had crumbled on the ground, some seemingly bigger than they were. And suddenly, it dawned on me. I was just like that little ant. Feverishly, I started writing about ants, their resoluteness, their tenacity, their work ethic, their sense of community and teamwork, and their strength in numbers.   Apparently, I nailed it, as I was appointed as Associate Editor.

Taking up my masters at the Asian Institute of Management, we were required to do voluminous reports and analyze case studies. I once got back a report with my professor’s comment that it was a joy reading my work. When I started corporate work though, creative writing took a back seat. Business English was the order of the day. Besides, I was married to a brilliant writer who wrote effortlessly on far ranging topics from business to management, economics, current events, social issues, human nature, information technology, and the like.

Mike authored several books, some together with Professor Philip Kotler, the marketing guru, and wrote a regular column for the Manila Bulletin.  Mike could string words together so beautifully while making perfect sense, like pearls forming a perfect necklace, and I felt wanting in his presence. He did, however, ask me to edit his writing and comment before submitting it to his editor. Another pair of eyes to spot mistakes that crop up when writing.

Mike encouraged to me to write but I didn’t take it up until I was on a plane enroute to Spain nine months after he died. And then, it seemed like the floodgates opened, and I started to write. And write. All the pent-up emotions just came rushing out in my writing, and I started a blog. I wrote for myself, but it was heartwarming when people would come up and say then enjoyed reading what I wrote, or that I had helped them cope with their own situation by reading about mine.

For my mom’s 80th birthday last year, Rollie suggested I write a book about her.  He had written one on his wife Isabella three months after she died, and he said it was great catharsis.  He gave copies to all her friends, and said they loved him for it.  I was intrigued and excited with his suggestion but didn’t know where to start.  He offered to collaborate on the book project, and promised to scan all the pictures I could find.  And so we did work on it together.  My mom loved the book, and I gave copies to each of my siblings for Christmas, so that their children will have a memento of their grandmother.

Rollie then encouraged me to write a book on Mike, before the memories disappear.  He said it would be a beautiful and lasting gift for our children, plus it would help me move on, and we could then begin our own story together.  That was what I was working on the long weekend when Pope Francis visited the Philippines.

It was hard going as I wept most of the time I was writing it.  Rollie called from Hong Kong to check how I was doing. When I told him I had spent the better part of the weekend crying and that I was only half way done, he praised me, saying “Keep going, my courageous girl. I love you,”  Just a few days later, he was gone.  Forever.

As for poetry, I never knew I had it in me until I met Rollie. For some reason, he unleashed the poet in me. I would wake up in the wee hours of the night and start penning. He was overwhelmed with what I wrote and eager to receive the next one. When he died, this gift seemed to have died as well.

But I continue to write, feeling this connects me to people even when I feel so alone. And then I come to my next passion.

Cooking. My love of the kitchen was nurtured in my paternal grandaunt’s warm kitchen, watching her prepare meals for the family and for feasts. I would eagerly wait for Lola Teta to come back from the market in a calesa, and take out the wonderful goodies from her market basket. I guess that’s why I get excited seeing plump and colorful vegetables and fruits and nice smelling herbs growing in farms.

Inevitably, my lola would bring home two or three live chickens, which she would later kill and dress. She would let me play with the stomach lining, which I would blow up like a balloon. And the myriad little yellow eggs that had not yet come out were prepared as adobo as a special treat for me. All these happened before my 7th year when a beheaded duck started my phobia with all things feathered.

Summers growing up were spent in that kitchen. My aunt Jill would teach my brothers and me how to bake, decorate cakes, and then let us experiment in the kitchen. I loved watching her cook, and I was her designated assistant, though not allowed to wield a knife. My brothers and I would fight as to who would clean up the leftover fudge in the bowl.

I remember crying when my cake didn’t rise because I had forgotten to put baking powder in the mix. Or the time my chocolate cake caved in because I had taken it out of the oven prematurely. My brothers mercilessly teased me about this, and called it my chocolate volcano. And now, chefs brag about their chocolate lava cake. I should have had it patented then. Or that time I tried to make lemon squares and forgot an ingredient so they came out really hard. Lemon cardboards, they were called. I guess all that teasing made me stop kitchen experiments, and I concentrated instead on studying.

Later, when my boyfriend asked for my hand in marriage, my mother asked him if he was sure about me as I was hopeless in the kitchen and all I knew was to study. I was flabbergasted, made my mind up that I would learn, and bought several cookbooks.

There were some hiccups along the way. In the early days of marriage, I decided to make coffee and wondered why the coffee machine wouldn’t work, only to find out I had not plugged it in. Another time, I was at Farmer’s Market and was convinced to buy stingray. The market vendor told me it was delicious as adobo, and taught me how to prepare it. Well, it was so bad that even our dog refused to eat it.  I confided my travails in the kitchen to a friend at work, and she agreed to help me. She put together a menu for my house blessing with detailed instructions on how to prepare it: chicken a la king presented in puff pastry and vichyssoise. It was a hugh success!

One of the first things I learned was to make spaghetti bolognese and I would do this a lot until I perfected it.  I did not realize that my poor sister developed a strong dislike to spaghetti because she had to eat it a lot while I was practicing.  This was a huge disincentive to her moving to Rome, but luckily she has learned to make peace with pasta, though she still shys away from bolognese to this day, and makes sure she rubs this in each time we eat pasta.

My work in publishing entailed a lot of travel, and I was exposed to different cuisines. All these left their mark on my cooking. I was comfortable with different spices.   Soon, I stopped referring to cookbooks and ventured into experimenting in the kitchen. I enjoyed going to the market, checking out the fresh produce, and interviewing the vendors how best to prepare them. If I liked the food I ate at restaurants, I would start guessing what went into it, already planning how to do it at home. Mealtimes, I would look at what was available in the pantry and ref, and start imagining the dish I would concoct. Invariably, my family would love it. Their happy smiles and comments were well worth the hours I would put in the kitchen.

Over the years I developed some family favorites, like adobo which my children swear by, different pastas, stuffed peppers, Christmas ham, chicken relleno (though someone else had to do the stuffing and the sewing), and paella. My love affair with paella started when Mike bought me a paellera for our anniversary. I had learned how to make it from my Tia Conchi, who gifted me with a hundred-recipe paella book. I would have so many requests for paella during family gatherings and especially during the Christmas season. For years, my paella was a staple at the Cyberpress yearend party.  From one small pan, I have now graduated to various sizes of paella pans, even some big enough for a barangay.

Mike loved to eat, especially if it was spicy, and preferred beef and seafood over pork. He bought a huge barbecue grill for our home, and would grill steaks often. This was men’s work, and so I was relegated to preparing the sauces and sidings.

When we had our farm in Alfonso, I was excited to finally have my very own herb garden. Weekends with Mike in Alfonso were spent in the kitchen. We would cook together, and it was such a joy! We would walk around the farm early in the morning, and pick vegetables and fruits that would go into the meal. His last project was building an outside grill. I thought he meant a small barbecue grill but I should have known better, as it turned out to be a stone-walled double oven and grill, wood-fired and gas-fired.   Sadly, it has not been used as often as we would have wanted.

So there you are, the top three things that make my soul happy.  Tell me, what makes you happy?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Adventure, Church, Faith, Family, Friendship, Life, Love, Women

Alfonso on a Whim

2 Comments

Taywanak, Alfonso.  July 12, 2015.  On a whim, I decided to escape Southbay and come to Alfonso yesterday afternoon with Jeovanie and Bleng, our caretaker couple from the farm who have been helping me clean up the house. My girls allowed me to drive since I had company in the car. Besides, they all had Saturday night plans, which didn’t include mom. Funny that I always had to ask Mike for permission whenever I wanted to go out, and when he died, I have to ask my children.

No longer used to driving long distances, it took awhile to get to Alfonso in the rain. It was dark when we arrived. I had agreed to have dinner with a friend in Tagaytay, so I left right away. Jeovanie was worried as it was dark and raining and I was alone, but I told him I would be all right.   I promised to text when I headed back so he could open the gate.

Arriving at Bag of Beans, I was surprised to find it full of guests.   The main dining area was welcoming, brightly lit and warm, but quite noisy. Looking for a quiet corner where I could write while waiting for my friend, the waiter led me to a lone table outside, and I took that. I was not sure if she would show up, and I was pretty hungry by this time, so I ordered soup and started to write.

Challenge taken. Solo at Bag of Beans.
Challenge taken. Solo at Bag of Beans.

And just for posterity, I asked the waiter to take my photo so I could post it on Instagram, as a response to a challenge made to eat alone in a restaurant.  I actually enjoyed the solo experience. No one bothered me, and I was able to concentrate on writing.  To top it all, the broccoli soup with warm bread was delicious and filling on a cold, wet night.   Soon my friend showed up, and as usual, our lively conversation ran the gamut of family, friendships, pets, work, and current events.

As BoB was about to close, we paid the bill and left.  On the way out, she teased me about bringing my laptop as a clutch to the restaurant, saying I was not really alone.  Baby steps, I told her.  My friend insisted on driving tag to make sure I got back safely to my farm. I was thankful for this kind gesture as the fog was thick enough to slice in Tagaytay, and I could hardly see, and in Alfonso, the provincial road was very dark and wet.  Knowing she was driving behind me made me feel safer, like having a guardian angel behind the wheel.

Back in Alfonso, I looked up at the sky and there was nary a star in the dark sky. Normally, I would look up and enjoy the stars twinkling like diamonds as I walked the long red brick road to our house. This time they were hidden behind the heavy dark clouds.

Snuggling into my bed, I prayed with my wooden holding cross in hand, a Christmas gift from a dear friend. The cross fit snugly in the palm of my hand, calming me down. I asked the Lord to watch over my children, my family and friends and keep them safe. I am usually not scared of being alone in the farm, but another talk this week about malicious spirits and exorcism which I had with another friend, played havoc on my mind. I woke up early this morning, still holding on to it.

The fierce rustling of the leaves outside my window warned me the weather was still cross. Nevertheless, I put on my bright yellow parka to tour the farm. IMG_8478Hugging the tree beside the house, which had the first station of the cross, I whispered an “I love you” to Mike, remembering all the lovely memories of time spent in the farm with him. There was a big butterfly with pink-tipped wings that stayed in the veranda the whole morning I was in Alfonso, as if loath to leave.  ‘Twas Mike, I believe, keeping me company.

IMG_8448Walking around the farm, I once again marveled at the awesome beauty of God’s creation.  Everywhere I looked, it was lush and green. I was worried that the wind had toppled over some trees, but luckily they had held their ground, though some were bent over slightly. The stepping-stones were covered in moss, reminding me I had not visited in awhile.

I saw fallen mangoes on the ground forming a carpet under the trees, and spied some green santol that had suffered the same fate. Ah, santol season has come! I asked our caretaker to pack some for me to bring home to Southbay. IMG_8439Near the gate, the champaca tree was in full bloom, its fragrance wafting through the air. Herb seedlings nestled in the rudimentary nursery.

Walking by the caretaker’s cottage, I didn’t notice the chickens nesting in the trees.  Suddenly, a flurry of cackles and feathers greeted me. I don’t know who was more surprised, the chickens or me, but I was ready to run away.

IMG_8472After a hearty breakfast and some writing on the veranda, I drove to town to hear 9am mass with Bleng and her children.  I was pleased when the parish priest introduced the parish youth leaders. There were so many of them! The church was packed full with the faithful, with latecomers forced to stand at the back.

Back at the farm, we packed ready for the long drive back to Manila. I would have stayed longer except my girls and I agreed to have lunch together.  And the spotty Internet connection was unnerving. It was a very short visit made on a whim, but well worth the trip.  I’m looking forward to the next one.  I wonder who I can cajole to come with me next time?

Art, Food, Friendship, Life, Women

Unplanned Weekend Adventure

1 Comment

“What is the most daring thing you’ve done,” I asked my single girl friend yesterday as we were driving to Tagaytay. She couldn’t think of anything, except for perhaps driving to Subic or Baguio alone after work. She asked me what I had done, and I said, cliff jumping at Tali a year ago. The conversation went around to what we couldn’t do, and I confided, “I never eat alone in public if I can help it.” My friend could not believe what I had just said, as eating alone in public was something very ordinary to her. “Are you afraid of being picked up?” she asked, “or that people will think no one wants to be with you?”

This got me thinking about the whole situation. I’ve always been around people all my life. From when I was young, meal times were family bonding events. We had to eat together; that was the house rule, and I carried this over to my household. Every meal was an opportunity to keep abreast of what was happening in each other’s life, to share stories, to discuss or sometimes to debate important issues, and to give thanks to God for our many blessings.

Eating alone in public was thus anathema to me. It was just too sad to eat without anyone to talk to or share the meal with, and so I would rather not eat. When I got truly ravenous especially when I was traveling alone for work, I would order room service and then turn on the television as I ate.

Alone in the house over the weekend except for Bugsy, I decided to call my friend and ask her out to dinner. She agreed to have lunch on Sunday instead. She was test-driving a car, and asked if I was willing to drive anywhere for lunch. I agreed, ready for an adventure. Her first suggestion was Baguio, but then it was raining pretty badly, and so we settled on Tagaytay. Searching for a place to eat, she asked me to look up Chateau Hestia on Wayz. After a few false starts, we finally found the place.

IMG_8217Hidden away in the back roads of Tagaytay, Chateau Hestia Garden Restaurant and Deli is a gem of a hideaway, a quaint bed-and-breakfast with a charming garden restaurant. Lush green foliage greeted us as we entered the driveway. A stone-paved trellis pathway led to the restaurant. Shaking off the droplets of rain water, we entered the warm and cosy restaurant. IMG_8228

To the left was a bright deli with European sausages, cheeses and breads for sale. They also had local handicraft made by indigenous people for sale. To the right was the dining area, and being quite hungry at this point, we made straight for it.

IMG_8220We were surprised to see several tables still full with guests despite the fact that it was way past the lunch hour. Settling down, we were greeted warmly by Len who took our order.  The warm bread they served was most welcome to the hungry pair we were.   IMG_8222The whimsical teddy bear ice cubes were a big hit. Their pizza Margarita was one of the best I’ve tasted, and the shot of their homemade limoncello was simply divine! I liked it so much that I bought a bottle to take home.

Ever so curious, I looked around the restaurant, filled with sturdy wooden furniture, bottles of varying sizes and shapes, old magazines, and knickknacks seemingly collected during the owner’s travels. I spied an antique cash register in the corner which I longed to touch, but a sign held me off. IMG_8224Lining the walls were paintings of such vibrant and happy colors they caught my eye immediately.  I learned that these artwork were done by Sandra Colis, a 23-year old wheelchair-bound artist who used her mouth to paint. What an inspiration that there are people like Sandra who do not let their handicap deter them from achieving their dreams! This put me to shame when I think of all the times I worried and focused on what I cannot do, rather than on what I can.

I discovered that Chateau Hestia also has a dining area upstairs which can sit a hundred people. We didn’t have time to check out the rooms, but I filed this away for when I need a venue for events.

Wondering where the name Hestia came from, I googled it and learned that Hestia, according to Greek mythology, was the virgin goddess of the hearth and home, who presided over the baking of bread and the preparation of the family meal. What an apt name for such a homey place!

Myth says she was the first born child of Kronos and Rhea, Titans of the old world. Kronos swallowed Hestia and her five siblings at birth, but was forced by Zeus, the king of the gods, to disgorge her and her siblings. Since she was the first to be swallowed, she was the last to be disgorged, earning her the title of eldest and youngest of the six Kronides. First in, last out. Apparently, she was quite the beauty as both Apollo and Poseidon wanted to marry her, but she refused and instead asked Zeus to let her remain an eternal virgin.

I definitely will be return to Chateau Hestia to sample their interesting European menu, and perhaps next time, take my friend’s challenge to eat in public alone. I promised her an Instagram when that momentous event happens.

 

 

Art, Childhood, Children, Faith, Family, Forgiveness, God, Life, Love

On Father’s Day and Angels

2 Comments

This week, there has been a slew of posts about Father’s Day, and I feel somewhat cheated that I only had my dad with me for a very short time.   Earlier this week, I viewed a post of a father giving away his beloved daughter at the altar. His speech was funny yet so heartwarming I cried. It was obvious how much he adored his daughter. And I wondered what my father would have said if he had been alive when I got married, or when my marriage broke up and I filed for annulment, or when I got married again, happily this time. I wonder if he would have been proud of me when I graduated with honors, or when I got my first job, or got promoted, when I was first published, or when I set up TeamAsia. That father in the video obviously was very proud of his daughter. So many unanswered questions.  So many what ifs.

255759_1999084411051_7930573_nMy father died when I was but ten years old. All these years, I’ve wondered how my life would have turned out if he had not died early.  How I wish I had more time with him! I even wrote a blog about it one Father’s Day (https://monettehamlin.com/2014/06/15/how-i-wish-i-had-more-time-with-him/).  While thinking of the many conversations I wish I had enjoyed with my dad, a memory long forgotten popped up.

Do you believe in angels? In 2003, I met a woman by the pen name of Avi Maria at the home of a friend. She told me she had died one day, and gone to heaven where she met angels and Jesus Christ. She described her experiences in heaven, and said it was beautiful beyond imagination. What she thought of first as gentle rain, turned out to be shimmering glitters of all colors and hues. When she asked her guardian angel what it was, the angel said the glitters were all the answered prayers of the faithful.

Avi Maria wanted to stay in heaven, but she was told she still had many things to accomplish on earth and a son to take care of, and was thus sent back. She told me about seeing her baby son about to fall from the bed unnoticed, while her whole household was crying over her dead body.  She rushed back into her body and woke up.  All these had happened in the span of an hour during which time she was thought to be dead by her anguished family.

When she came to, she started seeing angels.  One day, she ended up in a bookstore and bought a lot of painting materials.  When the cashier asked if she was a painter, she said no and wondered why she had done this.  From that day on, she started to paint guardian angels of people she would meet, even if she still had not met them by the time she painted. Before this happened, she had never even used a paintbrush.

Avi Maria’s paintings were sought after; in fact, my friend had several in her home. She confided in me that each angel painting had a designated owner, and she could only sell it to that person. She once sold a painting upon the insistence of someone who wanted it, and by the time the person brought the painting home, the angel in the painting was gone. It was returned to her, and the angel once again appeared when she finally met the rightful owner. She was compelled to paint, as if she were a puppet in the hands of a master. I didn’t know whether to believe her or not, but it was quite an interesting story.

I didn’t think much of it, until several months later when I got a call from her, saying she had my painting ready. I protested that I had not commissioned anything, but she insisted I get it because she had made it for me and it could not be owned by anyone else. Besides she said, it was different from all the other paintings she had made. I asked her why, and she said that a big handsome man had sat beside her and asked her to paint it.  It took her just 20 minutes to paint it,  a mean feat considering its size.

When she had finished painting, he asked her to tell me that I was not to worry anymore, that everything would be all right, that I would never want for anything again. He also asked her to tell me he was sorry that he wasn’t there physically when I needed him most, but that he was always there, watching over me. I asked her to describe the man, and she described my father exactly.   By this time, I was gripping the phone tightly and crying, prompting Mike to ask what was wrong. Needless to say, I bought that painting and it is hanging in my home.

My angel painting by Avi Maria, circa 2003
My angel painting by Avi Maria, circa 2003

My angel

The painting is that of a beautiful angel coming out of what seems to be a dark blue tunnel. At her feet are three angels, and a little to the side is another angel. I asked Avi Maria what the painting meant. She told me that the angel was my guardian angel; the tunnel was all the hardship and pain I have gone through, and is now behind me.  The angel’s wings are spread over the children, protecting and taking care of them.

My first born, Bea.
My first born, Bea.

The slightly larger angel to the right represents Bea, my first born. Avi Maria said Bea would always be there for me, watching and taking care of me.  And this is exactly what is happening now. Bea came back from the US after finishing her masters with honors to take over the reins of TeamAsia.  She is doing a wonderful job at it too.

Cara bonita
Cara bonita

The quiet little angel in front of me represents Cara, my middle child, who we’ve always called Cara bonita, being so fair.  Avi Maria said that Cara would always be close to me.  I’ve wondered about this because Cara has the wanderlust and loves to travel and explore.  But it is true that she comes home often, and would call out “Marmee” the minute she enters the door.

Niccolo
Niccolo

The little angel flying around to the left represents Niccolo.  Avi Maria said he was a happy angel.  Niccolo was just five when the painting was done.   He is now in the United States visiting kin and learning to be more independent.

Mike
Mike

Mike was the one to the left, seemingly engrossed in something, yet always there to keep me company, making sure I was safe.  Little did I know that just ten years after I got that painting that God would claim back Mike.  But I know in my heart that he is there, still watching over me.

So, do I believe in angels?  Yes, I do.  Do I miss having my dad around? You bet I do. But then, I have him in heaven watching over me, as I do Mike and Rollie.  And I am sure all other dads in heaven are doing the very same thing. So Happy Father’s Day to all!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Adventure, Childhood, Family, Food, Friendship, God, Life, Tourism, Travel

Sibling Trip to Coron

IMG_6126
Siblings, five years apart, on an unplanned Coron adventure.

May 16, 2015, 5:30am.  Coron.  The city is waking up, and so am I, wondering why my entire body seems to ache.  For a second, I am unsure as to where I am, and then I remember yesterday’s adventure.

This was a sudden, unplanned trip.  My Seattle-based brother Jean Pierre (Johnny) breezed into Manila for a dental visit and to stay a few weeks.  This time, he was alone.  During breakfast last Sunday, we talked about places we’ve always wanted to explore: Vigan, Batanes, Banawe, Coron, and more.  I told him I would love to visit them.  Well, he took it seriously, bought the tickets, booked a hotel he found on the Net, and called me to say the deed was done.

Just three days ago, I was running all over town busy with meetings.  It was a hectic and interesting day, starting at 6:00 am when my driver’s wife called to say he wasn’t coming to work. With an 8am meeting in Ortigas and staff to pick up at the Alabang office at 7am, I quickly changed to flats and drove my car, with Wayz guiding me to meetings in Ortigas then Alabang, then to Makati, back to Alabang and finally to Paranaque in time for the 8pm mass to celebrate the feast of Our Lady of Fatima. I imagine there were quite a few white-knuckled moments and fervent prayers said. Sometime in between these meetings, Johnny called to announce we were confirmed for the 8am flight to Coron the next day.

I readily agreed to go. The last time, Johnny and I traveled together was 30 years ago. We went to Iligan for his ‘pamanhikan’ and wedding to Tita. I figured a sibling trip was long overdue.

With bags packed, we were off on our adventure!  Arriving at the Busuanga airport, I was surprised to see the Cabuslays, friends from our village who were also visiting Coron.  Sharing a van, we dropped them off at their resort and proceeded to Coron town where One Averee Bay Hotel was. The hotel was in the midst of town facing the plaza.

IMG_5921
Courtesy visit to Fems Garcia, fellow CHSian and mayor of Coron

My friend Wilma Leagogo who owns Julie’s bakeshop came by to greet us. First off, we paid a courtesy call to Hon. Clara “Fems” Reyes, fellow CHSian and mayor of Coron. We then had lunch at Lolo Nonoy’s, then hurried back to the hotel for my 1pm concall with a client.  After that, Johnny and I walked around town, looking for tours to take. The umbrella Wilma lent us came in handy as the fierce sun was beating down on us.

Wth my friend, neighbor, fellow servant parish leader, CHSian and all around nice person, Wilma Leagogo. Wilma owns the Julie's Bakeshop in Coron and took very good care of us.
Wth my friend, neighbor, fellow servant parish leader, CHSian and all around nice person, Wilma Leagogo. Wilma owns the Julie’s Bakeshop in Coron and took very good care of us.

Coron Town is a sleepy laid-back municipality. We visited small stores, mostly run by Muslim traders. An ancient looking sungka in the shape of a crocodile caught my eye but the proprietor refused to sell it.  We ended up at Julie’s Bakeshop, and Wilma treated us to the most delicious freshly-baked pan de coco. It was so good I ate two of them. The poster said it was nakaka-loco and I wholeheartedly agree! Goodbye, figure. Oh well, I may end up shaped like a dugong later, but the food is hard to resist when it is this good.

IMG_5958
The lobster was so fresh and delicious I almost cried while eating.

After freshening up and taking a stroll by Lualhati Park, we had dinner at Lobster King, as guests of Mayor Fems.  The lobsters in kalamansi butter sauce were divine! Many thanks, Fems!

After dinner, Johnny and I decided on DCC’s tour package and went there to sign up. According to Mr. Kim, the Korean proprietor, we would share the boat with another couple who was going diving.

Back at the hotel, I stationed myself at Breakfast at Sydney’s, the hotel’s restaurant, to work. It was the only place with wifi and I had to complete some forms online for GCG. The website was not very friendly and I was getting frustrated whenever it would suddenly refresh and everything I had written was erased. Finally, by11pm, I was shooed off as they were closing.

That night, Johnny put on a movie entitled “Into the Woods.” The musical was quite interesting and had great actors but sleep took over quickly.

We woke up with much anticipation for the boat trip we had signed up for. But first we had a hearty breakfast of lamayo, Coron’s version of danggit, tapa and eggs. The brewed coffee was surprisingly robust. Wilma came by with a bag of Julie’s Spanish bread and bottles of water for our trip.  What a thoughtful and kind gesture!

After last minute shopping for clear plastic ziplocks for my phones and slathering ourselves with sunblock, Johnny and I were ready to go. We met up with a young couple from Washington who were going diving: Matt who works for Starbucks in the US and handles their airport outlets and his friend Mihee who is a nurse. Matt and Mihee turned out to be from Seattle, so they had a lot of things to talk about with Johnny.

Our first stop was CYC Island which was chockfull with tourists. Donning my snorkeling gear, I went swimming but noticed there were so many black sea urchins around with scary looking spikes, so I turned back not wanting to be impaled. I didn’t realize I had gone so far and had a difficult time swimming back to our boat.

IMG_6029
Skeleton Wreck

Next stop was Skeleton Wreck, named after the remnants of a Japanese supply ship. I’ve never seen a wreck before and was a bit nervous as it was in deep water, but with a life vest on, felt pretty safe.

IMG_6027
Hearty meal by the shack with our guide.

We had lunch in a tiny hut on Skeleton Wreck.  It was a simple meal of steamed rice, cucumber salad, grilled liempo and mackerel.  While eating, I noticed a young couple paddle to the shore then climb onto a tall bamboo hut.

Members of the Taganua tribe, guarding Skeleton Wreck.
Members of the Taganua tribe, guarding Skeleton Wreck.

We walked over to say hello and they turned out to be from the Tagbanua tribe. They were assigned by their grandfather to collect fees from the boats that docked there. They told us there were 13 lakes on the island, and they had only seen two of them.

We transferred to Twin Lagoon, which required us to swim underneath some rocks to get to the hidden lagoon. The guide warned us it was brackish water, where fresh water from the lake mixed with salt water from the sea. Johnny and I snorkled, circling the lake’s perimeter.  We were amazed at how the water would turn alternately hot and cold. It was exhilarating!

IMG_6042Barracuda Lake was up next.  Our boat navigated between forbidding grey cliffs, with hardly any vegetation. It was eerie. Johnny commented that it seemed that anytime King Kong would make an appearance. The boat docked and we entered a break in the cliffs, walking on a slim bamboo walkway flanked by tall jagged rock formations on either side. Holding on to the flint-like rocks for support, I found them brittle and sharp.

After a short walk, we were greeted by an amazing sight. I gasped at the beauty of the lake.  It was serene and still, hidden from view by the jagged cliffs.  We jumped from the bamboo platform into the cool blue waters below.  I looked down and hardly saw any fish swimming.  However, there were black dots everywhere, as if someone had sprinkled too much black pepper on white spaghetti sticks. Curious, I picked up one of the black dots and it turned out to be a black spiral shell, much like what my grandmother used to cook as ginataang kuhol.

I relaxed and floated on my back, looking up at the cliffs and the blue sky above, thinking of my loved ones and thanking God for them.  My companions and other tourists jumped from the cliffs, laughing and enjoying themselves, but I tuned them out. It was so peaceful! Soon, our guide told us it was time to go Kayangan Lake.

IMG_6058
Kayangan Lake

Kayangan Lake was the best of all, he promised, with caves to explore, a fantastic view, a beautiful lake, and a mountain to climb. Three hundred steps, he said: 150 up and a 150 down.  Just 300 steps, I thought. I should be able to climb that.  Johnny warned me not to count the steps saying I would just get disheartened, but that’s exactly what I did.  I started counting, and by the 50th step was wondering as I tried to catch my breath if I would make it to the top. And when we reached the top, we realized that the guide was right, there were another 150 steps down to the lake. We hurried down, excited to get into the water.

A bamboo platform ringed half of Kayangan Lake and it seemed that there were people everywhere. We walked to the very end and stationed our things there. We checked out the cave which was but a short one. I started getting claustrophobic as more people entered the narrow cave, and escaped fast. Our guide boasted there was another subterranean way out. He dove into the water and came out a few seconds near the entrance.  I heard Johnny saying he was going to do the same thing. I waited outside and when Johnny didn’t come out after several minutes, I started to worry, imagining him stuck in the rocks under water.  How will I ever explain to his wife and children that I had not taken care of my brother? I was about to go back in to check on him when he appeared. Thank goodness!

Because of this incident and the fact that there were too many people around, I did not enjoy swimming in Kayangan as much as I did Barracuda or Twin Lagoon. But the guide was right. It is a beautiful place and one I would like to visit again during the lean period.

The view from the bat cave
The view from the bat cave

Once again, we had to climb the 300 steps to get back to the boat but not before a quick picture at the very top where the bat cave was.  Our last stop was Twin Peaks where our companions were going to dive.

Donning our snorkeling gear, Johnny and I jumped into the water, discovering a most amazing world down under, with verdant coral, teeming with a myriad of fish in all shapes and sizes, colors and hues, nibbling at the coral. I wanted to take out my paints right then and there and capture the beauty of the seaworld, with its vibrant colors that would put any palette to shame. Various schools of fish passed us by, like ribbons of pulsating color, from matte to brilliant neons.  I could have stayed there forever. Oh well!  Back to reality.  We returned to Coron Town, where we met up with Wilma for dinner and to make reservations for the next day’s tour.

Walking to Julie’s, we wondered why the streets were dark. Apparently, there was a brownout which had been going on for four hours. Luckily, electricity came back on as we made our way to Bistro Coron.  Dinner was pizza, pasta and Hungarian sausages.  I must say that their crusty French bread was very good.  Tired, we went back to the hotel and promptly fell asleep.

The next day we were up early once more. This time around we were joiners at the JY tour. The trike picked us up and brought us to the Pantalan where we boarded our boat and met our companions for the tour.

New found friends.
New found friends who warmly welcome us into their group.

Ryan and Michelle are psychiatric nurses at a Riyadh Hospital on vacation. With them was Kaycee, Michelle’s sister who is a home-based software programmer and their cousin Knarf who was visiting from Canada. Then there was Randy and Abby who were celebrating their 12th wedding anniversary, and a young couple April and Ryan who were honeymooning. This was the second tour of our companions together so they were pretty friendly with each other already and warmly welcomed us to the group.

Henderson, our amiable tour guide, briefed us on what to expect. He was much more knowledgeable than our guide on the first day.  He pointed out the sleeping giant, asking us to hazard a guess as to whether the giant was male or female. We all agreed it was a “she.”

IMG_6097
Johnny and I perched on the side of the boat, trading stories of our childhood.

The boat ride to Malcapuya was and hour and a half away. Johnny and I sat by the side of the boat with our toes touching the me water, reminiscing childhood memories.

Malcapuya has a long stretch of white sand beach, perfect for lazing around. The beach was dotted with nipa huts.  Our group settled on the farthest nipa hut, set down our things, and went straight into the water.  Johnny showed me a bed of giant clams, their membranes opening and closing, each one different from the other. Some were tiger striped, others had green or blue or red mouths.

Try and get me out of this hammock.
Try and get me out of this hammock.

We had a veritable feast for lunch, with sinigang na lapu-lapu, grilled mackerel, grilled squid, chopsuey, adobong pusit, steamed rice, and an amazingly delicious salad of apple, mango, banana and Chinese petchay prepared by our guide. Henderson refused to share his recipe no matter how much we begged. Fresh coconut in their shells and sweet mango rounded up the meal. We were ready to hit the hammocks after lunch, but was given only a few minutes, so we tredged back to the boat. We must have all eaten so much as the boat refused to budge when we were all on it. The poor men had to disembark to push the boat out into deeper waters.

Banana Island was our next destination, but on the way there, our boat’s engine sputtered then died. Henderson asked us to help him call for help using our mobile phones, but there was no signal where we were. I texted the situation to my chidren and Wilma, hoping they would ge the message. Somehow, we were able to reach Banana Island’s bamboo raft, and we all disembarked to ride the bamboo raft to shore, while the boat captain and his assistant tried to fix the engine while waiting for help to come.

On the hill at Bulag Dos
On the hill at Bulag Dos

Luckily, the other boat was at a nearby island and they came over to check on us. Soon, we were on our way to our last stop, Bulag Dos. Our guide warned us that we had lost too much time and that we could only stay half an hour. This was enough time to have pictures taken and check out the beach. We climbed the little hill for a better view of the surroundings.

As we were about to board the boat, we learned from our companions that there were a lot of clown fish popularized by the movie “Nemo” in the area. We just had to take a look at them. While we were all hunched looking at the clown fish swimming in and out of their stone house, I noticed a much larger fish circling the stone, seemingly agitated. It suddenly attacked me, nipping me in the leg. Apparently, it is a territorial fish intent on defending its stone house which it shared with the family of Nemos.

IMG_6268
Sunset on the way back to Coron

We headed back to Coron. Wilma was patiently waiting for us at the dock with a trike that would bring us to Maquinit Falls. We were glad we went, despite being terribly tired. Wilma had packed a picnic dinner of grilled liempo, roast chicken and pinakbet from Lolo Nonoy’s. It was dark by the time we reached the resort, but there were still a lot of people there. We ate at one of the rustic picnic tables and made friends with the people at the next table who reveled us with stories of hidden treasures discovered in Palawan.

Basking in the warm waters of Maquinit Falls
Basking in the warm waters of Maquinit Falls, I felt all the pains and aches slip away.

Maquinit Falls has three pools, catching the hot spring water from Mt. Dalara, a dormant volcano. They say the 40-degree Celsius water has healing powers, and that an egg left there will actually get cooked. I enjoyed dipping into the pool and letting the hot salt water ease away my aches and pains.  I

Johnny walked around and came back saying it was beautiful at the other end of the resort. Curious, I went around to the other side of the pool, and walked on the bridge by the mangroves. It was dark and I was alone. True enough, when I looked up, I saw the vast expanse of the sky, twinkling with an array of stars, arranged by constellations.  A shooting star crossed the skies. Moved by all this beauty, I praised the Lord, and thanked Him for all the many blessings I’ve received, praying for all the people He had sent my way, for those I have loved and have gone ahead, and most of all, for my family. And at that very moment, I felt one with all the generations of people everywhere who have looked up to the sky and felt an upwelling of emotions. We have an awesome Creator!

That night, Johnny and I put on the movie, Into the Woods, again, intent on finishing it.  As you can imagine, we both fell asleep from being so tired.  Someday, I will finish this movie, but for now, I’m glad I took this sibling trip to Coron with Johnny. There is still so much to discover about Coron and more adventures to experience, but those I will keep for another day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Adventure, Children, Confidence, Death, Faith, Family, Food, God, Life, Love, Travel

Moalboal Fam Trip

April 4, 2015. Moalboal Fam Trip. It’s 6:00 am, and I am all alone in the lanai, waiting for my children. We’ve reserved a banca for a 7am trip to Pescador, an atoll where they claim the marine life swim in abundance. I’m excited yet apprehensive, not being a strong swimmer. The lifeguards told us that the drop off is quite steep so I was undecided about joining the children.

I get nervous when I can no longer see the bottom while swimming. When Mike and I would snorkel in Club Paradise, he would always hold my hand and lead the way. I felt safe with him always. Now, he is no longer here. Still, I’ve decided to go with the children, especially since Mama Becky told me I should go and that she would take care of Dada while we were exploring.

When Mike died, I vowed to do the things I’ve always wanted to do but never had the chance or the courage to do so, like wearing a bikini, jumping off a cliff, riding a bike, going paddle boarding, traveling by myself. And that’s what I’ve been doing these past two years.

Hale Manna where we are staying is true to its name. Hale in Hawaiian means good energy, and Mana means home.   So it means home of good energy, of which there is much in abundance. Mama Becky Pestano-Smith, its owner, wanted to praise and thank God for His many blessings by spelling Manna with a double n. My children were right in deciding to spend Holy Week in this place. I feel at peace and happy.

Months ago, Bea and Cara were backpacking in Cebu and chanced upon Hale Manna as they were exploring the beach.  They said a nice lady called out to them from the cliff, inviting them over.  They accepted the kind invitation of the lady who turned out to be Becky Pestano-Smith, the owner.  The girls said they immediately felt at home as the kindly Mama Becky enveloped them in her warm embrace and treated them to merienda.  They vowed they would return, and so we are here now.

Arriving at Hale Manna Thursday afternoon, we were welcomed warmly by Mama Becky. She had prepared hot cassava chips drizzled with honey and the most delightful lemongrass tea to soothe our thirst from the long drive. Ravenous, we feasted on the lechon and puso, which we had bought at the Carcar market on the way here.   Our spacious room has eight comfortable beds covered with colorful quilts, which beckoned us to sleep. And that we did since all we had was a couple of hours sleep the night before.

Just as we were going for dinner, there was a sudden brownout.   We were worried about the trip because super typhoon Chedeng was expected to hit the Philippines the next day.  Also, Bea had just finished regaling us with stories of how she and her barkada ended up one summer vacation in an island in Cebu when there was a massive brownout, and they had to survive for days without electricity and mobile phones and with just one vat of water for all of them to bathe in.

Using our cellphones as flashlights, we walked over to the lanai where the other guests were already having dinner. It was quite romantic, with just candles lighting up the place. Halfway through dinner, the lights came back on.  Bea commented that she had enjoyed the candlelit dinner more.  Still, I welcomed the return of electricity.

The beach at Hale Manna is rocky, not sandy, but there are kayaks to bring you to a floating raft where you can swim. I did this the first afternoon we were here, but preferred yesterday morning to just write at the Inspiration Point, the highest part overlooking the water while the children swam in the waters.

Hale Manna has several secluded areas facing the sea with bright red lounging chairs where you could laze all day. There are also cabanas, with mattresses and large soft pillows, set far from each other so that you could enjoy the serenity of the place. Despite several vehicles at the parking area, we hardly bumped into anyone, except for meal times when we would all congregate at the lanai.

Yesterday morning the children were bitten by jellyfish, so they came back early and we decided to go for an early lunch at Club Serena, two resorts away. CSR boasts of a sandy beach and more modern amenities, but there were a lot more people around. I prefer the quietness of Hale Manna as the houses are far apart from each other. We took a tricycle going there, and it was bumpy and dusty, an adventure in itself.

Arriving at Club Serena, we were warned that they were full and we would have a long wait.   We decided to stay as the girls who had been there before were adamant we should try the suman with tsokolate and mango. It was well worth the wait, though it was way past 2pm before we had our first nibble. While waiting, the children played Places, Animals, Names and Things (PANT) while I sketched Niccolo and his girlfriend Sam from a photo I had snapped a week ago.   Earlier that morning I did quick sketches of Bea and Cara at the house.

It was almost 3pm, and we wanted to pray. I tried accessing my mobile bible, but unfortunately, CSR did not have wifi and Globe Internet was spotty. I walked over to the bar and asked our amiable waiter Rolan if they had a bible we could borrow. He had one, he said with a smile, except it was in Bisaya, which only Cara would have understood. I went back to the table sad, but when I checked my phone, there was my mobile bible online!

Niccolo wanted to go back to Hale Manna to pray because CSR was a bit noisy, but we insisted to stay as the hour was near. Reverently, Niccolo read the book of Mark from the Last Supper to Christ’s death.   As I listened intently, all the ambient noise drowned out, and I was there at Gethsemane witnessing Christ’s agony as the apostles slept, beside the anguished Peter as he realized he had denied the Lord three times, amongst the angry crowd as calls for crucifixion rang loud, beside Simon of Cyrene who was tasked to carry His cross, at the foot of the cross as Christ gave up His spirit, and beside His mother as she embraced His dead body.   We were all quiet as Niccolo finished reading, each engrossed in her own thoughts.

We were aghast when we learned there were no more tricycles available for the return trip to Hale Manna. They had all gone home to observe Good Friday. We were worried about how Dada would be able to walk back to Halle Manna. Kind Rolan offered his vehicle, which could not carry all of us, so Niccolo and I walked back along the seashore. It was good to be with him alone, and we talked about plans for summer.

We slept siesta, then went back to the beach intent on going swimming by the raft, but the lifeguards refused to let us go, warning us that the current was very strong. Instead, we plopped down in one of the comfortable cabanas and shared stories, as we are wont to do when together. Soon, we were joined by Niccolo and Cara’s boyfriend Ramon who had arrived from Iligan. We  stayed at the cabana until sundown. As we watched the sun go down, Bea asked, “with such beauty around you, how can anyone not believe in God?” We all agreed.

We turned in early because of the planned boat trip. And now, I have to stop writing and pack up as the boat has arrived.

12:00 nn. We’re back, and we just finished a delicious brunch of Arroz a la Cubana, Paksiw na Isda, and Ampalaya. The children and Dada have gone back to the house to sleep, and I once more have the lanai to myself.

I am so glad I joined the boat trip. There we were in the middle of the vast sea, basking in the early morning when the boatmen pointed to dolphins far away. We went nearer, and the playful dolphins decided to put up a show.

As the boatmen tethered the boat at Pescador and we were getting ready to jump in,  I realized that in our excitement, we had forgotten to bring along life jackets.  Cara, Niccolo and Ramon are all strong and confident swimmers and don’t need the life support.  On the other hand, I am a floater, meaning I have a very difficult time diving, and I get nervous swimming in the open sea without a life jacket. Luckily, the boatmen were able to borrow two life jackets from another boat, one for Bea and another for me.

Once in the water snorkeling, I was lost in the beauty of the marine life teeming around me, sporting a myriad of colors unseen on dry land. Truly, there is a God, I thought! After Pescador, we traveled to another place where they said the turtles could be found. I was told to put on my life jacket as we would have to swim to where the turtles were.

As we were quite far from the shore, I worried about the drop off. As the bottom kept dropping and the water became darker and colder, I began to feel afraid, but then the kind boatman took my hand and led me swimming along the drop off, spotting turtles and pointing them out to me.  Once in a while, he would let go of my hand, and Niccolo would take over.  Soon, the excitement of seeing the huge turtles overcame my fear of the deep, and I happily relaxed, even getting over the sharp stinging I would feel once in a while as jelly fish brushed against me.

Our final destination was where the sardines were. Oh, and it was amazing! The school of silver sardines, why, there must have been millions of them, was like a gigantic ribbon undulating and pulsating in the sea as far as I could see. The water would alternate between very cold to warm as the sardines swarmed around us. It was truly an exhilarating and awesome experience! Mama Becky was right. It would be a pity to come to Moalboal and not see the marine life. Next time, I intend to swim with the whale sharks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Childhood, Children, Church, Faith, Family, God, Life, Love, Uncategorized

Skipping Holy Week

April 2, 3015. Here we are at NAIA 2, waiting at Centennial Airport. We woke up at 2am to make it in time for our 5am PAL flight to Cebu. Checking in was a breeze, a delightful surprise since we thought there would be a mad rush at the airport because of the long weekend.

It’s Holy Thursday. For the past 13 years, I’ve spent the Holy Week in Manila, serving as a lector in our parish. This time around, however, my daughters decided that we should all go on a fam trip to Moalboal. So here we are, Dada (my mom), Bea, Cara, Niccolo and me, off to a new adventure. My thoughts wander over to the church activities I would miss.

The Paschal Triduum, or the three days from Thursday morning to just before Easter Sunday is the busiest time for servant leaders. All the church bells are silenced, votive candles extinguished, and images of saints and the crucifix are removed or hidden behind violet cloth. The Paschal Triduum begins with Chrism Mass early Thursday morning when the Holy Oils are blessed and all the priests of the diocese renew their vow. After Chrism mass, it is customary for parishioners to have breakfast with their parish priest to show their gratitude and love for him. Later that day, we would celebrate the Mass of the Last Supper where priests go down on their knees to wash the feet of parishioners. This commemorates Christ’s actions on the night before he died, when he washed the feet of his 12 apostles, in so doing teaching them humility and servant leadership.

When I was a little girl attending mass at San Sebastian, I watched the Spanish parish priest wash the feet of 12 fellow priests, and wondered why. Are their feet dirty? Later, as the church became more inclusive and priests scarcer, common parishioners took on the role of the apostles. When we first moved to Southbay, our family was chosen as one of those to be washed. It took some convincing for Mike to agree, but Niccolo was excited to have his feet washed.

After the Mass of the Last Supper, we would do the Bisita Iglesia, a Catholic tradition of visiting seven churches and praying the Stations of the Cross, ending with spending time at the Altar of Repose to keep the Lord company in His time of agony. We always enjoyed this time, choosing which seven churches to go to and comparing the different altars of repose they put up.

At dawn on Friday, we would have the Community Way of the Cross, walking through the different Basic Ecclesial Communities (BECs) of the Ascension of Our Lord Parish, from Villonco to Southbay to Waterfun, Estrada 1 & 2, Aratiles, Mangga, Silangan, then Goodwill. When we first did this about ten years ago, I was a bit worried having to walk and pray in the developing communities, then genuflecting on the dirty streets, beside dogs and chickens. But this also opened my eyes to the circumstances of how other people lived, and I became more thankful of our many blessings, and also more open and understanding of the people around me.

At 3pm, we would have the Veneration of the Cross, the symbol of Christ’s suffering and love for us. We used to call this rite the Seven Last Words. This is a solemn rite where we relive the last hours of Christ’s passion and death on the cross. When the priest enters the church with the cross, stops three times and unveils it partially, he sings a biblical phrase. Fr. Didoy Molina, our beloved parish priest then, was absent when God gave the gift of beautiful voices, so when he attempted to sing, we all cracked up and started giggling.

There is no more consecration of the bread and wine at the mass that follows, but we would partake of communion with hosts blessed the night before during the Last Supper rites. We would then go home, but some of us would stay and keep the image of the Cristo Muerto company.

Black Friday, as we call the day that Christ died, is supposed to be a day of fasting, quiet and reflection on this passion and death. I still recall a time, I must have been three or four years old then, when Pepito and I were playing rowdily by the avocado tree in the backyard. Our mom came out and roundly spanked and scolded us to keep quiet. “Don’t you know that Jesus Christ is dead?,” she screamed at us in Spanish. We kept quiet, wondering who this Jesus Christ was and why he died. To a young child, the concept of death is difficult to grasp, more so when it is someone we don’t know.

Black Saturday is still supposed to be hush hush but come night, we would have a grand celebration as we celebrate Easter, or the resurrection of Jesus Christ. In our parish, we would congregate in the pitch black court outside the church.  The bonfire is lighted and the priest would bless and light the Paschal Candle, saying “You are the alpha and the omega.” These words never fail to touch me, and bring home the message that God is our all in all, the beginning and the end, our Creator, the Almighty to whom we owe everything. And once again, I would be humbled as I am reminded of my nothingness and yet the grandness that God loves me and holds me in the palm of His hand.

The Easter Vigil mass is long and dramatic. It begins with us entering the dark church following the priest holding up the lighted candle. We listen to several readings followed by Psalms which are sung. The readings begin with Genesis, the story of creation, to when Abraham willingly follows the Lord’s command to sacrifice his only son Isaac to God.  He is about to kill his son when he is stopped by an angel and told that God has blessed him for showing his faithfulness to the Lord. God then makes His solemn promise to bless Abraham with descendants more numerous than the stars of the sky or the sands along the beach, descendants who will be a blessing to all nations. The readings proceed to Exodus, or the triumphant flight from Egypt when the Israelites under the leadership of Moses and the guidance and protection of God cross the Red Sea and all of the pursuing Pharaoh’s chariots and charioteers are drowned.

I am usually assigned to read one of these first readings as they are the longest and most dramatic. But it is the second one I love the most.   I put myself in Abraham’s shoes, and wonder if I would be as obedient as him. Imagine being told to kill your only son, the beloved son of your old age, and to offer him as a sacrifice to God. Give up Bea, or Cara or Niccolo? Arghhh! And yet, this is exactly what God did: send His only son, Jesus Christ to live and die on the cross to save us from our sins.

The following readings from Isaiah, Baruch and Ezekiel chronicle God’s faithfullness over the centuries to His covenant to take care of His people. We then have the Epistle and the readings from the Gospel. I love it when we sing the Gloria with all of the lights turned on, as we wave our white flags and ring our bells. Oh, what a glorious time it is as we rejoice that the Lord has risen!

The next day we would have the Easter Egg Hunt in our village. When my children were young, they would join the other children in the village and see who could collect the most eggs, especially the prized Gold and Silver eggs.  Similarly, when we were young, my siblings and I would also go Easter Egg hunting in our yard. What fond memories Easter brings!

Oh, I will miss all of these rituals this Holy Week, but then I will be with my children and my mom. It is high time we have some family bonding. The children are grown up and soon they would have their own families. I hope and pray that we would still be able to celebrate Easter together in the years to come.

 

 

 

 

Children, Faith, Family, God, Life, Love, Menopause, Women

Tempest in a Teapot Six Years Ago

I was browsing over Mike’s Facebook this morning, and came across this note I had written almost six years ago.  I had completely forgotten about it, but it is too funny not to share, so here goes…

June 28, 2009.  Every morning after prayers, I would weigh myself. The scale always reported back an acceptable 110 to 115 lbs. depending on the workload (the more stress, the more I eat). Last week, however, was different. I registered at 117, then 118, then 119 the next day. I shook the scale, then checked again. Still 119! This can’t be, I thought, but the pants have been getting tighter. Horrors! I must start to diet and exercise. 

Then, cuddled up with Mike on the sofa watching my favorite soap, Desperate Housewives, we had a good laugh over Linette’s getting pregnant with twins at 40+. And then Mike teased me, “Maybe that’s why you’re becoming voluptuous.”

That can’t be, I argued. I’m supposed to be menopausal by now. But doubt had started to creep in. When did I have my last period? The last I remember was two months ago. But I haven’t experienced any of the touted symptoms: hot flashes, irate temper, etc. Oh, no!

Over evening snacks in the kitchen, I casually mentioned the possibility of having a new addition to the family to my grown-up daughters and teenage son. I was not prepared for their reaction. Jaws dropped, hands clapped over their eyes and ears, and protests of “What? Are you serious?,” “Mommy, how could you?,” and “Noooooo!” filled the room. After the shock had passed, Bea turned to Cara and said, “I’ll take care of Niccolo. You take care of the new one.”

Cara, my middle child, whipped out her laptop and started to check for menopausal symptoms. She read out the long list. At each point, she asked, “Are you feeling this?” After about 20 symptoms including migraines and aching joints, she concluded that she’s menopausal. Except for migraines which I’ve had since my teenage days, I was clear.

Yesterday afternoon, Cara still could not shake off her feeling of doom, and so she convinced me to go to the drugstore to buy a pregnancy test. We were both embarrassed to buy it, but I finally summoned courage to approach the counter. In the car on the way home, she called her older sister to help me with the test because she said she would faint if it were her. Since the test instructions recommended an early morning test, we had to wait till the morning.

Last night, I attended the birthday party of a dear friend in the village. I confided my worries to a friend who promptly announced it to the group. I naturally became the object of a lot of friendly ribbing, so I retorted, “If this pushes through, you’ll all be ninangs.” This drew another round of ribbing. Imagine our octogenarian friends hosting a baby party? Or a child of six asking me where her ninangs are? We were in stitches all night. Good thing, the conversation moved on Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, Vicki Belo and Hayden Kho.

“Don’t worry, Monette, we’ll all be rooting for you,” another friend said as we parted ways last night. But worry, I did. I thought of all the things I’d have to go through again… maternity dresses, pedia visits, all-nighters, pre-school, park and zoo trips… And questions, such as, “Why is the lola accompanying the baby instead of the mom?” Heavens! I’d be 70 by the time debut happens.

Bright and early this morning, I did the test. While waiting for the results, I prayed. Those were probably the longest, most excruciating three minutes I had to endure.

One bar! Negative. Thank you, Lord! Now, I can just look forward to cuddling apos one of these days. That, I wouldn’t mind at all.

 

 

Food, Friendship, Life, Tourism, Travel, Women, Work

When in Davao, explore!

1 Comment

I’ve been to Davao twice before to organize events for clients, and in both instances, it was a case of arriving at the airport, going straight to the hotel, organizing the event, then leaving for the airport. I remember one time, it was my son Niccolo’s 5th birthday, so Mike and I decided to bring him with us.  While I was working at the hotel, father and son had a great bonding experience visiting all the interesting sites, including the Philippine eagle sanctuary and the crocodile farm.  They told me they had a grand time, and so this time around, I made sure I had an extra day in Davao after the Tourism Industry Board Foundation, Inc. (TIBFI)’s 3rd Tourism HR Summit.  Problem was I was too busy in the months leading to the event that I never had a chance to research where to go.

IMG_3899After the summit, the congress organizers and speakers hied over to Mary Ann (Baby) Montemayor’s Habi at Kape for dinner and relaxation.  True to its name, the cafe was surrounded by displays of the best handicraft and local products that Davao had to offer.  I wish we had more time to browse around and shop, but we were all terribly tired from all the conference preparations the day before and from managing the conference all day, not to mention lack of sleep.  And since I skipped lunch to work on my afternoon talk, I was ravenous as well.

The dinner Baby served was outstandingly delicious, as usual.  I chatted with Baby about her various initiatives to help women-led SMEs in Davao gain access to the market. What a noble endeavor!  She really is an admirable woman.

IMG_3902
Joji Ilagan Bian and me at Habi at Kape

I sat with Pa Putu Laksaguna from Indonesia and Gina Jiraporn of Thailand.  That night, I learned that Pa Putu had a beautiful singing voice as he gamely serenaded us.  This after he told me that he only sang in the shower.  I also met the lovely and gracious Joji Ilagan Bian, founder and chairman of the Joji Ilagan Career Center Foundation, Inc., who had allowed her students to take part at the Summit.

As we were driving back to the hotel, we got around to discussing what to do the next day.  Most of my companions were interested in going shopping at Aldevinco, buying pomelos, and doing a quick city tour.  The others wanted to stay in the hotel and work.  There was talk of going to the crocodile farm, the eagles’ reserve, and  to the Malagos farm that made its own chocolates and cheeses.  I’ve sampled the latter before and they rival the best.  These options beckoned, but no one seemed interested to go as the drive was quite long given the distance.

Before I slept, I asked my Facebook friends for recommendations on what to do and where to go.  My vibrant Facebook community was extremely helpful, and I had a number of great suggestions, mostly revolving around food.  My daughters, meanwhile, advised me to skip the shopping and go on an adventure instead.  Besides, I already had a box of pomelos, a gift from Myrna Padilla, CEO and president of Mynd Computing / Outsourcing Services Philippines.

To this day, Myrna is one person who I greatly admire and am honored to count as a friend.  Three years ago, she spoke at the International Outsourcing Summit, an annual conference that we organize for the Information and Technology Business Process Association of the Philippines (IBPAP).  An unassuming lady, she went up to the stage to share her story as an OFW in Singapore and HongKong, learning how to use the computer from her young charge, then coming back home to Davao to set up a BPO.

Myrna touched the hearts of the 500-strong international audience composed of CEOs and senior level executives from the industry, so much so that they got on their feet to give her a standing ovation, with a few shedding tears.  Myrna’s story reminded everyone that behind the numbers signifying the rapid success of the IT and BPO industry in the country, there are real people struggling with seemingly insurmountable challenges and dreaming of a better life for themselves and their families, people whose lives are improving because of the industry.

The suggestion to have civet coffee at the crocodile farm seemed the most adventurous so after a quick swim I went down to breakfast to make arrangements for transportation.  Luckily, I met a few of my friends and they decided to go with me.  So, off we went to the Crocodile Farm.

The crocodile farm had its many charms: from its ménage of feathery and leathery friends from the animal kingdom, its various cement figures that invite guests to have their photos taken, its locally made ice-cream and civet coffee (which I yet have to try), to its various outlets selling traditional handicraft.  They were even selling oil that came from the crocodile, which ostensibly cures all sorts of skin problems, since it contains Crocodillin, an antibacterial substance found in crocodile blood.

20150324_102102I spied a large plastic container on a table near the entrance, and was surprised, when the cover was lifted to see a baby crocodile with its snout bound tight with rubber.  I asked if I could touch it and have my picture taken. Its caretaker agreed, and I gingerly extended my hand.  When the baby croc gamely stayed put, I became more courageous, and came nearer, wondering if it would turn into a prince, just as the frog in the fairytale did.  Inspired by my action, Leni Ogarte of the National Union of Workers in Hotel Restaurant and Allied Industries (Nuwhrain) wanted to have her photo taken with the baby croc too, but when she came close for the photo, the baby croc jumped at her.  It was so fast I was not able to take a picture.

The bigger crocs of which there were so many lying  in various pens looked sleepy and lethargic.  It felt safe viewing them from the other side of the fence, but knowing how swift that baby croc was, I would not want to be near any of the larger ones.  What looked like green lumps on the water turned out to be the back of the crocodiles, as once in a while, one of the lumps would move.

I don’t much like feathered creatures, but the colorful parrots were pretty, the peacock majestic, and a myna called out “Panget” when I passed, so I am assuming the poor thing has lost its eyesight.  Whenever I see a peacock, I wonder why God had granted them such beauty while the peahen looked nondescript, brown and dowdy.  I guess because the male birds need the trimmings to attract the females, while the females were confident enough to know their real beauty was inside.

There were other birds but how could I not write about those huge ostriches that lackadaisically sashayed around the field?  One of them walked right up to the fence where I was, looked me in the eye, then dismissing me, turned aside and walked over to some sheep that had gathered in the field.  I was trembling with fear, being deathly afraid of chickens, much less monstrous ostriches.

20150324_102701And there was that yellow boa lying on the ledge.  Four of us summoned the gumption to have a photo taken, with the boa draped across our laps.  It was heavy, but it didn’t seem to be big enough to swallow us, so I felt quite safe.  The tiger, in the meantime, was having a morning snooze, and didn’t budge at all.  It looked quite content in its cage.

20150324_112219 We all had a field day having our photos taken with the various cement figures in the park.  Some of us sampled the crocodile pandan ice-cream (not a fan myself).  I was thinking of sitting down at the café to have a cup of civet coffee, when I saw a line of shops selling traditional clothing.  I loved the explosion of colors of the woven fabric made by the Matigsalog and T-boli tribes, and so decided to treat myself to a complete outfit, including the heavy belt with tinkling bells.  The kind lady at the store even taught me the proper way of wearing a malong, which included biting the edge of the cloth before tying the ends in a knot.  Next time I am asked to attend a function wearing Filipiniana, I intend to wear it.

11013282_10152632986336556_7988614686115207717_oSoon we had to meet up with our other companions who had stayed behind to work. Lunch turned out to be at the Blue Post Boiling Crabs and Shrimps.  The restaurant’s name was quite descriptive as it was a boodle meal with a refreshing pomelo salad, boiled crabs and shrimps cooked in garlic.  Oh, was it good!  Nay, it was great!  And we even go to write our names on the walls.  I took the opportunity to quickly draw a woman’s face inside the lifesaver in the foyer.  I was having so much fun.  So this is the high that graffiti gives to its creators!

IMG_3912Reminiscing on the day gone by, I am so glad I took the day off work and went on an adventure instead.  There is still so much to explore in Davao, and I hope to visit once again and perhaps next time, have that civet coffee, Malagos chocolates and cheese.  C’est la vie!

Death, Family, Food, Gradtitude, Life, Love, music

A Different Twist to Valentine’s Day

8 Comments

10393981_10204422523537442_5957064915388831964_nValentine’s Day 2015.  This was not how I imagined the day would be months ago when everything was coming up roses.  I had a new love, or should I say he found me, but now he’s gone ahead to heaven, leaving me alone with a broken heart.  Just as the love of my life, my husband, my best friend and father of my children did earlier.  So now, I have two angels up above.  And a heart full of grief that needs to mend.  And must.  And will!

I arrived from Rome the other day, sick as a dog.  My son Niccolo picked me up from the airport.  Before going home, we passed by St. Therese of the Child Jesus, to visit Mike, pray and tell him how much we loved and miss him.

The stress of the past three weeks had finally caught up on me.  Acute bronchitis, the doctor said, and ordered strict bed rest.  But this was not possible as my dear aunt Julia, former dean of the College of the Holy Spirit and youngest sister of my father, had died while I was in Rome.  There was a wake to attend to and a burial to make.  Just as I had before I left for Spain two weeks ago.  It seemed that sorrow had decided to burrow a permanent hole in my heart.

Tita Jill had helped take care of me and my four siblings, aged four to 11, when my father had died. There was no way I would stay away.  I arranged for mass last night and early this morning just before her burial in the family plot in La Loma Cemetery.  From her friends’ tributes, I learned how much she had enriched their lives with her gentleness, her brilliance, her passion for excellence, her generosity of heart and her simplicity.  What a role model she was for all of us!

I could not help but compare the two wakes and burials that straddled my trip to Spain and Italy.  That of my boyfriend Rolando Perez Gosiengfiao’s was elaborate, chockfull of family and friends paying their respects throughout the day and night, flowers lining up the corridor, a flag draped over his coffin and smart marines standing guard beside his casket.  Each night a different group (Young Presidents’ Organization, World Presidents’ Organization, AIESEC, BCDA, GenRex) hosted the mass and dinner, paying tribute to a great man who had touched their lives and left an imprint hard to erase.  My aunt’s was simple, with only intimate family and friends present.  But love abounded nevertheless.  What struck me was no matter how brilliant or rich or powerful one is, at the end of our lives, we don’t take anything with us.  Except for the love we had shared with those we leave behind.

After the burial, Bea and I had brunch at Wildflour.  I sampled cacio e pepe pasta for the very first time on her prodding. It’s a wonder I didn’t have this in Rome. It was sinfully delightful, but more than the food, it was the company that made brunch truly special.  For how many moms can have the pleasure of lunch with their first born on Valentine’s Day, especially if their daughter is such an attractive young woman that many would like to date?  I felt honored that my daughter had decided to turn down all Valentine date requests to spend the day with me.

After brunch, we meandered over to the Saturday Salcedo market, bought flowers and passed by San Antonio in Forbes to say a prayer for Mr. G, as Bea calls Rollie.  We then went home to comply with my  doctor’s orders.

And lo and behold, a surprise awaited us!  Since my birthday, the house has been dusty and topsy-turvy due to renovation.  Blue burlap had covered the area on the ground floor where walls were being removed, and new panels put up.   Before leaving for Spain, I had decided to take the plunge and fix the large first floor room which had previously served as an office, and later as an entertainment room.

When Mike took ill with cancer and could no longer make the trip up to the second floor, that became his sick room.  It was also where he took his final breath and died in my arms as I had promised him.  The room was just too sad for me, and so I hardly entered it.  But my mom was getting on in age, and was having a hard time going up the stairs, so I decided it was time to make the change.  I also had excellent advice from Rollie on what to do with the room.

When Bea and I got home this afternoon, we were greeted by a wonderful sight.  The workers had removed the burlap covering the renovations ongoing in the living room, and the place had opened up.  It was now spacious, airy, and bright! Oh, what a wonderful feeling it evoked!  And I now have a sitting room full of natural light to paint in.  What joy!

Tonight, I had dinner in bed with Bea.  She prepared her signature tomato and basil pasta, and we had cheese and Spanish ham paired with a Vin de Bordeaux, while watching The Mummy Returns, and then Sex in the City on TV.  Cara is working in Boracay and Niccolo spent the day in Clark with his friends.  Now, Bea has gone to bed, and here I am writing and reflecting on my life these past few months.

Come to think of it, this was Rollie’s gift for me: a new lease on life.  Seven months ago, when my world was dark and I was grieving for Mike, Rollie came barging into my life.   Rollie taught me it was possible to love and be happy once again.  From the moment he sent me that message on FB, I was literally hooked.

How it all beganRollie was always looking for ways to get together, whether for halo-halo, picking me up from an event, offering to help me with my speeches, going to the Saturday market at Salcedo, driving me to Alfonso,  showing me where he grew up, or accompanying me to buy gifts.  He would sometimes show up unannounced where I was, seeming to have just been in the vicinity. Little did I know that it had been carefully planned.

He was a man of many inconsistencies.  Every chance he got, he would introduce me to his family and friends and would post our photos proudly on his Facebook page, tagging me whenever he could.  And yet he told me not to write about him because he was a private individual.  And so I would untag him.  At times, exasperated, I would unfriend him, but he always asked me back.  And truth to tell, no matter how many fights we had, we never could stay away from each other more than a day.

We had long conversations, yes, even arguments, about everything under the sun, especially religion, marriage, my church service, my busy schedule, and social customs.  Rollie was a professed atheist, and this cut me deeply, being quite religious.  It was hard to reconcile that the man I loved did not believe in the same things I did.  I refused to eat with him unless we said grace before meals.  He was very gracious and obliged me in this.  He even accompanied me to mass, though he would not stay all the way to the final blessing.

I kept looking for ways to tell him our relationship could not flourish. One time, I told him our Chinese astrology signs were opposed.  He was a tiger and I was fire monkey.  And since monkeys and dragons were the best match (Mike was a water dragon), I said I must find myself a dragon.  He was so cut up by this remark that he stopped talking to me, and told me I win.  When I saw him, he was crying in his living room.  When I asked him why he was crying, he said he wanted desperately to be my dragon.  Oh, Rollie!

Facebook messenger was our lifeline, a surprising channel for two mature individuals. Like teenagers, we were glued to our mobile phones, waiting for the three dots to start blinking.  The roles had been reversed.  My children would tell me to stop looking at my phone all the time.

Christmas Card largerIt was sad that my children could not accept our relationship.  Early on, Rollie told me he had fallen in love with my family, and looked forward to being part of it.  He said he was taken by the love that we all obviously shared.  But he was also understanding that it was just too soon after Mike had died.  All things will work out in the end, he said.  He was so sure of it.

Plans, Rollie had a lot of.  Where we would live, where we would travel, what we would do for the rest of our lives.  He gave me keys to his condo, and asked me to move in.  I told him not unless we were married.  Which again brought up the issue of social customs.  If we lived in the US, this would not even be an issue, he would argue. Why were papers so important, he asked?  I told him it was a matter of values, not papers.  Frustrated,  he announced he would put up our pictures in his condo to make me feel more at home.  I was in tears when his housekeeper in Hong Kong told me at the funeral that he bought a frame on this last trip and told her this was for my photo in Salcedo.  He never got around to doing it.

For some unknown reason, Rollie unleashed the poet in me. I would find myself penning my emotions in rapid fire, in a fever of inspiration.  I would send my poems to him, and each time, he would catch his breath, amazed at what I had written, and flattered to be the subject of the muse.

We painted together, and he loved the work I did, even blowing up a sketch I had made of him. He was very proud of that likeness of him that he put it up in his living room.  For Christmas, Rollie bought me a set of oils from New York after he saw me throw away my old oil set that had dried up.

Rollie loved music, and singing. He brought music back into my life.  We would sit and listen to music, and sometimes, he would burst into song.   He sang for me at his brother Ed’s birthday, and his sister-in-law whispered to me that it was obvious Rollie was in love with me, and that she hoped I loved him too.

Although he said he envied my writing skills, he showed me a book he had written on his wife after she died and another one he had written about his family. I was very touched by his gesture of love. He encouraged me to write a book for my mom’s 80th birthday and collaborated with me by digitalizing all the old photo prints.

Last year, Rollie urged me to write a book on Mike to celebrate our life together and to close that chapter so we could start a new one.  I was unable to write during the Christmas break because I was sick, so when Rollie said he was going to be away the week Pope Francis came, he told me I should start on that book for Mike.  And that was what I did.  He called me from Hong Kong to check how I was doing.  When I told him I had spent the better part of the weekend crying while writing and that I was only half way done, he told me to “Keep going, my courageous girl.  I love you!”

I admired the way Rollie fixed his home. He had impeccable taste.  He would bring me flowers and plants for my house, telling me that they livened up the house.  Rollie convinced me to renovate my house, to dispel the sadness that had permeated it and to bring back the happiness that was there before.  He disliked my white lights and advised me to change all my bulbs to warm white for a cozier feel.

On his last trip to Hong Kong, Rollie biked all the way to Shamshuipo to buy LED lights to surprise me and taught me how to change my lights. He was supposed to come to my house at 4pm to start on the lights the afternoon he died. He never made it home.

Living a fit life was something Rollie embraced with a passion. He biked, swam, watched his food intake, made sure he had eight hours of sleep a day.  To keep up, I bought a bike which he promised he would teach me how to use.  I think he was more excited than I was.  I started going to the gym, and drinking his banana, apple, pechay concoction for breakfast.

IMG_9924The trip to Hong Kong on the first of January was our chance to be together alone.  He and I were both so excited to be together. It was a beautiful time, and he told me that he felt so comfortable being with me.  It was like being married 10, 20 years.  We were so happy together, except for the last night when we had another of our little tiffs, and traveled home hardly talking to each other.   But make up we did, as usual.  As Rollie said, there is nothing that can stop this love we have.  Well, nothing except death, and what a thief it is!

The week before he died, Rollie and I had dinner at an Indian restaurant near his home. He had decided to become vegan once again, and it was the perfect place for that. He said he used to eat there before but was very lonely; it was after his wife had died.  But he perked up, saying this time it’s different, I have you with me. I was teasing him about all his past girlfriends, when he took my hand and said, “This I know, Monette, you’re my last great love, the one I will spend the rest of my life with.”  I didn’t realize then how prophetic those words were.

If there’s one thing Rollie complained about, it was my need to love and be loved.  He said I was too needy. He always told me to become self-sufficient, to be happy being me, by myself.  Yes, Rollie taught me I could be happy after the death of my beloved Mike. Now, I need to get on with life, and learn to be happy without Rollie beside me.  Circle of life.

And there are many things I am truly grateful for.  First and foremost are my three beautiful children: Bea, Cara and Niccolo.  I have my mom who loves me unconditionally, my beloved sister, my brothers, their families, Cathy who takes care of me and my family.  I have my friends, and my work family at TeamAsia.  I’ve loved and been loved by two wonderful men, Mike and Rollie.  But most of all, I have a faithful and loving God who never lets go of me, despite my many failings.

At the Sistine Chapel the day before I left Rome, I was blessed to have had the opportunity to go to confession with Fr. Valentine, a black priest who suddenly showed up just as the museum was about to close.   Despite more than a hundred tourists milling about, I felt at peace talking to him and telling him about my grieving heart.  I asked him for prayers to discern and accomplish what I had been sent here on earth to do.

10997911_10204831175513486_2097251670_oSomeone sent me these amazing flowers yesterday without a card.  I have no idea who they’re from, but am truly grateful to the kind soul out there who remembered me.  It was after all, a different twist to this special day of love.