One Day In History

I submitted a blog entry for a UK-wide project called One Day in History. Check it out at http://www.historymatters.org.uk/. It features entries on 17 Oct 2006, providing a snapshot of ordinary life in Britain on that day in time. You can read my entry here.

My New 'Do

Won a raffle last week: 50% off on a cut-and-blowdry service at our town's best salon. Haircuts cost an arm and a leg here, if you must know. Since I'd been meaning to have my hair drastically made over from the rut it was in, I rejoiced at the win and immediately booked my appointment.

So I had my hair restyled last Saturday into a slightly longer version of a pixie cut. Think Alyssa Milano, Winona Ryder, Natalie Portman-- except mine is not as cropped. Maybe sort of like N. Tonks in the Harry Potter books. I love my new 'do! It's supershort, cool, trendy, and what's more, it's absolutely wash and wear. I can make it as flat or as messy as I want it to be, just by using my fingers. O and B loved it right away, but for the first five hours after my haircut, my two-year-old E refused to believe that I was indeed his Nanay! He wouldn't let me carry him, much less feed him or play with him. He kept stealing furtive glances at me, as if to ask, what have you done to my mum? Finally, after we got home, he seemed to accept that it was really me. Funny!

My Father's Hands

It has been three years today since my father died. Three years on, and I'm still grieving, I'm still crying, I'm still missing him... I still remember the phone ringing at 5 am, with a neighbour on the other end, telling us that Daddy had been rushed to the nearby hospital. One massive stroke, that's all it took to change my family’s world forever. Despite being on complete bedrest due to a high-risk second pregnancy, I was able to kiss my dad's cheek one last time as his body lay lifeless in the ER. I attended the wake, and I was there on the eve of his funeral, when everyone said what they wanted to say about him for the last time. This was what I said:

My Father's Hands

It is always difficult to know what to say at wakes or funerals, whether you are the one grieving or the one consoling. Should one speak of acceptance, of happy memories, of prayers, or of regrets? I choose to speak tonight of thanksgiving and gratitude to the Lord for Daddy’s life, and even more so, for his manner of death.

One of the things I am thankful for is that, though Daddy’s leaving was sudden, unexpected and painful to us, it was still a peaceful death. No violence, no trauma, no suffering. He woke up feeling sick, with a headache, and then, after a brief period of pain, he fell back to sleep – this time, an eternal one.

I am thankful that God honoured my Dad’s often-verbalised wish that when his time comes, he would prefer to leave swiftly rather than linger on as half a man, unable to move or take care of himself, with senses dulled and reflexes slowed. To the very end, kami pa rin ang iniisip ni Daddy. Ayaw nya kaming pahirapan. He didn’t want to be a burden to us or to anybody. And so he left, in full strength of mind and body, desiring to spare us from having to take care of him if he had survived his stroke—something which we would have been all too happy to do for him, had he given us a chance. But no, Daddy had always been selfless and, at the same time, fiercely independent. He would not have chosen to stay if it meant that he would have had to be the patient instead of the caregiver. I can just imagine him saying, “Alagaan nyo na lang ang mga bata, ‘wag na ako.”

I am also thankful that, before he was so suddenly taken from us, God had already given us many opportunities to openly express and communicate our love for Daddy. How many times have we heard bereaved people saying, “How I wish I had told him I loved him BEFORE he died?” Well, in our case, the pain and the suddenness of Daddy’s death is somehow soothed by the knowledge that he KNEW just how much we love him, even before he left. He knew, because we told him so. We honoured him, threw a party for him, texted him, called him up, served him, visited him. We told him, plainly and clearly, that we love him. How happy I am that we had not been embarrassed to say “I love you” to Daddy in his last years on earth! That we had not wasted the opportunities given us to hug him, serve him and let him know just how much we looked up to him! That we had not shied away from thanking him for giving us the best years of his life, for working hard for our sake, for raising us up well, for being a great father to us!

I also count as a great blessing the fact that Daddy himself grabbed many opportunities to express his love to all of us. As a young father, he may have been too shy to actually say “I love you” to any of us, but lately, in the past couple of years, he had been quite vocal and open about his love for us. For example, he texted me an “I love you” for Valentine’s and wrote me his love on a recent birthday card. He was especially loving to his four grandchildren, and he delighted in exchanging “I love you’s” with them at all hours of the day. The week before he died, he was in and out of our houses everyday, visiting us, making what was to be his final rounds among us. My family and I can tell you many stories of all the strange, loving and wonderful things he did for us and with us the week before he died, and even up to now. ‘Dy, don’t worry, alam namin kung gaano mo kami kamahal. We love you, too.

I’d like to honour my Dad for one outstanding feature which I will best remember about him – his hands. The image of my Daddy’s hands remains one of my earliest childhood memories. His hands were strong, brown and manly. One look at his firm, dependable hands, and I would instantly feel safe and secure. I believed he could fix anything, whether it was broken or not. Nothing bad could happen to me while my Dad was around. His hands would take care of me.

Daddy’s hands were versatile and all-purpose. They were strong, and at the same time, gentle. Firm, but forgiving. They could, as I mentioned, fix anything – from electronics to engines, to antennas, to toys. They could compose and type out brilliant legal documents to win cases in court, they could write sharp and insightful letters to newspaper editors, and they could also fill a hand-picked birthday card with loving words and thoughts for an only daughter. They could teach me and my brothers the safe and proper way to handle, aim and fire a gun, for he was a sharpshooter himself. But those deft and skillful hands could also be playful and nimble enough to play a silly vanishing-coin routine with his unsuspecting grandchildren. The hands with such a sure and steady grip on the steering wheel were the same hands which would cook and peel my favourite “hipon” for me, even without being asked. The hands which taught me how to flap my feet properly when swimming were also quick to pull out precious cash from his wallet whenever he saw that I was in need.

His hands were game enough to hold a microphone as he yodelled out his favourite songs on the videoke, but they were also artistic and precise enough to capture moments and memories on film, beautiful images seen through an eye which missed nothing. His hands were skilled in setting up and focusing his telescope so we could all marvel at the beauty of the night sky, and they were also nurturing enough to plant and water fruit-bearing trees and flowering plants on any available piece of land, coaxing them to grow, bloom and bear fruit.

His hands were strong enough to swing a little girl up high in the air, and yet were gentle enough to remove a splinter from a crying daughter’s finger. His hands could point an unswerving finger at you if you did wrong, but they were also quick to open up, to hold you, forgive you, and pat you on the back once you said you were sorry. They were tender enough to cradle and caress his grandchildren. And they were humble enough to be raised up in prayer to God.

What a shock it still is for me to see Daddy’s hands, his once-warm, once-busy hands, now suddenly lying cold, still and lifeless. I will never forget my father’s hands. And neither, I think, will my mom or my brothers. ‘Dy, I want you to know that we will continue the love and the work which your hands began in us, and we will teach our children the lessons, values and actions which we learned from you.

How true the words of Morrie Schwartz: “Death ends a life, not a relationship.” Daddy may have gone ahead of us, but he will always be Daddy to us. His hands will continue to guide us, even from beyond the grave, until we are re-united with him in Heaven.

Until we meet again in Jesus, Daddy. Godspeed.

+ Requiescat In Pace. Atty Nescito C. Hilario. 20 March 1947 – 05 October 2003

Quandary

So here I am in Europe, living in a place where I thought, at long last, my name would finally cease to be massacred on a daily basis.

Alas, no dice.

First of all, my full name (Jeanne Therese, which is French) is almost never used here. People tend to drop their second names and have just one first name and one surname in almost all their official correspondence. So here I am simply Jeanne. Jeanne Andres, with the accent on the first syllable of my surname, to boot. That's fine with me; that's how B now says his surname and that's how I introduce myself to people. OHN-dres, not And-RES.

My only trouble with "Jeanne" is, (1) I have never responded to being called Jeanne, and (2), most people here pronounce it as JEAN, which is the English pronounciation of the name, instead of ZHAN. I have always cringed inwardly whenever I'd hear my name mispronounced, and it's been something I've lived with all my life in the Philippines.

Second, being a Filipino, I have a nickname, and that nickname is simply Nette, pronounced NET. So to Pinoy friends and community brethren here, I am Nette, but I have found that many times, too often, English people seem to have a problem calling me by my nickname. I have heard myself called Nettie dozens of times; apparently there is a European language (Dutch?) in which Nette is pronounced as NETTEE. Others seem to struggle with NET, finding it too abrupt, and I see them constantly doing a double take, as if training their tongues to say such a curt name, saying "Aaah... Nette (with the T sound elongated slightly, as if to make up for the missing vowel sound they seemed to think was lacking)... would you like to have a cup of tea?" Perhaps it's a linguistic thing. Pinoys have always preferred my nickname to my real name, and I am used to hearing my nickname said with a Filipino "caress," like a "paglalambing" or tone of affection. Here, that's a thing of the past.

My driving instructor, Jill, after thirty hours on the road with me, finally felt comfortable enough to ask me about my nickname last weekend.

"So why are you called Nette?"

"Because my full name is Jeanne Therese, which was shortened to Jeannette, which eventually became Nette... Why? People here seem to have a problem with it, I notice."

"Yeah, yeah," she said. "Only, I think, because it doesn't really SOUND like a NAME, you see... It sounds more like a fish net or a hair net or a...a..."

"Like the internet," I supplied.

"Yeah, yeah, exactly."

That got me thinking. Right now, I'm applying for part time jobs, and I need to decide what professional name I should be called at interviews and later on, at work. Maybe I should stop forcing people to go through the discomfort of saying NETTE. Maybe I should keep going by JEANNE ANDRES and just steel myself to get used to it, whether it's said ZHAN or JEAN. Or maybe I should ask friends or future colleagues to call me JEANNETTE? Since it has a "nette" at the end, I figure I'd respond to it more than I would to "Jeanne." Is this pretentious? Am I about to join the league of Filipino migrants who have changed and Westernised their names along with their country of residence? When Totoy becomes Toto, Ging becomes Jen, and so on.

What say you?

Where Ukay-ukay Comes From

Ever wondered where ukay-ukay comes from? This was one of the very first things I discovered upon living in the UK.

Read one of the many flyers we get in our mailslot each day:

Dear householder,

CLOTHING COLLECTION

WE URGENTLY NEED CLOTHING that you and your family may never wear again. Maybe it's no longer your size, out of fashion or style. Also of great help, mobile phones, blankets, sheets, shoes, handbags, curtains, belts, CD, DVD, bath and hand towels, underwear, cosmetics, toiletries, perfumes.

We will recycle your unwanted goods. A chance to empty your wardrobes of unwanted clutter and create space.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR UNWANTED CLOTHES.

Please put these items into plastic bags, stick this leaflet on the bag and leave visible outside your front door before 8:00am on the day indicated below. Come rain or shine, we will collect between 8am & 8pm.

TUESDAY

S___ Ltd is a collection company who provide people in third world countries with clothes of their families they can afford.
It provides jobs in third world countries, sorting the clothes for distribution.
It provides business for UK export, for transport companies.
It provides employment in the UK factories grading the clothes.
It provides employment for people collecting the bags door to door.


Funny thing is, most of the autumn and winter clothes we brought to the UK was bought in ukay-ukay in the Philippines, so we actually may have brought some of these unwanted clothes back to their homeland!

Just something to think about, when you go on your next ukay-ukay shopping expedition. ;)

Daycase Diary (Part Two)

While waiting for the doors to the Operating Theatre to open, I seized the chance to lift up another prayer to God, a prayer He must've heard a hundred times from me that day alone: Lord, give me a Filipino nurse, please please please. Not that I didn't trust the Brits, but I know for certain that Pinoy nurses are world-class, in care, in hygiene, in going the extra mile for their patients. I should know, my own cousins are nurses here in the UK. And since it was my first operation here, I wanted a friendly face, a kababayan, in the room, making sure no one dissed me or got unprofessional while I was under.

The Operating Theatre doors opened and lo and behold! A Pinay nurse, all smiles in her neat scrubs. The other nurse left me and the Pinay nurse plopped down on the waiting couch beside me. "Pilipina ka?" she asked, and I said yes, with obvious relief. Her name was Len, she said, but the slippers on her feet bore an embroidered "Lyn." Len or Lyn? Ahh, Visayan, like my husband.

Len immediately chatted me up and told me not to worry, as there were two other Pinoy nurses in the Operating Theatre alone! There was Toto in Recovery, and another male nurse (whom I will not name, for reasons you will understand in a bit) in the OR itself. Wonderful! I asked for one and God gave me three! What a God of abundance and provision!

Anyway, Len assured me that since I was a fellow Pinay, and she knows how conservative we Pinays are, she and the other male nurse will make sure that NO GUYS WILL BE ALLOWED in the OR while I was asleep. Well, except for my GYN-surgeon and anaesthesiologist, of course. This came as a relief to me, as the surgery was of a highly intimate nature, and maintaining my dignity and privacy was, of course, a valid concern.

Len called the male nurse into the waiting room, and after he assured me that he will personally ensure that only female staff will be able to enter the OR during my procedure, something very funny happened: He offered me Filipino products. If he hadn't looked so serious, I might've thought it was all a joke. There I was, facing surgery in a UK hospital, wearing hospital slippers and a gown that was open down the back, being offered tocino and longanisa deliveries by a Pinoy nurse! How very Pinoy! Turns out that the male nurse's wife is unemployed and this was how they were able to make ends meet, with the high cost of living in England. So I said, yes, sure, just give me your number and we'll ring you when we need Pinoy products.

Len ushered me into the Operating Theatre and I walked towards the table. All the medical staff were smiling, eager to put me at ease, and very professional. They hooked me up to the monitors, and Len gave me an encouraging smile before she got to work in the background. Another nurse put a BP monitor on my finger, while an intern tried to put an IV drip on my left hand. “Good luck with that,” I joked as the anaesthesiologist came in to see how the vein-search was going. I have very fine veins, I said, which I inherited from my maternal grandmother (Tito Rogel’s mom), and which often collapse when needles are being inserted. “Send this one home!” the anaesthesiologist jokingly barked out. He was hoary and Asian (which is how Indians or Pakistanis are called here; Chinese, Pinoys, Thais, etc are not called Asians but Orientals) and looked like he did this a million times a day. I felt safe, and I thanked God once again.

They DID manage to get an IV in without too much poking, and with a smile, the anaesthesiologist injected the sleeping drug into my IV, saying “Now you sleep…” My last memory was of the nice British nurse smiling down at me, then off I went to lala-land.

I woke up ahead of schedule in the Recovery Room, and as expected, there was Toto, the third Pinoy nurse, taking care of me. He said to relax and that the procedure went well, and that I needed to stay an hour more in Recovery before he could wheel me back up to the GYN ward where O and E were waiting. As I groggily became aware of things, the male nurse from OR came and gave me a slip of paper, on which was his wife’s mobile number. I took it and smiled at him. Turns out that Toto knows some of the Pinoys in my RC parish, and we talked about our mutual acquaintances as I steadily became more alert.

Toto personally wheeled me up to my room, not leaving me to the brash, impersonal, white male attendant who was usually tasked to do this. My reunion with O and E was happy, and after I drank, ate, rested and gone to the loo, I was able to dress in my street clothes and was discharged without any problems.

All of the treatment I received that day was absolutely free on the NHS (National Health Service), which was great, since at least some of the exorbitant taxes we pay to the UK government trickles down to us in a useful manner. Unlike back home where, I’m sad to admit, we paid taxes but rarely got anything concrete or substantial back in return.

I thank God for O, for his support and love and prayers, for how he took care of E while I was indisposed that day, and how he encouraged me to have faith in God’s healing power. I guess I’m tougher, too, than I thought I am, because I walked out of that hospital on my own two feet and was strong enough to ride a bus instead of a taxi. O was insisting on calling a cab because he didn’t want me to walk home from the bus stop, so we struck a deal: We would ride a bus to town (half of the way home), and catch a taxi from the town centre so I needn’t walk up our long road. Once home, I rang up my friend and fellow Pinay schoolmum who was watching over B after school that day, and after she brought B home, and I’d given B a nice, long hug, I fell soundly asleep in my own bed.

Next day, as I was still shaking off the effects of the anaesthesia, she brought B home from school as well. Praise the Lord for generous friends like her! And praise the Lord for making mums stronger than they think they are, because once the anaesthesia was flushed out of my system the following day, I was back to my old routine once more, school run and all. I’ll say it again: Praise the Lord!

River Got Stuck in a Bog

A bog called the Summer Hols. Couldn't blog during summer break, folks, sorry bout that. But now I'm back. At least I hope so.

Aim to blog more regularly now that school's in. But with my unpredictable housewifery schedule, don't hold your breath. Interruptions come without a moment's notice, and as you know, with young children, their every little concern is urgent and important, to them at least. And there are gazillion other intrusions, welcome or unwelcome, throughout the day.

Like now, for instance. The groceries I ordered online have just been delivered. Gotta unpack and store them properly before the frozen chicken thaws! Get back to you in a bit.

Daycase Diary (Part One)

Ahh, glad to be back on the blogosphere after resting from my little operation.

My first-ever stint in a UK hospital went very well. I was what they call here a "daycase," meaning an outpatient.

I wish it could be said that I slept fitfully and in utter peace the night before my surgery, but I didn't. I kept disturbing O with all my tossing and turning, and I kept waking up at odd hours during the night, asking myself if it was time to go already. In my mind, I knew I trusted God to take care of me, and in my heart, I felt that He was really with me, but somehow my body wanted to get it all over and done with, and was anticipating the ride to hospital all night long.

The L&D hospital is on the other side of town from our house. We needed to take two buses to get there. O and E went with me, and I was more concerned for their safety and welfare as they waited for me in such an environment (hospital-acquired infection rates are notoriously high here in the UK) than I was about my own procedure.

My fears were unfounded, it turned out. Since my case falls under gynae, I was assigned to a bed (yes, even daycases here are given beds during their stay) in that ward, so the risk of O and E getting infected by the other gynae patients was very minimal. There was even a separate dayroom for patients and visitors, with several comfy couches and chairs, and a TV. I really gave thanks to God in my heart for allaying my concerns about O and E during my hospital stay.
The nursing staff on Ward 34 were very professional and pleasant, they gave me clear instructions and even interacted with E as he roamed the ward. Each bed had access to its own console (TV, phone, radio and internet), which you could pay for using a special prepaid hospital card. You could email and even play games on it! High-tech! The wards here are nothing like wards back home. You've got all the amenities, except for four walls to give you privacy. Of course, there are curtains to shield you all round but it's still different. If someone is thoughtless and inconsiderate enough to choose not to use the headphones to listen to the radio, as someone did during my stay, then the whole bay has to listen to it, as well.

The whole thing might've been enjoyable if not for the mandatory pre-operative fast. No food, no drink, not even a sip of water, hours before the surgery. And it was such a boiling hot day, too, a bad day to be off water, especially for a normally well-hydrated Pinay like me.

Finally, a ward nurse told me it was time to go. Wrapping myself up in my own dressing gown, as the hospital gown kept opening up at the back, I walked down with her, chatting about the current heatwave. As we emerged from the lift, she led me through the corridor into the waiting room outside the OR, which they call here as the Operating Theatre.

More on this tomorrow. I actually finished the whole daycase diary, writing the whole thing for the better part of two hours, but when I clicked on "Publish Post," Blogger asked me to sign in again, and I lost everything that came after this point... Makes me feel like crying, as I'm sure you understand. I mean, how stupid can I be not to save the whole thing on Word first, as I normally do, before I tried to publish it? Anyway, tomorrow I'll give it another go.

Nada Te Turbe

Another day, another chance to entrust myself to the love of God.

O is off work today to bring me to hospital for a minor procedure to remove polyps from my uterus. I will need to be put to sleep during the surgery, according to the GYN whom I only met once when I had my first consultation several months ago. E, who still can't be left in anyone else's care without crying all day, will need to come along with O to hospital. I am actually more concerned about them getting near any hospital viruses during their wait for me there than I am about the actual procedure. I will ask them to wait somewhere else, probably, not inside. I don't want to risk their health for mine. B will be collected from school by a friend, a Pinoy mum from the same parish whose son is in the same year as B.

It's my first time to be admitted to a UK hospital, and though I'm nervous about what lies ahead, precisely because I don't know what lies ahead, I do know that God is with me and my family, and He will be with me as I sleep, and He will be with my family, as well. He will guide the doctors, and He will make sure I won't come to harm. I've gotten many messages of prayer and encouragement (from Pinoys and non-Pinoys alike) via SMS/Chikka/telephone, and I praise God for the support He gives me through people who care.

I am peaceful in my heart, but one can't have too many people praying for oneself. So please do include us in your prayers today, won't you?

Heartbreak in England

Walking to church yesterday evening, we passed houses flying St George's flag. Driveways were packed with cars flying miniatures of the same flag. From inside the houses, we could hear shouts and yells, from men and women alike. It was the World Cup, England vs Portugal, and late into the game, the score was still 0-0.

More than a year after moving here, I still am quite ignorant about the basics of football, except that I know how popular the sport is in Europe. Still haven't caught the football fever myself, though. But it's very interesting to watch how football fans go crazy over it, how people work their schedules around matches, how everyone on the street wears England shirts and how every other home proudly flies the flag. Some homeowners have even gone to extreme lengths, painting their houses' entire facades white with a red cross, and some car owners have done the same, as well. It's amazing how fanatical some people have become over the sport!

An hour later, walking back from church on the same route, the houses were quiet. A few people were walking, shoulders slumped, flags tied around their waist. Eyes looked down, everyone looked dejected. It made me feel like walking up to some of them and offering my condolences. Suddenly our neighbourhood was a ghost town. In other parts of England, drunk fans vented their anger and frustration through crime. We didn't need to look up the news on the BBC sport website to know the outcome.

England had been booted off the World Cup final.

Sympathies to England, mates. Even though your all-out fanaticism still amuses me, I really do feel sorry for you all. Broken dreams and broken hearts, but the boys did do well. If only Beckham hadn't been injured. Now he's even stepped down as Captain... Oh well. Maybe four years from now you'll have better luck.

About to Forage

I read a recent BBC article which mentions, among other things, how declining female fertility evolved "so that women in tribes could forage instead of being occupied by childcare." It's an interesting article, raising sentive ethical issues about motherhood and working, but it also stresses that "this (issue) is no longer a problem" in this day and age.

According to the article, "women historically needed to be available to forage for food for the good of the group... Studies suggest women with small babies focussed (sic) on providing food for them... Declining fertility is a natural contraceptive which means women are less likely to have children and therefore be distracted from foraging."

Now, I am not yet menopausal, so this whole fertility debate is not personal, lest you think otherwise! I am not sure where you stand on the issue of IVF, and until I dig deeper into this, I hesitate to share my own thoughts. I need to read what the Church and the Holy Father has said about this, and I need to look at the ethics of the science involved first. But I'm not here to write about IVF.

I'm here to talk about foraging.

It's interesting to hear it said that childcare "distracts" mothers from foraging. I would have thought that mothering is the mission of mothers, not a mere distraction from working to bring food on the table. But perhaps that is the culture of this continent of rich countries where I live now. I can now declare it with certainty: I, a Filipina mother, am admittedly shellshocked by the traditional values of the West.

But no matter. I know who I am and what I believe in, and I won't budge from how I've been taught and raised. I know what's important to me and my family, and I know that raising my children is not a mere "distraction" from having a career.

Having said that, let me share with you one startling conclusion I have arrived at, through prayer and reflection: God wants me to help O to forage now. He reminded me of my marriage vows, in which I promised to help my partner to provide for our family, and He said to me, gently and without intending to shake the ground on which I stood, "You have been a loving mother to your children. Now it's time to love your husband, too. He needs and deserves your help. I will take care of everything. This is how I plan to bless you."

So here I am now, about to apply for two local jobs, one part-time, one job-share. I will choose only one, ultimately, of course. There was, at first, the inevitable guilt about "abandoning" my children to the care of strangers, no matter how well-qualified they are. But a dear friend here reminded me, with words to this effect: "You are not abandoning them. You are doing this for their own good, especially E, who is two now. You can't give him all that he needs now. It will be good for him emotionally to grow more independent from you, socially to interact more with his peers and other grown-ups outside your family, and intellectually to be stimulated in an outside learning environment. Don't feel guilty."

It's hard to fight guilt when you claim that it's not there, so I think it was good that I exposed my feelings early on. But as I get nearer and nearer to the possibility of foraging itself, the guilt slowly dissipates and is replaced by a growing peace and conviction that this is the right path for me.

It's like driving on the inner lane of a roundabout for more than four years, never needing to stop or change lanes or turn, and suddenly, God taps me on the shoulder and whispers, "Just take the next turn on the left, please."

"What?! There? The nearest one?" I ask.

"Yes," He replies calmly.

"Wait, wait, I'm still on roundabout mode... Can't we go round one more time and then make the turn?"

"You can move into the correct lane now, if you follow my instructions. Keep your eyes on that bollard over there on that island, and you will be in the right position to leave the roundabout."

I follow and obey, and instead of asking Him where we are going, as I dearly would love to do, I just wait and listen attentively to His next instructions.

Am about to leave the roundabout soon. About to forage in the wild world to help my husband bring food to the table.

But I am still a wife and mother, and still, more importantly, a child of God.

As the eyes of a servant looks at the hands of her master... I watch, and wait.

Remembered

I chanced on a Pinoy forum today while looking for online records of titles of my past research publications and student awards--- I'm updating my dusty old CV, otherwise I wouldn't even bother looking them up! Well, I never bothered to remember them or chronicle them properly in the first place, and I left all my academic stuff back home, which is why I now have to find their titles elsewhere.

So after searching my desktop and my files, I finally decided to do the most obvious thing in the world--- I Googled my maiden name. The links that came up! Wow. I couldn't resist skimming through this site called mabuhaybeauties.com where one Pinoy gentleman named me as his choice for most intelligent Binibining Pilipinas winner! I was floored, I tell you. Anyway, I posted back, and I suppose half of them won't believe it's really me, hehe, but I needed to thank him for his nice compliment, at any rate. It felt nice to be remembered, even for something as ancient as my stint in the Binibining Pilipinas pageant.

And although I've never really thought of myself as a "beauty queen," and have never let the term define me, my identity, my choices or my relationships, I realise that I am who I am today because of EVERYTHING in my past, and that I should love and accept myself for who I am, and for all that God has allowed to happen in my life.

We spent the weekend playing with our little boys in the garden-- jumping on the little bouncy castle, playing crazy bowling, sliding down into a pool of balls, bouncing around on big balls all over the grass. Such pure, childlike joy! Such uncomplicated pleasures! B squealed with laughter as he played with O. And today, my two-year-old E plucked a tiny yellow flower from the ground, toddled up to me and quietly put it into my hand. I will never forget how his eyes looked at me as he did that. Moments like those make it all matter.

My List

Had an interesting online chat the other day with a very dear friend-- hmmm, let's call her Maria. Slightly edited, it went something like this:

Maria: hi! am still dazed from a meeting i had this morning. learned that i will be out of town for most of the next 4 weeks to give training in sorsogon and in subic...hehehe...i'm getting old... there is still this part of me refusing to accept the fact that at my age i have these responsibilities hehehe

Me: what do you mean, at your age? that you are too old for it, or too young?

Maria: at my "old" age i have greater responsibilities and therefore more work

Me: that's funny, i always think of myself as 28 hehe... you're not "old", maria! you are young! at your young age, you are conducting training on social transformation on a national scale... who else can say that? you are in your thirties, sheesh! you're a loooooong way from being a venerable, ripe old age, eligible for semi-retirement responsibilities, hehehe

Maria: after my parents died i felt old... i felt i would soon follow....and felt tired of life so i felt death would come soon and therefore i should do what i "have to do"

Me: i seem to remember you saying that... but maybe it's because you felt you had no one to take care of you, the buck stops with you, no one to be accountable to?

Maria: right and no one accountable for me

Me: hay, maria... i could sit here and say "that's not true" but it won't mean anything, and it won't console you at all... so i will just sit here and say... (made loads of funny emoticon faces here)... rejoice in your youth!

Maria: yeah...i don't need consolation...it was a real thing for me but it's just part of the grieving process for me...am ok... yes, am slowly realizing i am still YOUNG!!!!

Me: better hurry up, by the time you finish realising that fact, you may really be old na, bwahahaha!

Maria: hahaha!

Me: know what? i feel young... sometimes i'm up, sometimes down, but i always feel young

Maria: that's a very good feeeling!

Me: i feel i have my whole life ahead of me, that i "ain't seen nuthin' yet" as tito rogel used to say... so many things i still want to do... i have a looong list

Maria: maybe i should make one

Me: i want to go back to my studies, i want to work in climate research and do atmospheric stuff, i want to travel, i've lived in the UK for a year but i've never brought my family to EUROPE, shame on me! i want to bring the kids to Disneyland, whether paris or california... i want to explore Africa... i want to go on a cruise... i want to know more about ecumenism... i want to know about other faiths, other cultures, other beliefs... i want to know so many more people...i want to write books, write musicals, sing again, play in a band, learn French and German and Spanish, have another baby...God knows what else! I feel my lifetime won't be enough! hehehe

Maria: i want to go out of the country again! I want to go to Batanes and Vigan...i want to get married soon so i can have babies... hehehe...i want to have a boyfriend soon first...hehehe

Me: yeah! right on! our dreams keep us young and our experiences keep us grounded, which is a good balance

Maria: yes!!!! sige i will make my own list


We all have so much to live for. No matter how much we've done in life, or with our lives, there's always something more that awaits us, something more we have to discover or experience.

Make your own list, won't you?

Back in the Sun

Fine, fine, I know. There's no excuse for not blogging. Except that May 28th-June 3rd was half-term holiday, so my older son was home all week from school. And from June 5th till now, well, I've been out nearly everyday, soaking up the sun, saying hello to summer on the pretext of running errands in town. Hello, blue skies! Hello, white puffy clouds! Hello, bright new world! The weather's been too nice to stay indoors. Sorry, blog, you just can't compete with sunshine.

Apart from that, I have also been struggling with headaches from too much monitor glare, so it's been really challenging trying to figure out how to blog while keeping my eyes shut.. :D

There have been lots of creative juice flowing into the story I'm writing now. Best way to keep it flowing is not to talk about it, though. I've been "meeting" new characters in the book during my sleep, and sometimes I wake up at dawn, crying or laughing, fresh from a scene that's just played itself out in my dreams. Can't wait to share it with all of you when the proper moment comes. It might take a few years, though. Just structuring the plot will take time and careful thinking. Am having loads of fun with the names I've found, so that's a nice hobby within this bigger hobby.

I've been seriously praying about working part-time this coming autumn, to help O with putting food on the table, and to be able to afford to send E to a very good private day nursery near our house. It's time for him to get out and socialise without me around. It will help his language skills and build his confidence. It's also high time for me to get out and do something not child-related, I suppose. Been fighting feelings of guilt about the whole getting-back-to-work scenario, banishing absurd thoughts from my head. But I've got very good models of great working mums, friends and sisters who have remained loving mothers despite their need to work, or their desire to have a career.

My head is pounding again. More on this tomorrow :)

Grey Skies and Sad Songs

Given that today's grey skies and gusts of wind were doing nothing to lift my spirits, it probably wasn't the smartest idea to listen to Josh Groban and Eva Cassidy, both extremely gifted musical artists in the sad song genre. But still, I did it. Call it the masochist in me.

The new story is doing quite well, considering. Developing new characters (New? As compared to what? Hard to believe this all hit me just 6 days ago) and trying to build some sensible plot structures around my scattered thoughts run wild. Back to my old writing style though--- long-hand, no longer on keyboard--- since prolonged exposure to monitor glare has been giving me headaches lately. Happy to say it has seemed to boost the creative process. Hope I don't run out of paper, as even Jo Rowling did recently. And, more importantly, I hope I can decipher my handwriting when I need to read what I've written down!

While showering, I got hit by an inspiration for a song, something which hasn't happened in a while. Trying to capture it before it dissipated into eternal nothingness, I tried to figure out how to do it. No guitar, no keyboard. Can't sight-read music or do the opposite. Have always done it this way: Inspiration hits, I sit on the keyboard and figure out the notes I just sang/heard in my brain, and then I transcribe the notes onto paper with the words, if any come. Now, with no instrument on hand, not even a sound system to record on, I am forced to try to hum it as often as I can till I figure out a way to record it. Will probably try recording directly onto the computer's hard drive with a mic, but that might be weird. Sigh. Lord, You are forcing my resourcefulness to the limit, indeed! When will You stop having me always be a girl scout?

How much I miss singing. I miss writing songs. I miss making music. I miss performing live. I miss recording in the studio. I miss playing with a band. I miss the rush of creative energy just sitting in a room with musician friends, expecting magic to be made any moment.

I miss all that. Can't do anything about it, though. For now, here is where I'm supposed to be, and here is where I am.

At least, Josh Groban did me favour today while all this went on in my head--- his music put E soundly to sleep :)

Further Into Your Heart, O Lord

Just back from a women's overnight event with Antioch women. It was unbelievably bursting with grace and newfound love. An incredible spiritual, emotional, relational top-up. A weekend of nonstop a-ha moments and eye-openers.

On the train to King's Cross-St Pancras, I was clutching my handbag and was suddenly struck by a tremendous, overwhelming thought: For the first time in many years, I was alone, by myself, on my way to a place I'd never been. No pushchair, no baby bag, no nappies, no milk-stained jacket or crumb-covered sleeves to define me. I was no one's wife or mother, no one's daughter or friend. I was just, well, me.

The thought petrified me for a timeless minute. I mutely rummaged around in my thoughts, digging deep into the depths of my soul, searching for the Old Me, fingers fumbling, groping around as if for a missing paperclip in the bottom of a very cluttered purse. Where are you? Is this you? What about this? Or this? Where IS that dratted girl?, I asked vexedly.

I was looking for the Old Me, a fearless, adventurous traveler and explorer, who was perfectly at home in her own skin, alone but never lonely, enjoying good company but never needing it to complete the joy of her journey. And after those first earth-shattering minutes, I can gleefully report that I found her. After all those years, she's back. With a vengeance, I might add.

And just imagine, all this was just on the trip to the event itself!

Met up with newly-found mate Joyce at King's Cross and both of us lamented, almost at the same time, that we had very conveniently forgotten our own cameras and had been hoping the other would somehow remember to bring hers. Alas, our common wavelength resulted in common memory loss and trounced us this time. No matter. Maybe we were meant to savour the weekend by BEING THERE instead of busily taking snapshots to reminisce over later.

The talks were nothing I hadn't heard before: God's personal love for me, Loving one another, Loving others enough to bring them the good news... But somehow, they cut me to the heart, moving me to fall in love with the Lord all over again, inspiring me to put aside my lame excuses about talking to the other mums in school about God, giving me spiritual eyes as I looked into my new sisters' faces and saw them, not as they are now, but as they will be, as God is making them. And I felt a sudden rush of profound love for these women, all of whom I had never met a year ago, but who were now faces of God's love for me here, in this foreign place. Beautiful faces, all of them.

I remember a plaque in the chapel where Antioch meets: "In this house are no strangers, only friends we do not know." It comforts me and convinces me even more that this is where I am supposed to be. God knew the tentpegs of my heart had grown too comfy where they had been. I was then in a place where I was known and loved, and where I never had to reach out or reveal myself to people I'd never met. And He said, High time for a stretch, RiverPilgrim, and did just that by bringing me here. Where I have to step out of my skin, my comfort zone, and know and be known all over again. Can be exhausting at times, but I know in my gut that all this stretching is enlarging my territory, extending my borders, widening my perspective. For good. Always, for good. I really thank God for all He has been doing in my life. What would I do without Him? Where would I go? How would I live? How would I love?

As if all these weren't enough, I've been given another bonus, as well: During one of our times of prayer, an idea for a character popped into my head and was so real, she almost walked bodily into the room. Overnight, the few scattered images and concepts she brought into my head quickly snowballed into enough material for a short story, then for a novelette, then for a children's book, then for a trilogy! All on 4-5 back-to-back pages of hastily scribbled notes which kept me writing furiously till 1 am.

Only three people on this planet know my heroine's name (starts with a D, but that's all you're gonna get from me, sorry) and parts of her story, and I'll need to really remind myself to keep a lid on things while the story plays itself out in my head. And I think, well, even if it never gets published, it will be fun to write fiction. For the first time ever, too.

The Economics of Migration

Accuse me of leaving my homeland for money, dear friend, and you will hear me laugh in your face. Looooong and hard.

Back home, we had a car to drive. I had a cellphone. An electronic CASIO keyboard. An RJ guitar. My own 3-2-1 sofa set. A chandelier. A big TV. A refrigerator. A dining table. Our own bed.

Here? No car. No mobile phone, the brands are too expensive. No musical instruments yet, not on our basic priority list. No TV, the annual TV licence fee (required just for OWNING a TV set here in the UK) is way too much. And as for the couch, the dining set, the fridge, the beds--- they all come with the house we are renting, and none of them belongs to us.

Back home, O and I could afford to watch a movie every other week or so. We could all eat at Chow King's or Jollibee or KFC or McDonald's once in a while, after our family grocery time. We had househelp to leave the children with when we needed to go out on dates or meetings. We could sit at Starbucks or Seattle's Best and have one-to-ones over white chocolate lattes.

Here? Movies for juniors (at ₤1 on Sat mornings) are all we can afford. Regular movies cost ₤6 or more and are considered a real luxury. A simple family snack in a McDonald's here could feed a Payatas family for a whole day. Never mind KFC, where you get to eat the same breaded chicken for 5x the price back home. We have never been out on a date by ourselves, O and I, ever since we got here; registered childminders are too expensive. And oh, the times I've gazed longingly at Costa's or Starbucks while walking past...

Back home, we had full and constant access to a rich variety of relationships in community. We lived near brothers and sisters we had known half our lives, and needed just a reasonable amount of time to travel to meetings.

Here, we are geographically isolated from our community in London. To attend meetings each fortnight, we need to take two trains, spending an hour and a half just to get to West London.

So tell me that we left our beloved country to get rich or have an easy life, dear friend, and I will consider that the joke of my entire uprooted year.

Not that we are miserable, no! We have never been happier, more united, more at peace, more contented, more fulfilled than we are now.

Here, I have a husband who doesn't need to work 12-14 hours a day just to bring us to subsistence level. My children have a father who isn't away by the time they wake up, who isn't still driving home in heavy traffic by the time they nod off. O walks B to school each morning, and is home for our family meal by 6pm each evening. O gives E his bedtime bath, and has time for cuddles and stories with the boys. After the children are tucked in bed, our evenings are spent talking, laughing, watching DVDs, praying. There is time to share, to discover, to laugh, to mourn, to wonder, to seek, to be.

Here, we are never tempted to take community for granted. It is much too precious a resource to squander, those weekend meetings. We breathe in all the spiritual fresh air we can, like whales surfacing, filling up their lungs before plunging back down into the depths. And fresh air, we get, with God's grace.

But forget all that, the bottom line still is this:

We feel blessed because we believe we are where God intends us to be. He has a purpose for bringing us here. We prayed, we discerned, we didn't just decide on our own, or weigh the pros and cons. We were led here by His hand, and we followed Him in obedience. We had sought his Will, and once He had made clear to us why he WAS and WASN'T calling us out of our homeland, uprooting us from all we had known, we chose to trust His leading. He didn't lead us here to make us rich, He never promised us an easy life, He never led us to believe that we were here for our own ends.

God wrought our move here, from beginning to end.

He marked the path, He went ahead, and He rode alongside us each step of the way.

God promised us that He can and will give us Life wherever He chooses to place us. And that Life is what we seek, that Life of childlike trust, that Life of abandonment to His Will, that Life of simplicity, contentment and joy, no matter where we are.

So no, sorry, we didn't leave home to get rich.

But we have grown closer to Him, grown in our trust in Him, grown in our understanding of His ways, grown in recognising where He still wants us to grow. As spouses, as parents, as persons, as souls, as pilgrims in search of Home.

A year away, and what have we got to show for it? Not a nice fat bank account, I assure you. Not a car, or a house, or gadgets, or furniture.

Instead we show you our hearts. Our children. Our marriage. Our love. Our new friends. The wisdom we have gained from trusting God. The joy we have felt in obeying Him. The peace we enjoy by being with Him.

Yes, we have ended up with wealth beyond measure.

PS In case you think I'm for or against migration per se, I'm neither. I am, rather, all for seeking God's will and direction for our lives at all times, in all circumstances. And then, to obey, and to bloom where He plants us. If you are thinking about leaving your country, pray. Be honest about your motives. If you are struggling or torn in prayer, pray some more. And if you are confused or are hearing too many voices around you, telling you what to do, pray, pray, pray. On our knees, fellow pilgrims.

The Vanishing Nut

Night falls, and it is cold and quiet outside my window. Time stops as I slowly, methodically bring out my old, long-forgotten things. Again.

They are not really that old: a letter from a friend, different memorabilia, remembrances, souvenirs, old photographs… No, they are not old. They are as ancient as time itself. And no, I have not forgotten…

Was it only seven months ago when I walked down the stage to proclaim that I survived high school? When I held that piece of paper ever so tightly, and vowed not to cry? When I resolved not to be too emotional, and ended up weak and confused, with my face a transparent mask of the fervid turmoil of emotions inside me? Was it true? Did it really happen? Was it me?

It must’ve been me, I mutter angrily, reproaching myself again. I don’t remember any schizophrenic blood running in my family, but sometimes I just wonder where the other side of me comes from.

Bit by bit, piece by piece, I bring out the things which are a part of who I was, and of who I am. Here and there are traces of yesterday: an old photograph, the pin which my friends and I wore in freshman year, the first poem I ever tried to write, my test paper in sophomore algebra, a copy of my first published work, newspaper clippings, birthday cards, letters… I stop.

Just after graduation, my friend Lilo gave me a letter. Which was surprising in itself, since I knew that she wasn’t one of those writers who had a reasonable respect for deadlines. And besides, I hadn’t assigned her anything, much less given her a deadline. So I simply gawked when she pressed the letter into my palm, recording every feature and emotion on her unnaturally serious face which was there for me to see. And long after I had gotten over the shock of getting a letter from her, of actually getting an honest-to-goodness letter from her, I still couldn’t bring myself to open it. Perhaps because I knew what it would say. Perhaps because I thought she might be right. Perhaps because I was afraid that she would be.

I start to read.

“I vowed centuries ago that I’d write to old friends at least once before I leave but I kept putting it off, comfortable in the knowledge that you are just around the bend and it would be a long while before you make your disappearing acts. In truth, I kept putting it off because I didn’t want to think that the time for goodbye would ever come. But now it has arrived and I guess I have no choice…”

Lilo and I became friends in high school during our freshman year. The closest description I could give to describe how we were then is but one word: crazy. We were the weird ones in our class, always opting for the unique, always laughing at the corniest jokes, always loving the same thoughts on dancing, on friends, on food, on art, on music, on the importance of reputation, on justice, on life. We were virtual soulmates.

Lilo taught me how to laugh, and together we discovered the real meaning of the word fun.

But…

Things changed, time passed, and I grew older.

“…You know what? A lot of people admire you for what you are now, but not me. I’M NOT IMPRESSED. Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m proud of what you have become, but somehow, in achieving these things, you had swamped a facet in your personality that I do admire- remember ‘Net-net the Nut?’ I met that girl four years ago when we were still full of dreams, ready to take risks and conquer high school, armed only with guts to accept the defeats. We have come a long way since, each choosing a different path. And looking back now, I have no regrets as to the route I have taken. And neither, I think, have you…”

Regrets?

Yes, I have achieved many things. I have gained many friends, and I have changed. I am happy and contented with what I have. I am satisfied in the knowledge that I have done my best. That I deserve what I have received. That I have done no one wrong. And no, I do not think I have any regrets. Or do I?

Doubts. Dreams. Illusions.

Is it worth giving up my old crazy self for? Is it worth experiencing all of the pain and fatigue I am going through? Is it worth it?

Oh, what to believe? But wait- have I really changed? Or is it still Me deep down inside?…

“People are surprised to find out that we get along famously, because from their point of view, we are the proverbial opposite poles: one is carefree and the other is serious. HA! If they only knew! As I always say, ‘Once a nut, ALWAYS A NUT.’ You have one good sense of humor, and I hope it stays with you until the time comes for me to read about you in the newspapers. Then I’ll tell my children that that girl is as crazy as I am. And that we once vowed to each other that we won’t let our near non-existent race die. I’d be extremely proud of you then but I’d be prouder still if I hear you laugh, for that means you didn’t allow our breed to dwindle and die…”

I wonder how many more nuts are left in this world? How many people still care for and nourish a childlike, carefree Me inside of them? A fragment of their personalities which craves for fun, for mischief, for the sweet days of youth? For freedom from the everyday hustle and bustle of life? For freedom from responsibilities and worries, even for just a while? For laughter, for cheer, for sheer abandon? For the child inside them?

“In this crazy world, one has to fight to survive, and what better way to fight than to fight laughing. This way you’ll always emerge victorious. And when you do, think of me…”

Things have changed, time has passed, and I have grown older.

With age came the burden of responsibilities, things that weren’t mine to take care of before but now were completely left in my hands. And as I matured, as I learned, as I hardened, and as I transformed into the butterfly that I was somehow meant to be, I forgot the crazy Me that I was before. I thought that she had gone. I thought that she was nothing but a part of yesterday, my yesterday.

But no, she was there. She was always there, deep inside- waiting, hoping, yearning for the day when I would let her come out again. Longing for the moment when I would set her free…

Once more, I look at the letter in my hand.

I close my eyes. And I wipe off the tears.

{Written in 1988 at age 17}

Your Comments

I have FINALLY been able to sit down and respond to all your wonderful comments posted on the different blog entries from April till now, both here and in my other blog. Hope I didn't leave any comment unanswered.

That's one tick on today's to-do list. Now about the twenty others... hmmm...

Will write more soon. Promise.

A Book Inside Me Waiting To Come Out

Wanna know a secret? I've been thinking about writing a book lately. Not that it's the first time it's occurred to me.

Half of me has been toying around with plotlines and background and characters, but half of me is terrified witless at the mere thought.

I feel privately guilty when I write, even just on blogs like this. Can't help it. Is writing for rich mums who can afford to pay someone else to do chores? Hard to write when your daily schedule revolves around cooking, cleaning and childcare. If I indulge in the luxury of write-till-I-drop, B won't have a way home and dinner won't be ready at six.

It would sure be nice to write, though.

What's A Blog Anyway?

That's what I asked myself when I first heard the word.

What's a blog for?

Is it a kind of diary? But if it is, why not just save it on a hard drive instead of letting the whole world read it? In my day, diaries used to come with a lock and key, hidden in secret drawers, sometimes even written in clever code. Now I can read blogs of people from all over the world, and be let in on their dreams, thoughts and private musings.

Is it the written equivalent of reality TV, then? A chance for licenced, anonymous voyeurism into the private lives of strangers, as much as they are willing to expose themselves to the world?

And for the blogger, is it a conceited thirst for attention, for recognition, for affirmation? Is it a self-centered appeal to be noticed? To matter? To prove to the world that we are here? A case of "I blog, therefore I am?"

Or is it a chance to be heard? To express oneself, whether for clarity or catharsis? To put out one's thoughts into the vast reaches of the Web and see if anyone will care enough to listen?

And why is it called a "blog" at all?

Before I did "Ask Jeeves" about it and find out that "blog" is a nickname for the very boring "weblog," here were my theories, which were immensely more colourful than truth, I think:

• the term was coined from "blah log," which describes the common content of a huge chunk of the 60 million blogs in existence to date;
• it was inspired by the Batman/comics-type sound effect "kah-blog," denoting the sound of a heavy object hitting solid ground; and
• for me, especially, it came across as a shortcut for "back-log," representing my list of 30-plus (and growing) topics which I thought would be interesting to talk about in my blog.

Why blog at all? Why do people do it? What drives us to reveal our secret selves to anonymous readers? What compels us to show the world what we think and how we feel? How do bloggers overcome the instinctive gut feel of protecting their privacy, which many of us prize more than we are aware of ourselves, in order to share bits and pieces of themselves to people they might never meet?

And what does blogging say about what society has now become? About culture? About humanity? Are we morphing more and more into a global, albeit virtual, village? Or are we becoming more drawn to faceless friendships, preferring these to real-life relationships? Are we growing more detached from people around us, growing disinterested in direct, physical interaction with other humans? Are we craving for nameless intimacy in a safe medium? Are we becoming a virtual community?

Are we asking to be touched and known? Or do we mask ourselves under layers of unsigned prose for fear of it?

MSPSL

Had another 2-hour go at the Driving Simulator today.

Perfecting Gears didn't go too badly, but I absolutely sucked at Accelerating and Braking.

Not that I didn't brake "firmly and progressively," as the well-modulated female voice said of my performance, but because I kept taking too long getting to (and correctly changing gears to reach) the desired speed, which in my case was 60 mph. But my foot was pushing the gas pedal as far as it could go, and my gear change speed wasn't too bad, I think. I must've done the exercise a dozen times, wasting precious time, until I finally asked the staff for help, and she gave me a few tips to get around the machine's limitations. Finally, I was able to hit 60 by the time I passed my first post, maintained speed, braked at the second post and stopped and secured the car on the target spot on the road. But I was so frustrated at the time wasted, grrrrr! Simulators really are useful only up to a certain point, compared to actual on-road driving with an instructor, as you can't ask questions or ask your instructor to show you how it's done properly. So you're doomed to learn from your mistakes by trial and error, and hooray for you if you're a fast self-taught learner.

Then it was Emergency Stops, which was a piece of cake, as my reaction times were consistently quicker than average and my braking distance was shorter than was typical. I tried to make it make me feel a bit better, but then I thought, how many times in my life will I need to stop "as in an emergency," anyway? If you ask me, I'm hoping never.

Then it was Turning Left, Turning Right and Turning Right with an Oncoming Car, using the acronym MSPSL:

M-irror
S-ignal
P-osition
S-peed
L-ook

Some creatively-challenged person must've really hurt himself coming up with such a dorky acronym, I thought to myself. I mean, how much harder can it be to remember? I pictured myself on the road, trapped, driving past turns I should have taken, unable to turn because I couldn't remember the acronym that was supposed to make it easier to remember how to turn in the first place... Ummm, was it PSLMP? LPSPM? PSSP? MYMP? PPM? Waaahhh, I need to turn! There goes my son's school round the corner!!... Well, maybe my imagination needs a shorter leash, and maybe the "dorky" bit was unfair and hyper-critical of me, I admit, but I was having a frustrating session and needed to vent some bad vibes, remember?

So MSPSL, were you to blame for a bad run at the Simulator? Or maybe it was just my PMS?

Oh well. Till my next and last Simulator date on Thursday.

And then, come Saturday--- heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it's on-the-road we go!

Set Aside Every Fear

If you read the current entries in my other blog, you will see where I am right now. And if you do read, and you do see, then you will understand why I am choosing to share this "dialogue" with you here, on RiverPilgrim, for it is a prayer which has kept me company all week, giving me light and strength which I would not possess otherwise.

It is taken from Catherine of Siena's The Dialogue (with God), as presented by John Kirvan in his devotional book "Set Aside Every Fear: Love and Trust in the Spirituality of Catherine of Siena":

GOD SPEAKS...

If you choose me as your companion

you will not be alone;

my love will always be with you.

You will never fear anyone or anything,

for you will find your security in me.

With me as your companion

you will live in the light of faith

with hope and fortitude,

with true patience and perseverance,

all the days of your life.

I loved you

before you existed,

and knowing this

you can place your trust

in my love

and set aside every fear.

Enjoy my love,

live in me

and take from me

the light of my wisdom.

Confront the princes and tyrants

of this world

with my strength.

Take from me

the fire of my Spirit

and share with all

my mercy and my burning Love.

You are not alone.

You have me.

I RESPOND...

Be my companion

through the darkness of this night.

With your strength

let me confront

the princes and tyrants

of this world.

Let me borrow

the fire of your Spirit

and share with all

your mercy

and your burning love.

You have loved me

even before I existed,

and knowing this,

I can place my trust

in your love

and set aside every fear.

Amen.

Thank you for traveling with me on this unpredictable River of life, my fellow Pilgrims. Rocky beds ahead.

Bank Holidays in England

Today, the 1st of May, is yet another UK Bank Holiday. If you're like me, a novice to British customs and eager to learn as much as one can about it, you'd wonder why they're called bank holidays at all. (Back home, for instance, they're simply called non-working holidays.)

So I googled it and came up with the following explanation from Take Our Word For It at http://www.takeourword.com/TOW135/page2.html. It says:

"What is a bank holiday?
The term started out referring to days when banks (in the U.K.) were closed so that bank employees could have a holiday. Before 1834, banks observed 33 days a year as bank holidays, and these were mostly saints' days and the typical church holidays like Christmas and Easter. In 1834, however, bank workers had most of those taken away such that the only holidays left were Good Friday, May 1st, November 1st, and Christmas Day. Yet, someone felt for the poor bank workers, so that in 1871, Sir John Lubbock's Act was passed, naming the following as bank holidays in England and Ireland: Easter Monday, Whit Monday, the first Monday in August, and Boxing Day (December 26). In Scotland they got New Year's Day, May Day, the first Monday in August, and Christmas Day. These holidays came to be appropriated by non-bank workers, but the term had already stuck. So, no matter for whom one works, one gets bank holidays."

I like the fact, though, that all UK bank holidays (there's one at the start of each season of the year, by the way) fall on a Monday, resulting in long weekends for family outings, tours, holidays, etc.

As for me, I like bank holiday Mondays because it's a compromise solution to a problem I've long grappled with: how to recover from weekends gracefully. Weekends are always so busy. I always ask why God didn't give us an extra day between Sunday and Monday so we could really rest and get ready for the new week. So bank holiday Mondays are a godsend, a welcome treat for me, because we get to have O with us for an extra day, and we can have an excuse to just hang out in the house and do absolutely nothing, all together as a happy, rested family. :)

And I like May, especially, because there's a bank holiday both at the start and at the end of the month!

Three cheers for bank holidays!!! Hip, hip, hooray!!!

WanderingScribe

I found WanderingScribe's blog on homelessness, and as much as I enjoyed and was affected by her from-the-gut, powerful writing, I also wanted to reach out to her and help. She's obviously educated, in her 30's, a rich soul with a back near-permanently deformed by sleeping in her car since August 2005. Read her blog, and be moved as I was. Maybe I'll email her one of these days, when I work up my courage.

The Biting Point

I learned a fantastic new driving term today: The Biting Point.

It’s the precise moment when, after setting the gas, you let up on the clutch and the engine starts to “bite” into gear. It’s from this point that you have to let up on the clutch a tiny fraction, step a bit more on the gas and keep your feet still for a few car-lengths before you let the clutch completely up. It’s this point which is so crucial for beginning drivers to master, the point at which many neophytes’ cars stall. Or, as we say back home, “namamatayan.”

When I first learned driving basics in the Philippines, left-hand drive, my Dad would supplement my lessons at the driving school by helping me to practise. But terms such as “pakinggan mo lang yung makina” and “timplahin mo lang yung clutch tsaka gas” didn’t really help me visualise what I needed to do at all. Was I driving or making a cup of coffee?

Now, after my first go at the high-tech driving simulator of BSM, I think I finally understand what has eluded me for the longest time. Talk about a-ha moments! The simulator has visual icons, status bars, plus engine sounds to help me figure out if I’m over or under the clutch point, if I need to step on the gas more, etc. And they take note of your progress and gradually give you less help and less cues as you get better at it. The status bars disappear and you realise, hey, I think I know where the biting point is! The video demos were very well-made, even teaching me how best to hold the gear stick (palm away from me) when putting it into first gear. Plus, getting all my instructions in full English (as opposed to Tagalog or Taglish) has afforded me with lots of helpful catch phrases and visual images.

Do your safety checks. Turn on the ignition. Clutch down. First gear. Set the gas. Clutch up to the biting point. Handbrake down. Both hands on wheel. Clutch up a fraction, more gas, then keep feet still. Finally, clutch all the way up and you’ve moved off, baby!

I love the driving simulator! It helps me to zoom in on particular skills in car control before I’m asked to put them all together, something which is virtually impossible in a regular car. Unless your tuition car is dual-controlled and your instructor is very accommodating. For instance, when learning how to stop, the simulator moves the car off for you on auto-pilot, so that you can just concentrate on stopping. Then, when you’ve done a couple of exercises to master it, you’re asked to do one that puts moving off and stopping together, just like in real life.

I recalled my previous driving experience more quickly than I imagined I would, and I managed to finish three lessons (moving off, stopping and changing gears) in my first hour. There are seven simulator lessons all in all, which I plan to master and practise throughout my remaining 5 hours before I finally get on-road with my instructor. I’m really looking forward to my next session next week! And get this, I’m actually ENJOYING learning to drive!

Stick shift. Right-hand drive. Gear stick and handbrake on the left. Driving on the left side of the road. Driving again after 16 years of being in the passenger seat. Know what? It’s not as hard as it sounds. I think I’ll be able to get the hang of this sooner than I give myself credit for. Thanks to all who wished me well, and please do keep saying a prayer for me, especially whenever you ride/drive and are suddenly reminded of The Biting Point.

Driving Licence, Driving Lessons

I can hardly believe it myself-- I actually lodged my application to DVLA for my first provisional driving licence today! O still being on holiday (the university doesn't open again till tomorrow), we all went to town (on foot) this sunny but chilly afternoon to go to the Post Office, the local DVLA office and the British School of Motoring(BSM).

At the Post Office on High Town Street, the subpostmaster was quizzical when I asked for a special delivery stamp for my self-addressed envelope (which contains my passport and UK visa). He explains that there is no such thing but there is a prepaid special delivery BAG. But he was asking for the sender's address, which I didn't know yet, as we were still about to go to the local DVLA office. So we just went to DVLA sans the special delivery bag and I got into the queue with number 273. When I had my turn, the nice lady there explained what I really needed to get from the Post Office, so that my passport could be returned via secure service. And she said I didn't need to queue again when I got back with from the Post Office, how really nice of her! Anyway, O decided that we didn't all need to walk back to the Arndale Centre (where the Post Office was), since it would tire B out too much. He very kindly volunteered to buy the prepaid special delivery bag for me, pushing sleeping E on his pushchair to lull him to sleep even more! So B and I waited for O and E in DVLA. Ambait talaga ng asawa ko, hay... :)

So when O came back, the nice DVLA lady stamped my application, gave me a receipt for my passport, cheque and special delivery bag, and said to wait up to 3 weeks for the licence and my passport to come back.

After applying for my provisional licence (or as it's called in the Philippines, a "student permit"), we all trooped to the BSM Luton branch to have a look at the simulator they were recommending to first-time learners. It was so cool, a real machine you can sit in, with three display panels (front, left and right views), a stick shift, handbrake, ignition key, speedometers and other stuff you really have in a car. It even has headphones so you can HEAR road sounds on the simulator! My trepidation about driving lessons quickly turned to a rush of heady excitement, as the machine brought back teenage memories of hours spent on a similar (but less high-tech) machine in Paco Amusement Park in SM City back home!

So I signed up for 6 hours on the simulator (they had a promo on the 6-hour package) and booked my first 10 hours on the road with my driving instructor, beginning mid-May. Since I can’t do on-the-road lessons without my provisional licence, I can use the 3-week wait having simulator lessons first, which is perfectly fine with me. I successfully requested for a female driving instructor and for weekend lessons, as well. I was very lucky to get weekend slots with a lady driving instructor, both of which are, of course, very popular. I don’t know how it is in other countries or with other driving institutes here in the UK, but with BSM, the instructor picks you up at home for lessons! So you get to actually drive around the area where you actually need to travel everyday! How come they don’t do that in the Philippines? I used to have to commute from Novaliches to Santo Domingo each week for my driving lessons at Socialites! Sheesh.

Then O asked the BSM receptionist how many hours their students normally need to pass the driving test, and she said, “Well, the DVLA’s rule of thumb is two hours for every year of your life…” I thought, What?!!!! I’m gonna spend 68 hours on driving lessons at close to 30 pounds an hour?!!! No way, Gokongwei!!!! But she must’ve seen the look of stupefied horror on both our faces, because she then quickly added, “But we’re less conservative than that, obviously… Around 14 hours AT LEAST, but it really depends on the learner. If the learner was a 17-year-old guy trying to impress his instructor, I’d guess it would be pretty fast, but, well, let’s see how your wife does…”

As my dad used to say, “Palakasan lang yan ng loob.”

Abangan ang susunod na kabanata ;)

Goodbye, Nursing Bras!!!

Last Wednesday, the 12th of April, was a momentous day.

Not just because it was exactly a month before my son E turns two.

Not even because, at long last, Bucky Covington was ousted from American Idol 5.

It was a day to remember because it was the day I officially banished my nursing bras to a dark, uncharted region of my dresser drawer.

Yes, my friends, after 23 months of being lovingly breastfed, E is weaned! E nurses no more! My nursing wear can retire! Wooohooooo! Yeeeehaaaaa! Yippeekayayey!

Hello, push-up bras! Hello, Baileys, sherry and white wine with dinner!

Goodbye sleep deprivation! Goodbye sore nipples! Goodbye having my blouse tugged at by E in the most public places imaginable!

Don't get me wrong, I absolutely loved being able to breastfeed both my children until they were nearly two. Full on till about a year, and then mixed with milk or formula till weaned. It's a great blessing and a great gift to have had, and I know many mothers desire what I've had the joy of doing. But it was an endless nightmare having to wean them in turn, strong-willed tots as they are.

E was even more difficult to wean than B. There were moments when, exhausted and in despair, I had to rely on O's optimistic hope that E wouldn't be hanging onto my breasts for comfort for ever. He was an invaluable help during this whole process, so this is OUR victory, not just mine. Thank God for O! Oh, how I seriously love that man.

Now I am able to enjoy cuddling E and holding him close without fear of disrobing in public. Now I am able to put him to sleep without using the breast as a sedative. Now I am able to comfort him with calming touch and quiet words, and he no longer needs to nurse to feel better. And after only a few days, I can see how much good it has done to our relationship as mother and child.

After the experience of having weaned B and E, I understand David when he declared:

"But I have stilled and quieted my soul;
Like a weaned child with its mother,
Like a weaned child is my soul within me..." (Ps 131:2)

I was struck, as well, by the reflection offered by the NIV's The New Student Bible (Expanded and Updated edition) on that particular passage. Let me share it with you:

A Child with Its Mother
"How trusting is a baby? Not very, some would say, for babies cry violently as soon as they feel the slightest hunger. It is the weaned child, a little older, who has
learned to trust its mother, to fret less and simply ask for food instead of wailing. The profound simplicity of this patience is David's model for how he, and all Israel, should wait on the Lord."

Looking at how I've fretted and worried and wailed within my soul lately, I'm thinking, perhaps the Lord's not done weaning me yet.

Oh, Lord, teach me to trust in You even more, like a weaned child with its mother.

Amen.

Remembering Rogel

It was a cool February night. As we raced to the hospital, my dad called me on the car phone to say that it was too late - that he was gone.

Rogel Plata was gone. Tito Rogel— my uncle who used to bring me to school everyday, who led me to Jesus, who inspired me to give my all to God, who drove me home after Sunday gatherings, who traveled with me on missions, who always listened to me as if I were the only person in the world— was gone. And although I knew how he saw his battle with cancer as an “all-win situation,” it didn’t change the fact that I was devastated by his death.

I choked down my tears and decided to wait till we were in the hospital before telling my mom, who was praying in the back seat, and my brother, who was driving as if all hell was chasing him. In the car park, we persuaded my mom to take meds for her blood pressure, sat her down and told her about Tito Rogel. Refusing to believe the news, she insisted on going to his room right away. When the elevator door opened on Tito Rogel’s floor, we encountered an attendant who was waiting to go down with a wheeled stretcher. On the stretcher was a body, all covered and still. My breath caught in my throat. “Rogel?” my mom asked weakly. With shaking hands, we unbound his body from the blankets. His face was still warm; death had not yet made it cold. My mother and brother wept loudly, but my tears were not yet ready to fall. We hugged him, kissed him, touched his face and said our goodbyes. My Tito Rogel was gone.

Few people outside my circle knew that Rogel Plata— the passionate preacher, all-around prankster, walking magnet to people of all ages, races and creeds, holy man of God— was my uncle, as in by blood. He was my mom's youngest brother, just 11 years older than me. People (especially the newer members of Christ's Youth in Action or CYA) who saw me talking to him and calling him "Tito Rogel" were perplexed, as he didn't really look old enough to be anyone's uncle. Some of them even became suspicious of why I was so much "sweeter" to him than to other brothers.

When I was in grade school, I used to spend my weekdays at the Plata residence in Laloma. I remember Tito Rogel as a thin, "siga" (tough guy) high school student with Afro hair, who occasionally came home from fraternity rumbles with his uniform all torn and bloody. (This was before he became a renewed Catholic.) Even then, he used to take shifts with Papang in bringing me to school everyday. Bringing a very precocious and independent niece to school was a daily occupational hazard for the young fratman. Sometimes, when I'd sit on his lap, he'd go to class with cornstarch powder all over his black pants. Or I'd insist on sitting far, far away from him in the jeepney, and then utterly embarrass him by shouting, "Tito Rogel, ok na, ibinayad na kita." (Uncle Rogel, it’s okay, I’ve already paid your fare.)

Despite all that, I think that Tito Rogel always treated me as the daughter or younger sister he never had. He became very concerned about my preoccupation with the modeling world when I was in 2nd yr high school. When I was 14, he sponsored me to attend a summer camp for the Young Adults of Ang Ligaya ng Panginoon (The Joy of the Lord) Community, where I first gave my life to the Lord. He gave me my first "grown-up" Bible (NAB), which I use to this day. He used to write me letters from wherever he was, in the States or otherwise. He was truly the one who began evangelizing me and bringing me closer to the Lord. Being a staffer of CYA, he helped me to form solid relationships with CYA sisters. All throughout my college life, and even after, he was always there to help me think and pray my way through the many difficult crossroads that I faced.

He had loved and served me in so many ways. I remember Tito Rogel to be someone who always listened to me, no matter if I was 13 or 23. As busy as his schedule always was, he made it a point to regularly spend some time with me. I cherished and looked forward to the long trip to my grandmother Mamang's house after each community or CYA event because those were the times we'd be alone, and we'd talk about God, life and other stuff one rarely talks about with one's uncle. He would go out of his way to bring me home to Novaliches afterwards. He would always remember my birthday, and every Christmas, I'd always have a simple present from him. I still remember how he literally danced for joy and hugged me tightly when we learned that I placed third in the Chem Eng’g Board Exams.

He shared my victories, but he also shared my pain. He always mediated between me and my parents during my difficult teenage years. He was always the family peacemaker, the intercessor, the counselor, the adviser. All his siblings respected him, as I did. I would always take his advice seriously as coming, not just from an astute, prayerful man of God, but from an uncle and friend who loved me very much. Even when he was undergoing chemotherapy in Singapore, he would write me to encourage me in my walk with God. He was totally selfless, totally giving. I have never met anyone else like him. I don’t think I ever will.

A month before that February night, he paged me to say that he was checking out of "Manila Hotel," a little private joke of ours about the hospital where he was staying. A few weeks later, he was back in the hospital, and due to a blessed error in the scheduling of watch-shifts, I was asked to be his companion for a day. I think I was the only female fortunate enough to be granted that honor. The memory of that day I spent with him in the hospital remains vivid in my mind. Two weeks later, he went to heaven. And there I was, standing in a deserted hospital corridor, staring at his pale, lifeless face. I felt frozen, without sensation, numb with disbelief.

At first, I tried to behave the way I thought Christians should when a loved one dies: smile peacefully, serve snacks at the wake, patiently re-tell the story of Tito Rogel’s last moments, utter platitudes and appropriate cliches to thank sympathizers. After all, wasn’t it part of being a good witness? Wasn’t I supposed to be thrilled that Tito Rogel was finally seeing God face to face? Wasn’t the death of a saintly man a cause for joy rather than of grief?

Three days into the wake, and I still hadn’t cried. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. Shock, denial, regret— these prevented me from crying out my grief. I somehow stupidly felt guilty about feeling sad, and while I knew that keeping it in would someday kill me, I still couldn’t cry.

One night at the wake, I told my friends about how I felt. They listened to me pour out my feelings about his death. I shared about my doubts, my questions, my regrets. We all talked about Tito Rogel, and fondly shared memories of him. Slowly, the numbness left my heart, as if the anaesthetic which kept me from feeling the pain was wearing off. I now felt the pain, intensely.

I had a good cry after that, and for many nights after. Because while it’s true that I’m glad he’s in heaven, it doesn’t mean that I miss him less. For although many years have passed since that February night when I kissed his still-warm cheek goodbye, Tito Rogel’s death has left a void which no one and nothing can ever fill.

Up to now, Tito Rogel remains one of the most significant people in my life. When I think of Tito Rogel, I think not just of the humorous Christian man who changed thousands of lives, or who gave the best talks, or who delivered the best punch lines. I think of my Tito Rogel as a warm, generous brother, friend and model who truly, truly loved me with an unconditional, personal, and servant love.

Today, as I face new and unconfronted crossroads, no longer as an unseasoned adolescent but as a thirtysomething wife and mother-of-two, I still often crave to hear his comforting voice, to rely on his keen wisdom, to crack up at his jokes. And yet I am comforted by the conviction that he hears me when I ask for his guidance in prayer. I somehow feel that he’s actually thrilled at being better able to help us and intercede for us to the Father.

His life serves as a gentle yardstick as I strive to love, serve and obey the Lord. When my heart remembers the joy of serving God side by side with my Tito Rogel, I grow even more determined to keep on loving God and sharing of myself with others. Not just because I know Tito Rogel will be pleased and proud of his niece, but because I’ve seen how God’s promises have been eternally fulfilled in my uncle’s life, both here and in heaven. Remembering his life gives me courage; remembering his death gives me hope.

And like many of us left behind, remembering Tito Rogel makes me laugh, and sometimes it makes me cry. When I laugh, I celebrate his life and all that God accomplished through him. And when I cry, I know that my tears don’t make me a less happy niece, nor a Christian of feeble faith.

Just someone who still misses her uncle a lot.

Happy 46th birthday, Tito Rogel. I love you.

Mimi's Kitchen

We spent Saturday night sleeping over at a friend's in Acton. I love their house and always look forward to staying there when we need to. I love the living room, the dining room, the patio, the garden at the back, the guest room where we stay, but most of all, I love the kitchen.

Mimi's kitchen is full of gadgets and labour-saving devices, and while I have gotten quite a few tips on cooking and housekeeping just by watching her work, it's the walls that always draw my attention.

Yes, that wasn't a typo. The Walls.

On one side is mounted a variety of decorative plaques and printed wall decor bearing words of kitchen wisdom and feminine wit lovingly accumulated through her years of wifehood, motherhood and grandmotherhood.

Let me give you a sample:

"I may have my faults, but being wrong is not one of them."

"When I married Mr Right, I didn't know his first name was Always."

"My husband says he'll leave me if I don't stop shopping... Lord, I'll miss that man."

"If you want breakfast in bed, sleep in the kitchen."

And our personal favourite-- "Insanity is hereditary-- you get it from your children."

And as if to confirm my nagging suspicion that the kitchen is actually a poorly-disguised command centre trying desperately to look as if it's just an innocent food-production room, there is a wall phone and two enormous corkboards covering most of what's left of the wall.

The corkboards are huge, but are so completely covered with notes, charts, schedules, telephone numbers, messages and other information that it is impossible to know what colour the cork really is.

On top of this mammoth message centre are three identical clocks, each for a different time zone. Clocks for all the places where Mimi's children and grandkids live. How cool is that?

Under the first is a sign that says "Sydney," where a juvenile scrawl has added, "The best place in the world to live in," to which a different-coloured pencil scribble has jotted down the tart rejoinder, "If you're a prisoner" Ha, ha, ha! I guess the Brit got the better of his Aussie cousin that time.

The second clock is labelled "London" while the third is marked "Ann Arbor."

With us here in England, and with O's sisters in the US and in the Philippines, and with my brother's family moving to NZ this year, the clocks sort of give me an idea of what to give my Mom and my in-laws next chance I get.

Enter Riverpilgrim

All right, now that I’ve gotten that oh-so-somber-pensive-tiresome-but-still-necessarily-autobiographical-very-first-entry part out of my system, it’s time for me to beg you to welcome Riverpilgrim into the wild world of blog! (Why “Riverpilgrim,” you say? To find out, please read said tiresome-but-necessary very-first-blog entry.)

I have been fairly techno-savvy all my adult life, paying bills and sharing photos online, joining e-groups and instant-messaging friends. But I had never thought of blogging, and frankly speaking, had never fully understood its uses nor appreciated its potential. It was O, my beloved husband, who first turned me onto blogging. It happened quite unexpectedly, really. So, for this new venture of mine, we all have him to thank or blame, depending on how you see it.

Now, lest you think (with perfectly reasonable dread):

• that all my blog entries will be as sober, as coherent or as properly composed as the previous one, and that I will never digress, ramble, stray, deviate or otherwise get sidetracked from the topic at hand
• ummm... what was I talking about again? Oh yes… again, lest you think...
• that I will be churning out serious, thought-provoking essays on Christian, existential, moral, ethical, ecological, behavioural, feminist, racist or technological issues
• that I will be channeling what’s left of my creative energy into this blog by mouthing off on Nappies, Homework, UK living, Nature, Environment, Faith, Parenting, Music, Movies, Theatre, Art, Children, Housework, Choices, Books, Life, Love and other stuff that’s close to my heart

--- Well, hah and double hah! Think again, I say. No way! Or as the blokes say it here in England: Bloody 'ell! This early, I am utterly happy to dispel all these lingering fears by assuring you that I will indulge myself in these worthwhile but debatably boring topics only once in a rare while, depending on my mood, hormones and sleep-debt at the time of blogging.

Now that we have all breathed a collective sigh of relief at that candid declaration, let me give you a warning of what you can most likely expect from this blog:

• At times, if I feel like it, I might throw in some recycled, re-written, re-configured old articles (again, for example, see aforementioned tiresome-but-necessary very-first-blog entry) which I wrote in the long-forgotten past, just because, well, I feel like it
  
• Sometimes I may allow myself to be silly, simply because I really AM silly and it’s too much work to hide it from everyone all the time
  
• And sometimes, I might just self-centeredly rattle off about stuff that happened to me during the past day or week, my highs and lows, my triumphs and setbacks
  
• Or I may use my blog to either grouse or go into raptures over movies or TV shows I’ve seen, or fill you in on the latest antics of my sons, B and E, or talk myself out of some wretched leftover neuroses
  
• Most likely, though, I will ask questions. Lots of questions. Questions to which I have no answer, no closure to offer, and questions for which you will either love or hate me for asking
  

All I ask from you, dear bleader (that is to say, blog reader), is not that you like, believe or agree with what I post in this blog, but only that you listen, consider, think, respect, respond, and when necessary, correct.

So there! Those are the ground rules, take ‘em or leave ‘em! What power all bloggers have, don’t you think? How do you feel about blogging, in general, and about this blog’s aims in particular? After reading this, will you still be interested in anything this blog says? Should Riverpilgrim carry on or should it fade quietly into blog-livion?