On the Author, the Narrator, the Solar System and the Year Ahead

"You know, Nanay," said B to me knowingly over dinner last night, ending with a dramatic flourish, "tomorrow is the last day of 2007!"

"Uh-huh," I smiled through my mouthful of left-over Christmas pasta, "and then, what's the day after that?"

"The first day of 2008!!!!" he exclaimed triumphantly.

After a brief, scholarly, somewhat one-sided discussion (mostly with B on the talking end) on what a year means in astronomy, how long it takes for each of the planets to circle the sun and spin itself round, what the new solar system now looks like, the new dwarf planets Eris and Ceres, and so forth, I managed to steer the conversation back to more earth-related matters, and talk about the year ahead. Now it was my turn to start with a "you know" statement.

"You know, B," I said. "I bet God has a terrific plan for us in 2008. Just like the books that we've read and the stories you've written, there's a fantastic ending He's planned for us, a great plot in store for all His children that only He knows. It's like a Great Big Secret that only He knows, and we discover more and more of what He's written in our story each day. He's the Writer, the Author of the story of our lives, and now He wants us to turn to page 2008 on New Year's Day with excitement and anticipation!"

"And," B added in agreement, "God is also the Narrator of our story, Nanay, just like in that Winnie the Pooh movie where Tigger and Pooh could talk to the Narrator and he talks back? And the Narrator could narrate them all out of sticky situations, like when Tigger was stuck up in a tree and couldn't bounce down, and the Narrator narrated him down safely by tilting the page!"

"That's exactly right, B," I replied, seizing the opportunity for a teaching moment. "And we do that all the time, too! We talk to the Narrator and Author of our story all the time and when we're still and we listen very carefully, we can hear Him narrating us through each page. When we're lost or stuck, He can narrate us out of anything! Do you know another name for talking to the Narrator, B?"

"What?" asked B with open curiosity.

So I said in mock horror, "What? You don't know? But you do it every night! I bet you know already." I then pretended to chew my dinner very carefully, taking my time, sipping my water.

It was easy to see that he was hooked on the topic and couldn't take the suspense any more without needing to make a dash for the bathroom. So I stopped teasing him, looked him in the eye and whispered, "Prayer, B. Whenever we pray, all we are really doing is talking to God as our Narrator and Author."

"Oh, yeah," said B with dawning realisation. "I'm excited to turn the page and see what He's written for us in 2008, Nanay. I can't wait!"

"Me, too, B!" I answered, and meant it with my whole heart.

The Most Wonderfully Difficult Time of the Year

Christmas is almost upon us, the most wonderfully difficult time of the year for many migrant families. Especially those who, like us, have not been home yet since we left, for various reasons.

Now, this post won't be an intellectually probing social commentary on migration, the emotional consequences or whatever it is that social academics write about. Nothing deep or clever in this blog entry. No, not this close to Christmas, I'm afraid.

All I know is that this morning, after two days of being stuck in bed with two virus-ridden young charges in freezing indoor conditions, I was in the mood to play Christmas songs on the CD. There is absolutely no other Christmas album yet recorded that evokes and exposes so many raw, deep-seated childhood thoughts and emotions in me than Ray Conniff's We Wish You A Merry Christmas. So, being the masochist that I often am, I played the CD, for the boys' enjoyment and early indoctrination, and to feed my own reminiscent mood,

And instantly, I entered back into memories of my happiest childhood Christmases, the jolly ghost of Christmas past. I remembered Daddy playing our Ray Conniff LP at full blast several days before Christmas, and it's impossible for me to listen to the Ray Conniff singers without feeling happier afterwards.

Once that CD was done, I decided to listen to the new OPM Christmas CD which a very caring and consistent couple friend of ours thoughtfully sent us this year. They've been very supportive of us, sending us OPM CDs and movies year after year to make sure we don't miss out. Thank God for friends like them! How I wish we'd get more Christmas cards and greetings from home, which we relish opening and reading before hanging it up on our "sampayan" of Christmas cards. But it's okay, it's completely fine, there's no need for guilt here; we understand the Pinoy culture very well, which is more suited to texting and emailing. We're not really good at snail mail, are we? Before we left the Philippines, we rarely sent Christmas cards abroad, it simply was not our common practice. Plus, I understand that this year was quite toxic for some of our more dedicated Christmas-card-sender-friends from home, and the run-up to the holidays has really been more intense this year, so that's fine.

But I digress...

So anyway, as I popped the CD in and listened to Jose Mari Chan's "Christmas in our hearts" and Gary V's "Pasko na, sinta ko," I thought I was doing very well indeed and was starting to pat myself on the back for being such a seasoned migrant, a veteran pilgrim celebrating her third uprooted Christmas away from everyone she loves with such serene grace. Then, without warning, Kuh Ledesma's voice suddenly broke into my thoughts: "Isipin ko lang, ating nakaraang Pasko, sapat na ang pagdiriwang..."

And, to my eternal shame, I broke down sobbing. Just like that. Bigla na lang akong naiyak, for no conceivable reason. All I remember, before my embarrassing solitary breakdown, was that I suddenly thought about my late Dad and our last Christmas together in 2002, and our Christmases before that.... and that opened the floodgates of other memories, I suppose... and I began to smell the bibingka, the puto bumbong, the champorado, the hot chocolate... and I remembered in one incessant rush the sights, the sounds, the textures, the unique Filipino atmosphere of Christmas at home, with loved ones, with family, with friends.

Homesickness. It never ends, no matter how many Christmases you've been away. Just like a wound that scars over during much of the year, only to be painfully peeled back every twelve months. And blood flows afresh, but scars over soon enough. And for the rest of the year, I thank God that pain has no memory.

Our Deepest Fear

As my short course for SET women returners comes to an end, I'd like to share with you a powerful poem which was part of last week's course materials. It's authored and published by Marianne Williamson:

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God.

Your playing small doesn't serve the world.

There's nothing enlightened about shrinking

so that other people won't feel insecure around you.

We are all meant to shine, as children do.

We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.

We are born to make manifest the glory...that is within us.

It's not just in some of us, it's in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people

permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

As I read this short passage, I unexpectedly found a lump in my throat. It really moved me.

To inexplicably freeing tears.

Last posting date to the Philippines today...

... and I'm happy to say I beat the deadline! Yay!!!!

Burned the candle at both ends last night just to finish sorting, labeling, writing and licking the Christmas post, just to be able to send the cards off today and know that they might (or should, anyway!) reach the 47 receivers on or before Christmas. 47! Whew! And that's just for Asia and Oceania.

And then there's the annual family newsletter which I had to plan, compose, lay-out and print (with O's willing assistance), to be individually folded and sent out with the cards. It always takes assembly-line precision to produce those newsletters and cards every year, but we still do it.

Why, you wonder? Why do we even bother? Why do it at all?

Because it gives us a chance to re-connect with loved ones, even at least once a year. To be totally, virtually, ephemerally together in spirit, during the short space of time it takes them to rip open our card and read what's inside. For those precious few minutes, we allow them to come and share in our world, and our life is that much richer and brighter for the connection.

Because while each card goes through the family production line, we say a prayer for whoever it's going to, so it's a chance to intercede for each of our loved ones and remember them before the Lord. It's both a practical and spiritual process, a yearly ritual since we moved away from home.

Because uprooted, migrant families like ours can not afford to lose touch with our roots and our circle of relationships, at any cost, at any price. They are all that keeps us afloat in the deluge of the holiday rush, they are everything that keeps us sane in the flood of overwhelming loneliness that besets homesick people at this time of year. We reach out and explore our new world with enthusiasm and gusto, but we can't do it without knowing our roots are intact, that we still belong to a network of relationships with people who know us and love us, despite the geographical void.

So if you get a card from us this Christmas, you know what it went through before it reached your hands. And if you don't get one, it's because we probably don't have your address :) Not yet, anyway.

And Monday is the Christmas postal deadline for North America...

Back to the production line, then. :)

Embracing Obscurity

Here's a thought-provoking passage from Sacred Space this week:

"In his classic The Imitation of Christ, Thomas à Kempis urges the reader to ‘enjoy being unknown and regarded as nothing.’ What he means is the ability to persist through tedium, to survive without the oxygen of recognition, praise and stroking, to do some good things every day which are seen only by God. Most of us start life as the centre of the universe, being stroked and attended to. Baby’s every smile and whimper is responded to and noted. It is an addictive experience, and it is hard to get used to being just one of a family, and later one of a whole class or school, barely noticed. When children suffer undue neglect or distress, the effects can reveal themselves in adult life. Some people, like pop stars and notice-boxes, never recover from the addiction, never climb out of those infantile lowlands. They find it impossible to survive without notice and applause, and spend their energies seeking it. They never fit themselves for the higher ground where the oxygen of appreciation is thinner, and they have to survive, as à Kempis says, unknown and hardly noticed. For all but his last three years, Jesus was happy to live a hidden life. That is where most of the good in this world is accomplished, by parents, carers, and all who keep going through the daily offering of their unregarded service."

This reflection piece spoke to me particularly, because it strikes a very deep chord inside.

All my teenage and single life, all I had ever wanted was to live a normal, quiet routine, a distant reality from what I was actually experiencing back then with all the hype around my beauty title, my school awards, my TV guestings, stage performances and what not. I was always in the limelight, always standing out when all I wanted was to fit in. I simply wanted to be normal. I just wanted to be one of the guys, to be loved and appreciated for myself and not for the things I am able to do. I loved doing "backstage" stuff, taking on hidden service roles like being a retreat administrator, working behind the scenes, making sure everyone had food and beddings, ringing the bell for wake-up calls, just being everyone's assistant.

When the Lord finally answered my persistent request for obscurity, to be hidden for a while, like a tiny flower which emanates its fragrance from concealment, I have found out after more than a decade of hiddenness that there is more to it than just savouring one's peace and quiet.

There is tedium.

There is boredom.

There is loneliness.

There is also the struggle to cling to one's meaning and purpose in the midst of mundane monotony, to merely survive day after day without being thanked or appreciated, to simply make the effort to smile at people who never smile back, to serve those who think they are entitled to your service anyway, to keep dishing out love and affection when your own "love tank" has been running on empty for a long while. This, by far, has been one of the most difficult and ongoing challenges I have ever encountered, a never-ending test of endurance of spirit. A test which I sometimes barely manage to pass muster, but quite often, more often than I would like, do fail at miserably.

The only thing that keeps me going, after I examine my pockmarked conscience in the middle of the night, is that tomorrow will be a new day, a fresh start, a clean slate.

And I can try again,

and again,

and again,

not just to survive

obscurity

but to embrace it.