WOUNDED PETER PAN

How can a woman who has died and buried herself in a downtrodden pit rise above these deathly gallows beneath her? What can a frail woman like me do?

Perhaps it is true that nature would seem to poke fun at whatever the heart so desires. Three months ago, i lost what could have been a brother or sister of my precious Kiny. Today, supposedly pregnant (for the fourth time) for 9 weeks, I found myself bleeding. My body seems to reject any fetus that would so easily find home in my womb. You see, I have one dream that surpasses any other career-driven woman's aspiration--having many children. Since having Shekinah, my only child, life as a woman and as a Christian has never been so colorful and fairytalelike. As bizarre as it may sound, my heart leaps and flies like Peter Pan who hovers the real world while flying in his fantasyland. I wouldn't call it Neverland, though. Mine has never been so real. In a material world, having a toddler is never easy--what with the financial difficulty that comes with milk, diapers, medicines, and what have you. Regardless, I am soaring. It's like flying with this little angel of mine. This is a Cinderella discovery of my newfound beauty, not with a new gown, silver slippers, and a prince to boot, but with the kind that you can flaunt to the world that you are a mother of a miracle, the kind that you can keep to yourself in your morning quietness.

Losing one more after two miscarriages has left a devastating mark in my soul. And yet I know no pain reliever science has invented to assuage this hurt, nor do I have a recourse to prevent any such losses come tomorrow. But if I am meant to have only one, my God knows, I am satisfied, more than the metaphors of my poems could say. However, if God wills, according to his grander plan, I will be pregnant again, this time, his second miracle, a work of grace--an unmerited favor.

PANDEMONIUM

A teacher of twelve years went flabbergasted to find herself in the quandary of how to keep things in normal condition in a pandemonic second year high school class who are even worse than her college students in ten years past. Sadly, I am this teacher. Noise is not the issue, of course. It’s an elementary problem compared to this one. Majority of them see to it that I blow my top—that is, in all my consternation, by mimicking me, laughing out loud when nothing is funny, inciting each other in engineering one commotion after another, and many more scary stunts I am afraid I have to live with or die on.

A decade or so of meeting different kinds of students, inspired or wired, this is what I am sure about. I remain imperfect as a human being. I remain subject to the Greatest Teacher of all time. That in all this business of imparting knowledge to young minds, I look up to Christ in his great patience and in his sense of justice in how he treated his students.

With indignation, I once mulled over how to slash their toungues and smash their heads in that bloody four-walled room with grades redder than red and quizzes with immense scope they would walk the walls to the ceilings to find salvation of their souls in this institution they call bright.

Worse, I think of martial law more purplish in bruises and bumps than the 1972 Marcos’ creation. Well, what can this poor teacher do? I can always do a Nero act but things are different now. Centuries ago, it might have been arts connoisseurship to see human anatomies raked to the arena floor or have them get drenched with gasoline and get lit as torches in this bulwark of learning and caring. Come to think of it, it might have satisfied my human hunger of retribution.

But nah, I may not know exactly what bitter medicine to throw at these students’ wailing mouths for now, but I know my Teacher will not do any one of the above, so why would I? I have not been a perfect student either to my Christ as to learning His ways after more than three decades of being his protégée. So perhaps, another heave in the midst of this pandemonium will send me to Cape Hope. We'll see.

Right at this point, I can only pray. And pray with so much fervor and courage. That all things will not just come to pass but will likewise come to terms with peace.

A MANTRA FOR MOVING ON

How does one keep the flame burning? Or worse, how does one move on? Can someone really completely move on from what used to be one searing passionate burning affair? Unless the human species figure out what makes recovery slow after a painful blow, moving on would always take a soul-mangling process. My guess? Time figures in this soiree of emotions. After being in a company for ten years for instance, leaving such a comfort zone would always leave a tiny stubborn open wound that would always get poked by bits and pieces of remembrance of the former abode. Imagine in the longest time, I have married my working neurons to every wall, nook and cranny of that edifice I used to call home. Currently, I'm embracing the whole new space where my feet are now securely planted, yet it feels like I am looking at the milky way at a painful distance. It might take some growing pains but the mist will do the works. In due time.

As to my moving on, Ecclesiastes has trumpeted my own mantra--for everything there is a season.

Scavenger no more

Early afternoon, Saturday, I lay there reclining at the edge of my bed watching slimy sleazy afternoon talk shows when my fourteen-month-old Shekinah toured our entire bedroom, picked up all papers and trash and sauntered to where our room trash can was (which was way too hidden from her small hands so she could not play scavenger with it)and bent her small lithe self (surprising of all her stunts) and threw all the papers I was too tired to even notice.

I don't know how she picked up that act or routine (for she does that now quite often. I just need to keep my important documents away from her grasp so she wouldn't mistake it as trash). I gathered, she probably saw me doing that mindlessly on a busy day. When I recounted that miracle to her father, he grinned and said, "Well, she might have seen me throwing trash away." Maybe, but one thing is sure, we both know now that this early, we are saddled with more moral responsibilities other than teaching nursery rhymes.

AS WE WAIT

(for jom for his patience)

I've already pawned
Our wedding rings
Perhaps for some
Couple of months
Or so.
So while we wait
Tossing tomorrows,
Let's step outside
To our barren lawn,
Sit together
On the coconut trunk
Fallen,
Silenced,
Cold,
Unaware
How your hands
Reach out
Warming mine.

SEA WATER IN YOUR HAND

(for Kiny)

What does it take
To catch droplets
of stars' glitter
The way
You do
With your bare
Little hands,
Gather strands
Of air with your
Frail knowing hands,
Or grasp all
Sea water in one
open hand
And rock it
As if you were there
When the world began.

Watch it!

Watch your life and doctrine closely. Persevere in them . . . 1Timothy 4:16

I heard one morning a broadcaster's comment. He went saying, "The advices that we give are just secondary to what others see in our daily living."

One day, my little Kiny will not be tiny anymore. She's one now but soon she will be 7, 18, and on. If she goes to become 18 right away, right now while I'm sitting,staring at this dusty monitor, I am dead sure she would not live the Christian life the way I am praying to have her see in me and in her Dad the kind of daily regimen--reading the Bible, praying and not in too much of a hurry catching time.

It's not going to be easy, teaching her and showing her what would give her a sane future in this insane world. What with the fact that a day in our lives begins even before the cock of our neighbor crows.

But I am a steward. I am given a gift I don't deserve. Watch it--that this gift does not fall in the slimy hands of this world. Shekinah, my gift, deserves all those nightwatches and daily watchful eye.

For now, I am a greenhorn at all these.

In fact, I suck at growing a human being.

But I am taking this step and on...hoping this brings Shekinah home . . . early.

FLOWERS YOU MEANT TO SEND ME

Tell me of the colors
Of the roses
You meant to send me
On the day
I turned
To someone else.
Did they smell
Of the time past
When we brewed
Cheap coffee
together;
when we tasted
Pages of books--
Brown and crispy?
Did those years
Wither
As those petals did
On this cheapskate
Of a heart?

It is well worth the battles

Last night, my one-year-old daughter climbed up to my bed, left hers and had my arms wrap around her. My sleepy head woke up in that instant. I knew she was afraid she was sleeping alone in her bed down the floor. It almost broke me to tears to feel her innocent warmth in my arms. That time, despite being away for 10 hours everyday for work, it made me feel being a mother is worth all battles I let go in the past.

NGA-AB

(kang Shekinah Myrrh sa iyang unang uha)


Ikaw--
pungpong nga silaw
sa akong kasadpan
mibutho lingiw
sa kawanangan,
mipahiluna
sa akong nahimugso
nga mga bukton.

Shhhh, hilom na.
Pasagdi ang sungog-
sungog nianang
mga bituon sa unahan.

Sige lang, ugma
mutugbong ko
sa Carbon
unya mohapit
dayon sa Colon
aron mopalit
og mga planetang
gagmay--kanang
mokidhat-kidhat
kon bugason
ang langit--
akong idayan-dayan
nimo-- akong bag-ong
kalibotan.

I wrote this poem three weeks after Kiny was born. True to these lines, she is one who cries a lot but gets quieted at the many wonders she sees in her new world--moon, stars, birds, dogs, cats, beaches, etc.

meanwhile, a husband

It might be true what they say about menstruation and pregnacy--that women get cranky with their husbands at these stages. As I said, I'm not a perfect woman, this time, I must say I slacken as a wife. Here goes my husband who opts to stay behind and get late for work. Just to wash Kiny's feeding bottles. While I left for work, rushing, afraid to be late again this week. My husband, the only man I have--such dedication. While a mommy flees.

a daughter unawake

Today, I left while Kiny was still cuddling her pillows--eyes half closed. I watched her immobility, moved by her steady sense of rest and peace. I would have cuddled her but I didn't even kissed her--afraid I might give in and missed work and not see those bratty kids in place of one here who truly matters.