What is Art?

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Thanks for my special day…

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I know the day isn’t over yet, but I have had a wonderful day so far. I am feeling so loved and affirmed that I have enough positive energy to keep me going until next year. If I missed thanking anyone who wished me a happy birthday or sent me greetings, thank you so very much for making this  wonderfully happy day much more wonderful and happier than I could have managed on my own. It is the beginning of another year of life that holds so much promise and so many surprises that I can’t wait to encounter. I look forward to sharing so much more with you all, with helping whenever I can, in whatever way I can, even if only to bring a little smile to someone’s face. After all, what good are we if we do not somehow touch someone else’s life? I love you all because you have all, somehow, touched my life in a million different ways. And I am thankful for each and every one of you because you have made my life more colourful, more meaningful, and more exciting.

Everyone has history

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I don’t know why anyone has to assign a special “month” to anyone’s history because EVERYONE has a history. Every race, every nation, every culture has a history  that is important to them and important for understanding them. If every immigrant race in the world demanded a month to celebrate their history in their adopted countries, there just wouldn’t be enough months to go around. I think the way to go about it is to simply adapt to your new country. If you want your new country to be just like your old country, why’d you leave in the first place? Go back to your old country. When in Rome, do as the Romans. When you move to a new country, be part of it, then it will become a part of you. Follow the rules, learn the culture, learn the manners, learn the language. There’s a good reason for that. It doesn’t mean you have to forget your own past or your old country’s history. It just means that you’re starting a new life in a new country with a new culture. Sharing of cultures is great. Imposing your culture on others isn’t. It’s like joining a club. You join with the knowledge that they have rules that you have to follow. No exceptions. It’s called order. If you don’t like the rules, don’t join. It’s that simple.

It’s Valentine’s Day–Again?

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Personally, I’ve never had a really splashy Valentine’s Day celebration. In fact, in the past, I preferred to avoid celebrating on the day itself, because all the restaurants would be full and everyone who had someone would be out on a date of some sort. Most of the time, I’d have to work anyway, so it wouldn’t be anything really special. Not that I haven’t had a couple of pleasant surprises, but because Valentine’s Day is just a week before my birthday, I don’t remember if those surprises were for Valentine’s Day or for my birthday! And because the other persons involved over the years are no longer in my life, I don’t see the point in mulling over those memories. My new Valentine’s Day tradition is to get myself a treat, a baby bottle of sparkling wine, some chocolates, and a good movie…or two or three!

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone!

Integrating Mind, Body, Heart, and Soul in a Writer’s Life

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Finally settled in at home again after a 1-week trip back to the Philippines, made possible by TV5 International’s newest reality show, Ganito Na Kami Ngayon. My episode lasted all of 30 minutes, but we spent 3 whole days covering a lot of ground and meeting people, visiting significant places, and then some hours more to shoot narrative.

It turned out to be much more than the production group or I expected it to be. While the expected format was a simple “surprise return home food travelogue,” the circumstances of my trip transformed it into a soul-searching episode that tied together a multitude of experiences that become part of a writer’s life, a well-spring for writing.

During the planning, I was told not to inform anyone in the Philippines of my return, so that it would be a surprise, because that element of surprise was essential to the underlying mood of the series. The production manager/researcher was supposed to have contacted specific people I knew from different groups and coordinate events where people I knew would gather and then be surprised. Somewhere along the way, communication broke down and not everyone who should have been contacted was contacted until practically the last minute. Up to the last minute, as we were leaving the airport, text messages and phone calls were flying back and forth trying to set something up for my first big reunion. I learned that shooting a big reunion with family on the morning of my arrival would not be possible as everyone was off somewhere and, because of the recent death in the family, those who might be available were not open to having the reunion filmed and televised for all the world to see. That made staying at the home of immediate family members highly unlikely, so we took the second option, which was to settle me in the home of one of my very best friends from teaching at SSC high school over 20 years ago, Evelyn Marasigan.

Once settled, we went out for lunch to get a taste of classic Filipino cuisine at the Archipelago Restaurant in Ortigas Center, which turned out to be an upscale branch of Barrio Fiesta, hence excellent kare-kare, green mango salad, and crispy pata. The best first meal a returning Filipino could have. Well, second meal–the first one was breakfast at IHOP in Global City, which had been transformed in the last 6+ years from vacant lots with about 2% of the land developed, to a sprawling super-urban development with skyscrapers and high-rise apartment buildings, dozens of restaurants and commercial establishments, and foot and vehicle traffic everywhere. Many compare it to bustling Singapore and, indeed, the new skyline is comparable to Singapore and Hong Kong and the new Shanghai.

A drive around the block brought us to a building where, lo and behold, I met an old friend, Dean Francis Alfar, whom I had not seen in very many years. I knew he was busy writing and had meant to eventually contact him regarding the annual anthology he has edited for the last 8 years or thereabouts, Philippine Speculative Fiction. Surprisingly, he hadn’t known about my Palanca award, and more surprising was the act that we both were awardees in the same year! Unfortunately, it was the year I had migrated to Canada, and I learned of my award less than a month after I had settled in Canada, so there was no way I could be back to receive my award. He has made me swear on camera to submit to the anthology this year. I learned from him how much publishing and writing has changed in the Philippines, particularly in the area of Speculative Fiction, which includes the genres of horror, fantasy, and science fiction. That was totally welcome and completely heartening news. That your writing is welcome anywhere is music to a writer’s ear!

Much of the three days was spent nourishing the body through food, but the next couple of experiences included caring for the body and challenging it as well. A friend of mine shared photos sometime last year of his whole family trying out archery in an indoor practice range, and didn’t I end up there myself? I got to shoot a few rounds–pretty much like riding a bicycle–apparently, you don’t forget how to do it! Just need practice to get back in shape.

The first evening was a heart and soul time, planned to celebrate my book, with a bit of a reunion with my son Kitt and a first meeting with his fiancee. It was a wonderful evening, even if people we were hoping would show up didn’t because of lack of communication. Still, I got to meet another old and good friend, Marisyll Pengson and her husband Joey. Of course Evelyn was with me. A couple of former students had shown up as well, so that was nice, since we got to chat quite a bit and compare notes–Magnolia had lived in California for several years and had recently relocated to the Philippines again. And then, another delicious meal compliments of high school classmate Sandie Romulo Squillantini’s Romulo Cafe.

The next day, Saturday morning, we drove to the Manila North Cemetery where the Lapeña family crypt was, where a portion of my mother’s ashes was laid to rest with my father’s remains. I know her spirit was still lingering–I could feel it, somehow, but it was not anything bad. Just incomplete. After lunch, we dropped in on the dance rehearsal of SSC HS89 as they practiced for their big homecoming number for the 9th of February. That was a really nice surprise! Only Aggie Bontia-Dasig knew about it, and she had told Pia Garcia-Moranda, who was their choreographer/rehearsal mistress, so when I entered the door, everyone just froze and stared at me, and when I took my sunglasses off and they realized it was me, it was such a jaw-dropping moment! One of the most fulfilling moments was learning that one of the girls there had chosen to become a writer and had used what I had taught her and shared with her to pursue a writing career! Nothing fills a teacher’s heart and soul more than to know your lessons have helped to shape a student’s life, their career and life choices. More fulfilling yet, is the knowledge that I was able to share a part of my soul with my students and that they do still value the  lessons I taught and use them in their adult lives.

The evening was spent getting a free traditional medicine session with a bit of acupuncture, heated acupuncture needles, cupping, and oiled cupping on my back to help the chronic pain from the accident…wow, did the last one help! And to show you just how small a world it is, Dr. Philip Tan-gatue turned out to know my older brother from the same hospital they both worked in, and had my sister-in-law for his boss as well!

Sunday was hometown day. They picked me up at 6:30 in the morning–which turned out to be nearly 7 a.m.–and we made the long road trip to Pagsanjan, taking the old road through several small towns by Laguna Bay. It was my first visit to Pagsanjan and we sought relatives whom I had met only through Facebook and some, not at all. I met cousins who were from the “other” side of the family–apparently the two sides were estranged for some old forgotten reason or another–just as cousins on the “same” side were also estranged–methinks there was too much pride and too much sensitivity and sentimentality among the siblings and cousins of my mother’s generation. Meeting my contemporaries–even if they were mostly older than me, since my mother was the youngest of 8 siblings–was completing. Here was family that had always been there, that welcomed me with open arms, that knew of me and read about me and followed me online. That wanted to know me and be with me. Knowing that, I wonder what was so horrible that my mother thought we would be better off not knowing our relatives on her side of the family. Knowing that, I wonder if any parent has the right to deprive their children of knowing their relations. My mother decided who we would know of her relatives because of how she felt about them. I regret the absence of how enriching it could have been to know you had a huge clan of blood relations and even relations by marriage. It gives one a sense of heritage, a sense of rootedness in a place to know your relatives from your parents’ hometowns. It is something that authors can take and weave into the very fabric of their writing that makes their voices unique. Traveling through Laguna province and the town of Pagsanjan has given me a place that I can trace my roots back to, a place where I can say my family came from. It colours my backstory and gives depth to my history. It is where a part of my soul was born and a part that will complete my soul.

For the first time, I got to sleep in on Monday morning, then spent the afternoon shooting narrative and audio clips for the episode. In the evening, another bff Marichu Aculado, a classmate from college, picked me up and we met with Dina and Doc, Divine and Ric, for another sumptuous supper, this time at Ayala Triangle where there is a cluster of upscale restaurants in a space that used to be a football field and a preferred gathering spot for protesters and rallyists, particularly against the government. After supper, Chu dropped me off at Greenbelt where I finally met my sister and her family and we had a nightcap in one of the restaurants there. The last time we met was at a layover in Hong Kong on the way to Canada. My final reunion was at breakfast, with sister-in-law Maeyet, brother Elmer and his wife Agnes, at Resort World, which is another new development in the airport complex.

There have been so many new developments in the Philippines since I left over 6 years ago, I know I would get lost from not recognizing any of the old landmarks. The traffic is incredibly congested and unbelievable chaotic, especially after driving around Canada where drivers are so disciplined, and PEI where drivers are actually tame! There are underpasses, overpasses, and bypasses that I don’t recognize. There is hardly any open space anymore! And some places are filthier and seedier than ever. There seems to be more people than ever, more cars than ever. So many new restaurants and commercial establishments everywhere I turned. It may be a sign that the economy is growing, but so is inflation. The prices of a lot of things seem to be about ten times what they were when I left–we could still get burger meals for way under 20 pesos then–now, that standard meal will be over 100 pesos. A fancy cooler spritzer-type drink at IHOP cost 95 pesos. A can of coke costs 25 pesos at the airport. The cheapest roast chicken dish at Kenny Rogers is about 200 pesos–that was about as much, maybe even more, as four people would spend when I was last there. Movie tickets are also around 200 pesos on the average, depending on the theater–when I left, the fanciest movie houses had tickets at about 60 to 80 pesos. I used to be able to go around for a week with only a couple of hundred pesos in my wallet, which was more than enough–and if I had a five hundred, that was a lot to walk around with. Now, people walk around with thousand peso bills in their wallets. It seems so surreal.

The trip back felt like I was stepping into another world, a totally different world. In reality, it is another world, not totally different, but certainly greatly different. It was a time of re-experiencing, a time of re-opening and revisiting people, places, experiences I had in the past. At the same time, it was a chance to complete another loop in the spiral of life. And it was a chance to open new doors for further exploration, because that is what a writer needs. An infinite number of doors and windows and corridors to explore. An infinite number of chances to integrate myriad experiences to bring together all aspects of being into a single creative work, a work of art, a literary piece.

I am renewed and refreshed. I am a writer.

 

Carrying On…

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I wrote this for my classmates, when one after another, notices of parents’ deaths or serious illness were posted to our group. I just had to share this for the generation of baby boomers who are going through similar experiences.

We are now all at an age when we have no choice but to face the fact that our parents are at that age when they will be leaving us, and in fact some have already left us.

It is very sad that it is one of the most common bits of news we now share.

But I believe that it is a sign that their job on earth is done, and they can finally rest in peace and grace.

I also believe that it is another thing that brings us all much closer together, sharing the same experience of bidding them farewell and taking on the title of “senior.”

I know that we all are capable of taking on the title and applying all the lessons we have learned from our experiences with them and from them, good and bad.

Some of our parents have left large shadows and larger shoes to fill but they leave with the knowledge that we are capable of taking over completely.

I, for one, am thankful for all that we have learned and all we gave grown up with.

I am thankful for having all of you as my classmates and for having known almost all of you almost as long as I have known my family.

I am thankful that, as we grow older, we find that we have more to share and more ways to share.

I am thankful that we have grown to be more accepting and more appreciative of each other and of everything around us.

I just wanted to share this with everyone, especially in the light of all the recent deaths we are experiencing because it helps me to remember to be thankful.

Your classmate,

Cindy

 

Things to remind myself to do everyday

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2014 is a New Year but I wouldn’t call these resolutions because resolutions are easily broken.

This is just my action plan for a 10-hour work day, not including days I give classes–those might be 14-hour days.

1. Write more poetry. Aim for one a day.

2. Finish Book 2. Aim for a chapter a day.

3. Paint more. Aim to finish one painting a week.

4. Exercise. After the vertigo is gone.

5. Stay organized. I mean in my apartment. With my odds and ends for yet-to-determine uses.

6. Craft. So those odds and ends get used.

7. Hit my French books. Lots of catching up and brushing up to do.

8. Hit my Spanish books. Lots of brushing up to do.

9. Eat right. Keep up the fruits & veggies overload.

10. Market market market. Need more clients.

11. Work on something that’s unfinished…. (my 11th hour activity!)

New books from old chapters…

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Knowing about my non-relationship with my mother, a dear friend told me how her  mother always thought growing up that she was the least-loved daughter. Long after she had gotten married, she would wake up night in tears about this. It ate her up so much but in her 40s, found the nerve to ask her father if he loved her like he loved her sisters. Her father was stunned. He told her that he always felt that she could go through life on her own—that she was strong, resilient, had tons of friends, was well-rounded, etc. He said that he worried least about her, spent little time supervising her because she was great on her own. However, this did not mean that he loved her less. He apologized if she suffered as a result of that seeming “distance” from her and that he knew no words could erase the past feelings she had. But hearing these words from him brought her mother a world of healing.

I think her mother is so lucky to have gotten that assurance. Instead of confronting my folks, I decided, instead, to accept the distance and detach myself from them. It was less painful that way, not having a constant reminder of rejection. I know my mother wanted us all to be independent and, later on, regretted it because we were all off on our own–I suppose she meant me in particular, because my brothers were always around her anyway and she was always helping them out and they were also running to her for help, which I never did, even as a child–and she swore she wouldn’t do the same with my sister, who had more loving and attention than all the other four of us and my dad together. It was only in her 30s that my sister finally found the courage to become her own woman and cut that figurative umbilical cord, with the help of  her 2nd husband.

As my friend’s grandpa and her mom knew, nothing will erase those past feelings or any of the pain that was experienced. My mother was not easy to live with, much less grow up with. Despite all that, there is no bitterness, no blame, and no more anger. Only pity and sadness that she was incapable of understanding me or of showing me the same kind of affection she shows others. Her methods of winning the attention and affection of my siblings never worked on me. There was nothing she could say to convince me that she loved me the way she loved my siblings–and she never did say she loved me, not in all the years I have known her.

And for a while, I grieved, as my token sign of respect for the woman who bore me and gave me a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and food to fill my belly [ and of that, a little too much, maybe]. That was her way of showing how she cared for us–she sincerely believed that being a mother was being a provider of our most basic material necessities until we were capable of taking care of ourselves.

My grief came more from the fact that I could not honestly say that I would miss her or that I loved her, in the same way my siblings and their families do. My grief came from the fact that my family and my family’s friends see me, in many ways, through my mother’s eyes. It’s like having a family and yet not really having one. Something many are so lucky not to have ever experienced. My grief comes from the fact that that chapter of my life will always be left hanging, unfinished. Thankfully, I do not have Sheldon Cooper’s obsessive need for closure. I just move on as I always have. Perhaps, in a way, some of that grief comes from having to be drawn back to that unfinished chapter long after I had set it aside.

It is a chapter that I might revisit once in a while, much the same way you take up a book you have read before, each time seeing more and different details, realizing new things, and always, always, leaving yet much more to the imagination.

 

I’m Sorry, Mama

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Last night, like most nights this holiday season, I went to bed at 3:30 a.m. I had not heard from any of my family about my mother’s condition since she was hospitalized on the 23rd. In this case, no news was not necessarily good news. I had difficulty falling asleep and was constantly tossing and turning, throwing off my blankets then pulling them back after a few minutes. At 5:00 a.m. I woke up for no apparent reason, so I went to the bathroom. I tried to get back to sleep, but was terribly uncomfortable–it was like the worst hot flush attack. I finally dropped off after a while, woke up at 8 a.m., and left home to buy some art supplies and other materials for my classes in January. When I got home around 2:40, my phone started going off, buzzing like crazy, and that was when I saw all the messages coming in.

Apparently, my mother passed away at exactly 5:01 p.m. Manila time, which would have been 5:01 a.m. here.

As the proverbial black sheep and bohemian, I should, by all rights, be duplicating the Irish celebration of Margaret Thatcher’s passing and singing that particularly celebratory song from the Wizard of Oz. Out of respect for my dead mother, I will not.

I am thankful that she passed away quietly. I know she believed she was doing the right thing all the time.

Do I mourn her passing? No. She has lived a full life and must have made peace with her demons.

Do I celebrate her life? Yes. After all, she bore me and raised me as best she could.

Will I miss her? No.

I am glad that others will miss her and mourn her passing. She deserves that. She has devoted so much of herself to so many other people. She has made so many others feel like they were her daughters, given them advice, hugs, warmth, help, whenever they needed it.

I’m sorry to say that I cannot share that feeling because I never did get those hugs, warmth, caring, and help when I needed a mother most. She was a mother to many–to my sister, my sisters-in-law, family friends, relatives. But not to me. Somehow, that connection never was established between us. Every time we were together, I was wary, knowing that, given enough time, sparks would be set off.

My sister-in-law says she talked of us often, talked about how proud she was of us. That’s nice to know now. It should be comforting, in a way, I suppose, but it doesn’t really change a thing now. Others’ memories of my mother will be very different from my memories, but that’s okay too. They saw a face of hers that she chose not to show me.

I’m sorry, mama. Ours was not the mother-daughter relationship anyone would envy. But because it was what it was, I became more determined to be my own woman, to be independent, especially of you. Our relationship has made me stronger, because it was not an easy one to survive. But I have, and I am me. I define myself by my own terms. I am not defined by my children or my failed marriages or my family. I am defined by what I choose to make me happy and fulfilled and successful.

I wish I could say more good things about you. You sacrificed your career for your kids. You moved heaven and earth to keep your husband alive and healthy for as long as he lived–and it was long. You helped other people as much as you could. You made yourself the consummate doctor’s wife, except for the part where you refused to attend many social functions. You proved to everyone that you could be what you wanted to be without the help of anyone else. You kept the house absolutely clean, we were always clothed, and we always had good food (sans salt, pepper, mayo and butter because they were bad for papa). We had every material thing we needed–you made sure of that. And you kept yourself busy making sure all that was happening, and happening efficiently. I know I learned how to be efficient from you. I learned how to be a perfectionist, but not to let it control my life. I learned how to be meticulous with details. I learned how to be independent… And I learned that I needed a lot of loving, and warmth, and hugs–and that I had to find them elsewhere because they were not going to come from you. That was more important to me than anything else–than all the material things you made sure we had. Unfortunately, it was too late for us.

Strangely enough, this is more painful that I thought it would be, even if I’d gone through it. I thought I had closed that door, but hearing what other people have to say about you just rubs it in more painfully.

So, again, I’m sorry, mama. I’m just glad that you had people around you during you last days who loved you, cared for you, and will miss you very much.

The daughter is her own woman

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I found out from my sister-in-law yesterday that my mother was seriously ill. Only after bombarding my sister with Facebook messages did I finally learn more about the situation in the Philippines, where my family is. She has sent me updates since then, although nothing seems to have changed in the last 20 hours, or so it seems. My mother suffered multiple brain infarcts, a.k.a. strokes, which caused her to collapse and hit her head. Apparently, she was also suffering from severe pneumonia which was flooding her right lung and causing extremely difficult breathing. CT scans also confirmed that she has vascular dementia in an advanced state.

All my life, I have known my mother to be the worst patient ever. She refused to see doctors and always self-diagnosed and self-medicated, relying on her own knowledge and skills as a doctor. The only thing she always ever complained about was her varicose veins, which she refused to have treated and which made walking and standing very difficult for her as the years progressed.

She would never admit to any other pain or illness. She would never admit to or show any sign of weakness. Everyone who knows her will say she is a very strong woman. Many will say she is also a very stubborn woman. All her life that I have known her, she would not show emotions. Seeing her laugh was a very rare thing. She did not really smile–the most would be a sort of half-twisted grimace that was meant to pass as a smile, one eye blinking shut in the way you make a face when you taste something sour. She always had a serious, stern face. Because of that, she didn’t develop any creases or wrinkles on her face. I haven’t really seen her in several years, but I don’t think she had wrinkles the last time I saw her.

That’s probably why nobody ever realized that she already had dementia. At some point, she was becoming somewhat forgetful, but not anything serious. She has always been an extremely organized person, and had a system and a routine for everything so that she was not likely to forget things. She was always in control of herself, was not spontaneous, and followed a schedule. She was also very good at being nice, friendly, and generous to other people. She would fawn on them and flatter them and coo and chirp. Her side of the conversation consisted of a lot of questions that would focus on the person she was talking to. I don’t know if she ever really gave a solid answer or shared feelings or personal opinions with anyone. She could be completely displeased and angry at us, but would be all syrup and sweetness the moment she turned to face someone else. So I’m not surprised nobody saw her dementia coming on. All she needed to do was to pretend she was perfectly fine and never admit to any of the symptoms she might have been experiencing.

But what do I know? This is all just from my point of view. I have never truly interacted with her in any way besides her being a strong and distant authority figure in my life. I was never taken in by her public persona because I had experienced otherwise.

I don’t blame her for the way she treated me or dealt with me. I don’t blame her for all the times she betrayed me or my trust. I have gotten over that and have made a life for myself several times over. I have shaken off the need to please her or be accepted by her because I have realized that I don’t need her approval or praise to be successful at anything. I have realized that I don’t even need her love to be me, to be successful. I have succeeded in detaching myself, letting go of her, because I did not want to be drawn down by the negative emotions that always surfaced after spending enough time around her. I have learned not to care and to leave her be, just as she left me to my own devices.

Which now brings me to her current serious condition. Is it wrong that I am not distressed, not distracted, not depressed, not emotionally affected? I am certainly not going to go out of my way. I know I will be of no use anyway. All her favorite children are with her. I don’t imagine she will even miss me–she wouldn’t remember to invite me to any casual occasions they would have, expecting me to just magically show up when I didn’t even know there was any occasion to do so. She never missed me on all those outings and never went out of her way to include me, even if she included many others whom she had “adopted” into her family. With her favorites and her daughters-in-law and grandchildren all surrounding her, I’m sure she’ll be perfectly fine.

I have defined my own life, my own happiness, my own success. I might be her daughter, but I am my own woman.