Suffering and joys
During the yuletide season, in one of those rare occasions of total calmness — blankness, I would have said — I found myself asking this question: When was the last time you wrote, actually wrote?
I write for a living: scripts for television documentaries, episode and program briefs, letters of request, among others. It is precisely because I spend too much time in front of the screen that I now find it tiring and troublesome to update this blog, I realize.
Truth is, I haven’t written in a long time. At least, not in the introspective, meditative way. Some writers churn out words, so poetically and honest, that it’s almost as natural to them as breathing. I wish I can say the same for myself, but it isn’t true. I struggle every time I have to write. I cringe, I cry, I sigh. I stare at the blank space, daunted by the blinking cursor. Still, I terribly miss the moments of peaceful solutide that the process of writing yields.
So, today, I am just writing whatever comes to mind.
On Buddhism
I am currently reading a book on Buddhism written by Vietnamese monk Thich Nhat Hanh. I enjoy telling others, my mom included, that I am transitioning from Catholicism to Buddhism. Buddhism is not a religion, though; Buddha is not a deity that monks worship. Buddhism is a way of life, a spiritual conquest, if I may add.
At the core of Buddhism are the Four Noble Truths. Admittedly, when I was a college freshman and was first introduced to the principles of Buddhism in my philosophy class, I thought them to be pessimistic. Just the first of four truths will show this: All is suffering.
However, Buddhism is not about the passive acceptance that there is, indeed, suffering. It is the contrary. The recognition of the truth of suffering encourages us to look deeper into it and find ways to stop what causes suffering.
I have been reflecting on this for quite a while now. I know it will take some time, but the goal is to find, within me, stillness like that of water.
Meowmy chronicles
On the last quarter of 2017, I decided I would be adopting a cat. “Adopt, don’t shop,” some say.
There are a number of Facebook groups, whose members rescue and foster stray cats until they are ready for their purr-ever homes. Posted in one of the groups I joined is a photo of a white kitten, with black patterned ears, that oddly had no comment. For weeks, it was as if the kitten was ignored by prospective pet owners who would want to adopt someone cuter. That’s when I knew I found my cat.
Mags, as he was formerly called, looked like my first kitten MG, short for Maria Genevieve. Yes, I was that serious about naming pets as a kid. It was an instant connection, somehow. Mags’ foster parent, though, suggested that I adopt Mags with another stray that she kept. They were good friends, she said. I agreed. Two kittens are better than one, after all.
A month or two later, I found myself adopting another kitten, this time a brown Bengal-patterned one. She was just too adorable.
She was turned over to me on the exact same day I sought for her adoption. I adored how she instantly found comfort on my chest.
^ Photo by Rowshan Begum
Now, all three of these kitties are loved by yours truly and my partner Nigel. I named them Choco, Caramel, and Cookie (clockwise from top).
I have to admit, though I have always been fond of cats, I had my share of worries and self-doubts. Can I really take care of these babies? Will I be a good meowmy? Will I be able to manage the expenses? Would it be better if I had chosen not to adopt, or to adopt only one?
This postpartum anxiety lasted for some weeks. It was a crippling feeling that I feared I would be taking with me until either I prove myself wrong or I put my kittens up for adoption. Thanks to Nigel, I learned to believe in my — our — capabilities to be cat parents.
Love is stronger than the pressure to be perfect.
Yoga and zen
It is ironic that after my first yoga retreat in May 2017 — one of my most treasured memories from the past year — my practice started slowing down until it completely halted.
To be sure, the intent to step back on the mat is there; it has always been present. But work priorities got in the way, and I had personal concerns to attend to for much of the year.
As well, with social media personalities posting how they do difficult yoga poses, a personal practice can be daunting.
Much like writing, yoga is something I miss. It brings me a sense of control over my life without actually being in control — by becoming present in the here and now, by accepting things as they are.
I tend to forget that yoga is neither about flexibility nor balance, that what ultimately matters is willingness.
A year in therapy and on meds
It took me a while to accept that I needed help; it took me a lot longer to muster enough courage to, finally, get help.
2017 marked the conclusion of my therapy sessions, which lasted over a year.
There was relief and thrill — a strong sense of survival, too, somehow — as I was walking into my psychologist’s clinic in what would be the last time. We were wrapping up. Lala thought I had gone a long way, that I am healthy enough, both emotionally and mentally, to take on the challenges that may come my way.
Of course, I was proud of myself. I couldn’t contain the feeling of liberation that walking out the clinic doorstep gave me. On my way home, I kept thinking about the right words to use when I would eventually pen a proper and fitting closure to this chapter in my recovery.
The celebration didn’t last long, though.
Within hours, I was informed that my uncle, my mother’s brother, died. It was so sudden, and I knew I had to find an answer to my question: How did it happen? I wasn’t ready for it.
I knew my uncle to be a funny, witty guy. He has a commanding voice that perhaps helped him get a job as a casino dealer. It may be the opposite, too: maybe he got the deep, full voice on the job. He had life stories to tell, and he freely and articulately shared his insights about politics on his social media accounts. I had met him and his family only twice, but the brief encounters were enough for me to admire him for the man he is.
I saw Tito Boy as my only connection to my mother’s roots, stories of her past that she never shared to us.
Tito Boy retired from work earlier than is required, so he may get a big sum from his retirement pay. He supposedly would use this amount to pay off his family’s debts. On that day in October, Tito made sure that his youngest son was off to school when he made an irreversible life decision. In his room, with no one at home, he hanged himself to death.
The grief made me want to take back my goodbyes at my psychologist’s clinic. All I did for a few days was cry, even if I barely knew this person. To be honest, I hadn’t even shed a tear when my father’s father, whom I had known for most of my life, died in 2008. I could only imagine the sorrow of Tito’s family, of my cousins.
Around this time, I stopped taking my daily doses of escitalopram. I wanted to feel raw. I wanted to be free from the medicines that greatly helped me pick myself up whenever I would feel quite low. I wanted to be the strong, independent woman I knew myself to be.
I spiralled; it took a while. But what joy will life be without its ups and downs?
Allow me to end with a quotation I found and marked from Thich Nhat Hanh’s book The Heart of the Buddha’s Teaching: “Don’t wait until you have no more suffering before allowing yourself to be happy.” •
I write for a living: scripts for television documentaries, episode and program briefs, letters of request, among others. It is precisely because I spend too much time in front of the screen that I now find it tiring and troublesome to update this blog, I realize.
Truth is, I haven’t written in a long time. At least, not in the introspective, meditative way. Some writers churn out words, so poetically and honest, that it’s almost as natural to them as breathing. I wish I can say the same for myself, but it isn’t true. I struggle every time I have to write. I cringe, I cry, I sigh. I stare at the blank space, daunted by the blinking cursor. Still, I terribly miss the moments of peaceful solutide that the process of writing yields.
So, today, I am just writing whatever comes to mind.
On Buddhism
I am currently reading a book on Buddhism written by Vietnamese monk Thich Nhat Hanh. I enjoy telling others, my mom included, that I am transitioning from Catholicism to Buddhism. Buddhism is not a religion, though; Buddha is not a deity that monks worship. Buddhism is a way of life, a spiritual conquest, if I may add.
At the core of Buddhism are the Four Noble Truths. Admittedly, when I was a college freshman and was first introduced to the principles of Buddhism in my philosophy class, I thought them to be pessimistic. Just the first of four truths will show this: All is suffering.
However, Buddhism is not about the passive acceptance that there is, indeed, suffering. It is the contrary. The recognition of the truth of suffering encourages us to look deeper into it and find ways to stop what causes suffering.
I have been reflecting on this for quite a while now. I know it will take some time, but the goal is to find, within me, stillness like that of water.
Meowmy chronicles
On the last quarter of 2017, I decided I would be adopting a cat. “Adopt, don’t shop,” some say.
There are a number of Facebook groups, whose members rescue and foster stray cats until they are ready for their purr-ever homes. Posted in one of the groups I joined is a photo of a white kitten, with black patterned ears, that oddly had no comment. For weeks, it was as if the kitten was ignored by prospective pet owners who would want to adopt someone cuter. That’s when I knew I found my cat.
Mags, as he was formerly called, looked like my first kitten MG, short for Maria Genevieve. Yes, I was that serious about naming pets as a kid. It was an instant connection, somehow. Mags’ foster parent, though, suggested that I adopt Mags with another stray that she kept. They were good friends, she said. I agreed. Two kittens are better than one, after all.
A month or two later, I found myself adopting another kitten, this time a brown Bengal-patterned one. She was just too adorable.
She was turned over to me on the exact same day I sought for her adoption. I adored how she instantly found comfort on my chest.
^ Photo by Rowshan Begum
Now, all three of these kitties are loved by yours truly and my partner Nigel. I named them Choco, Caramel, and Cookie (clockwise from top).
I have to admit, though I have always been fond of cats, I had my share of worries and self-doubts. Can I really take care of these babies? Will I be a good meowmy? Will I be able to manage the expenses? Would it be better if I had chosen not to adopt, or to adopt only one?
This postpartum anxiety lasted for some weeks. It was a crippling feeling that I feared I would be taking with me until either I prove myself wrong or I put my kittens up for adoption. Thanks to Nigel, I learned to believe in my — our — capabilities to be cat parents.
Love is stronger than the pressure to be perfect.
Yoga and zen
It is ironic that after my first yoga retreat in May 2017 — one of my most treasured memories from the past year — my practice started slowing down until it completely halted.
To be sure, the intent to step back on the mat is there; it has always been present. But work priorities got in the way, and I had personal concerns to attend to for much of the year.
As well, with social media personalities posting how they do difficult yoga poses, a personal practice can be daunting.
Much like writing, yoga is something I miss. It brings me a sense of control over my life without actually being in control — by becoming present in the here and now, by accepting things as they are.
I tend to forget that yoga is neither about flexibility nor balance, that what ultimately matters is willingness.
A year in therapy and on meds
It took me a while to accept that I needed help; it took me a lot longer to muster enough courage to, finally, get help.
2017 marked the conclusion of my therapy sessions, which lasted over a year.
There was relief and thrill — a strong sense of survival, too, somehow — as I was walking into my psychologist’s clinic in what would be the last time. We were wrapping up. Lala thought I had gone a long way, that I am healthy enough, both emotionally and mentally, to take on the challenges that may come my way.
Of course, I was proud of myself. I couldn’t contain the feeling of liberation that walking out the clinic doorstep gave me. On my way home, I kept thinking about the right words to use when I would eventually pen a proper and fitting closure to this chapter in my recovery.
The celebration didn’t last long, though.
Within hours, I was informed that my uncle, my mother’s brother, died. It was so sudden, and I knew I had to find an answer to my question: How did it happen? I wasn’t ready for it.
I knew my uncle to be a funny, witty guy. He has a commanding voice that perhaps helped him get a job as a casino dealer. It may be the opposite, too: maybe he got the deep, full voice on the job. He had life stories to tell, and he freely and articulately shared his insights about politics on his social media accounts. I had met him and his family only twice, but the brief encounters were enough for me to admire him for the man he is.
I saw Tito Boy as my only connection to my mother’s roots, stories of her past that she never shared to us.
Tito Boy retired from work earlier than is required, so he may get a big sum from his retirement pay. He supposedly would use this amount to pay off his family’s debts. On that day in October, Tito made sure that his youngest son was off to school when he made an irreversible life decision. In his room, with no one at home, he hanged himself to death.
The grief made me want to take back my goodbyes at my psychologist’s clinic. All I did for a few days was cry, even if I barely knew this person. To be honest, I hadn’t even shed a tear when my father’s father, whom I had known for most of my life, died in 2008. I could only imagine the sorrow of Tito’s family, of my cousins.
Around this time, I stopped taking my daily doses of escitalopram. I wanted to feel raw. I wanted to be free from the medicines that greatly helped me pick myself up whenever I would feel quite low. I wanted to be the strong, independent woman I knew myself to be.
I spiralled; it took a while. But what joy will life be without its ups and downs?
Allow me to end with a quotation I found and marked from Thich Nhat Hanh’s book The Heart of the Buddha’s Teaching: “Don’t wait until you have no more suffering before allowing yourself to be happy.” •