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?

River Running

Twenty summers ago, I learned that trusting God starts with floating in a man-made lake.

Face up, my sky was never the same again. The sun shone warmly on me, and the stars became my friends.

The dam soon broke and I was free. It has since been a river voyage: whitewater, swirling eddies, steady streams, deep pools and the occasional cascade. With each turbulence came storm-eyes of peace, and with each waterfall came a brighter rainbow. And always, always, there was a blessed Wind blowing me on , and steady shores to steer my course.

In time, silt and rubbish tinged my stream brown: sins, memories, flaws and wounds. And then He began to dredge.

Ask me what dredging does to a river, and I will say that the water becomes purer, and the river deeper. But first the muck has to come out. You don’t want to be there when it’s dredged — it’s ugly, smelly, and foul.

Some years ago, someone gave me a poem entitled “Scarred People Are Beautiful.” I chucked it into my drawer, never thinking that it applied to me. I never saw myself as wounded or hurting. But I was. The sunlight kept me from hiding my bruises. So God gently put His finger in my festering cuts, stanched the bleeding, and began to heal me. And in the process He began to teach me some course-changing lessons, too.

I learned to cut ties with people and things who led me away from Him. Detours and shortcuts, dead-ends and sidestreams. But I also learned gentleness and compassion, having received them myself. I was freer to love people and touch their lives. I became more able to see God in them, and I prayed that they, too, saw His reflection in me.

I learned not to fight the breath of the Spirit as I flowed, but to let it move me as it willed. I learned to wait on Him when I was tempted to flow by my own will at my own pace. I learned to calmly drift instead of digging other routes. I learned to hang on when strong tides tested my grasp.

I learned to abandon myself to Him completely — past, present and future — and to trust Him daily for my life. I learned that love is not in asking, “Where are You taking me?”, but in saying, “I’m so glad You’re with me.” As I learned to bask in His presence, I found that the adventure is more exciting, and the scenery more breathtaking, when I let Him lead me by the hand.
I learned that I was made to be immersed in Him, to lose myself, and to find myself, in Him. That as the river seeks the sea, so my heart shall seek Him.

I learned to let God love me for who I am, and to love myself the way He made me. I learned that I don’t have to first please Him before He loves me. I learned to seek His pleasure, not to earn His love, but for love of Him.

Twenty years of dredge-lessons, and He’s not even halfway through with me yet. Blessed be God Who loves me the way I am, but loves me enough to not leave me the way I am.

And yes, there have been rocks in my riverbed. Without them, my stream would be dull and dreary. No splashes, no ripples, no fun. Other streams and rivers have come my way, some running alongside me, a brave few uniting their currents with mine.

My river, like all others, seeks the Sea. And here is the story of that quest, punctuated by many stops and cesspools, a story of falls, rocks, grassy banks, silt, erosion and tides.

My river’s run into several forks in the past, and there are so many I have yet to face. But He has been faithful in showing me the right route thus far, so I think I’ll keep on trusting Him.

I wonder where the next bend takes me.