When life was simpler: a dispatch
9:41 a.m.
I wrote a poem in my sleep, but when I awoke, I could only remember one word: cradle.
2 March 202111:56 p.m.
Outside the window curtained with Vincent Van Goghʼs Starry Starry Night was a backdrop of bright orange. My boyfriend, Nigel, barged in his sisterʼs room where I was staying, urging me to get up before the sunʼs up.
We talked about this before I even went with him to his hometown in Bulacan for a quick two-day, midweek visit. We stayed in the house where he formed his beliefs: of what aches society, of which books are good reads. That space made me feel large and small, both at the same time.
Nature invaded half of their familyʼs compound, where fruit-bearing trees as tall as four stories stood, tomatoes and eggplants grew at their own pace, and a swamp hid undisturbed behind these greens that it almost looked like freshly mowed Bermuda grass. To me, at least. Nigel was eager to prove me wrong.
The pandemic has locked me in a cramped space where the only natural elements keeping me company are my plants and, occasionally, the comforting breeze and warm sky whenever I would lounge at the condominium buildingʼs amenities floor.
Rubbing the sleep off my eyes, I wore my white hoodie, a gift from Nigel. Eyes half-lidded, I navigated my way through a steel spiral of stairs and found myself on the rooftop where, just the afternoon before, under the penetrating afternoon heat, I harvested caimitos.
The third level of their house offered a panoramic view. The blues were beginning to push back the yellows and oranges of the pre-dawn sky. Birds were chirping and, from afar, blurry dots approached and morphed into flocks of white birds.
Nigel believes them to be migratory birds just passing through their home. Maybe so. But I am certain that sight is a highlight of my pandemic life, so far.
There is something so serene about the suburbs that I wouldnʼt even fret over time passing me by. The moment I returned to my nook in the city, the urge to keep moving, doing, permeated the air. I canʼt say I wish to go back and stay longer where birdsongs play all day long; the busyness of city life has its own allure. Ending the day, realizing how much Iʼve accomplished within limited hours, can be magical.
I do miss the simpler life, though, when doing nothing — having to do nothing — was bliss. Itʼs something I am trying to incorporate in my pandemic routine: in lieu of lazy days, because I work literally every day now, I block off lazy hours: a semblance of the sweet afternoons of my childhood.
17 February 2021
Recently, I’ve been swinging between the slowness and stress of life. Years of [workaholism] taught me that both are necessary and inevitable components of productivity.
When the urgency of a task cannot be excused or delayed, I have this single-minded, tunnel-vision focus I can tap into to help me tune out from all the distractions and finish what is necessary. In moderation, this ability to enter a “flow” state consciously is something I am proud of and grateful for having.
But prolonged periods of intense focus, even if sprinkled with pomodoro breaks, are still taxing. Not only do I find myself running on empty while managing to put up a front that everything is okay, but my temper would also be shooting up, reaching levels where I am inconsolable or, where my aggression is directed at, irreparable.
It is for these reasons that I can be more appreciative of boredom when it comes. Being away from the screens [is] now a luxury. Even if it is self-imposed, there is certain calmness in the uncertainty of what you should be doing next.
This was my childhood: when time was spent imagining and daydreaming, concocting fun activities to pass time by, arriving at conclusions that define what is or is not worth trying out again. •