Mixed Masala

Choosing to Live a Life that Matters~

2008-11-26T22:25:00.007+08:00

WHAT WILL MATTER

by Michael Josephson

Ready or not, some day it
will all come to an end.
There will be no more sunrises, no days, no hours or minutes.
All the things you collected, whether treasured or forgotten,
will be passed to someone else.
Your wealth, fame and temporal power will shrivel to irrelevance.
It will not matter what you owned or what you were owed.
Your grudges, resentments, frustrations and jealousies will finally
disappear.
So, too, your hopes, ambitions, plans and to-do lists will all expire.
The wins and losses that once seemed so important will fade away.
It won’t matter where you came from, or on what side of the tracks you lived.
It won’t matter whether you were beautiful or brilliant.
Your gender, skin color, ethnicity will be irrelevant.
So what will matter?
How will the value of your days be measured?
What will matter is not what you bought, but what you built;
not what you got, but what you gave.
What will matter is not your success, but your significance.
What will matter is not what you learned, but what you taught.
What will matter is every act of integrity, compassion, courage and sacrifice
that enriched, empowered or encouraged others to emulate your example.
What will matter is not your competence, but your character.
What will matter is not how many people you knew,
but how many will feel a lasting loss when you’re gone.
What will matter is not your memories, but the memories of those who loved you.
What will matter is how long you will be remembered, by whom and for what.
Living a life that matters doesn’t happen by accident.
It’s not a matter of circumstance but of choice.
Choose to live a life that matters.

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Today was one of those days when I had to stop and say my piece.
My voice needed to be heard, I needed to hear myself and I did.
I am grateful for that. Despite the opposition, I am grateful for that voice.

For Sofia--When questions arise, remember your voice, my child. When all is gray,
remember your voice...and listen. When your heart knows the truth, when your Spirit
is strong and doesn't make you sleep until you listen, remember your voice. Remember who you are. Remember who is in you.

Sofia~

2008-11-25T22:55:00.003+08:00

Thank you, daughter of my dreams, light of my heart, angel of my morning...it's been a year and eight months since I last wrote on this blog...it's taken so long for me to take up the courage to write again...to maintain this writing space that began with a story about Mama Rosie, your great grandmother. You see, 17 days before you were born, Mama passed away. Months before that I was struggling with my pregnancy and when you finally arrived I still couldn't bring myself to write about the most beautiful experience I've ever had my entire life because I kept thinking of Mama and how I was not able to fly to Samar to bid her farewell, one last time...like I said earlier, I couldn't bring myself to write about it publicly, not until today.

I still have one more email to compose for a client but it's already 11:11pm and after such a long day, all I really wanted to do was rest and pamper myself and yet I find that to even be very difficult to do right now...as if I needed to just get some thoughts down first before I could proceed to my nightly ritual...and then I remembered this blog. I was telling myself months ago that I should come up with a new one where I can write about less things from the heart, less about me, or my roots, but then I couldn't really find anything to write about as passionately...or as naturally, as this.

So here I am, wanting to write once more, about her stories and his stories...about the women and men who have shaped my life...about cultures and beliefs, about life, love and relationships, and more, all because now I have you and you, Sofia, have given me back something I thought I lost along the way, you've given me the will to live.

With Gratitude~

2007-03-08T23:07:00.000+08:00

Today is International Womyn's Day and I salute every woman in this Universe...living in the physical or spiritual realms...either way, I say, thank you. I say I am grateful, for the stories you tell, the lives you touch, the struggles you've overcome, the joy in your heart, the pain you've endured, and the choice to continue to believe in what is good.

Today I say thank you to God who has blessed me with courage, strength and freedom to speak, to choose, to believe, to love, to be...

Today I acknowledge the scars of my life: from wounds that have healed, to the new ones that are slowly closing up...and I am grateful...for each hurt, each truth I learned, each tear I cried because it means I am human.

Today I pay tribute to the people I love...I choose to love you...you don't have to love me back because no matter what, I will love you, regardless. I am who I love, what I love.

Today my Spirit whispers to the Little Star in my womb, who has known for the past 19 weeks of every smile, every sorrow, every thought, every feeling, every journey I have taken...you are the most precious one, my Love, you are my lullaby and you have taught me the greatest thing I have learned thus far in my life--love means freeing yourself and exploring the highs and lows of who you are, re-discovering yourself in a new way, overcoming the fear of knowing, in solitude, and being true to what your heart says, to who you are, living that truth, being that truth and holding all these as one whole being--body, mind, heart, spirit. I am complete, just as I am and I am free. I have always been free.

Closing Cycles by Paulo Coelho~

2007-03-08T23:05:00.000+08:00

One always has to know when a stage comes to an end. If we insist on staying
longer than the necessary time, we lose the happiness and the meaning of the
other stages we have to go through. Closing cycles, shutting doors, ending
chapters - whatever name we give it, what matters is to leave in the past the
moments of life that have finished.

Did you lose your job? Has a loving relationship come to an end? Did you leave
your parents' house? Gone to live abroad? Has a long-lasting friendship ended
all of a sudden? You can spend a long time wondering why this has happened. You
can tell yourself you won't take another step until you find out why certain
things that were so important and so solid in your life have turned into dust,
just like that. But such an attitude will be awfully stressing for everyone
involved: your parents, your husband or wife, your friends, your children, your
sister, everyone will be finishing chapters, turning over new leaves, getting
on with life, and they will all feel bad seeing you at a standstill. None of us
can be in the present and the past at the same time, not even when we try to
understand the things that happen to us. What has passed will not return: we
cannot for ever be children, late adolescents, sons that feel guilt or rancor
towards our parents, lovers who day and night relive an affair with someone who
has gone away and has not the least intention of coming back. Things pass, and
the best we can do is to let them really go away.

That is why it is so important (however painful it may be!) to destroy
souvenirs, move, give lots of things away to orphanages, sell or donate the
books you have at home. Everything in this visible world is a manifestation of
the invisible world, of what is going on in our hearts - and getting rid of
certain memories also means making some room for other memories to take their
place.Let things go. Release them. Detach yourself from them. Nobody plays this
life with marked cards, so sometimes we win and sometimes we lose. Do not
expect anything in return, do not expect your efforts to be appreciated, your
genius to be discovered, your love to be understood. Stop turning on your
emotional television to watch the same program over and over again, the one
that shows how much you suffered from a certain loss: that is only poisoning
you, nothing else.

Nothing is more dangerous than not accepting love relationships that are broken
off, work that is promised but there is no starting date, decisions that are
always put off waiting for the "ideal moment." Before a new chapter is begun,
the old one has to be finished: tell yourself that what has passed will never
come back. Remember that there was a time when you could live without that
thing or that person - nothing is irreplaceable, a habit is not a need. This
may sound so obvious, it may even be difficult, but it is very important.
Closing cycles. Not because of pride, incapacity or arrogance, but simply
because that no longer fits your life. Shut the door, change the record, clean
the house, shake off the dust. Stop being who you were, and change into who you
are.

"Love is a commitment of the heart that will stand the test of wavering
emotions, intellectual rationalizing, circumstantial allure, hormonal
infatuation, and even the wounds of your lover. Anything less is not true
love."

Dealing with the Givens~

2006-11-04T15:36:00.001+08:00

Meredith: There are times when even the best of us have trouble with commitment, and we may be surprised at the commitments we're willing to let slip out of our grasp. Commitments are complicated. We may surprise ourselves by the commitments we're willing to make. True commitment, takes effort, and sacrifice. Which is why sometimes, we have to learn the hard way, to choose our commitments very carefully.
- Grey's Anatomy Season 3 Episode 6

Purging~

2006-10-08T01:33:00.000+08:00

I welcome my birthday month with a catharsis of mind, body, heart, soul and spirit...
And as the full moon is out I know it is the perfect time to go through this personal ritual that happens naturally, for some reason, just as God is about to add another year to my life...

It began with the 12 days of being pure vegetarian as a sign of mourning and respect for my Grandaunt's soul, which ended Wednesday...but for some reason, I stayed veg till 7pm today...my body was feeling weak all throughout that time, add to that the brutal 230+kph storm, Milenyo, hitting us last week, which left thousands in Luzon homeless, hurt and hungry...to date, electricity still has not be restored in a lot of areas, I succumbed to a flu, to which, the only cure was, bed rest according to my doctor.

Within this past week as well, one of my best friends among the DLSU faculty, where i used to teach, was preparing to migrate to Australia today with her family. Throughout the week we talked, cried, and poured our hearts out...several goodbyes were needed and yet today as I said it one last time, I couldn't help but give in to the overflow of emotions...she was a sister to me and as I am her son's godmother, the attachment was hard to let go of...even her husband is a good friend whom I respect and whom I will never forget asked me to proofread his wedding vow days before their special day--which turned out to be truly a test of friendship as we braved the bomb attacks that happened that day in Manila.

And then my cousins had to go back to their daily lives across cities, provinces and continents, after being in touch for the past 12 days, since Amma's passing...we could not say our goodbyes as we knew the next day, sadness would overcome us and we would miss each other and our laughter, stories of Amma, our childhood, our dreams, our herstories and histories...many hugs were exchanged and memories were tucked into our souls where we could easily dig in anytime we needed them.

It has been pretty cathartic indeed. Add to that my innate desire to physically fix my surroundings when I am troubled...so I went through the task of cataloguing my research work the past few years including pictures and souvenirs for the scrapbooks I plan to create...it started yesterday as I could not stay in bed anymore...and well, today, I stumbled upon long lost letters of influential people in my life who have made me who I am today...and a diary of mine which I refused to read until today because I was scared to feel emotions I have set aside for decades....

'Tis truly my season for reflection, for looking back, for coming full circle, for gratefulness, for learning and noting the lessons I've learned and for looking towards the light, the next step God wants me to take and for trusting Him that as I walk with Him, He will continue to open windows of His love and faithfulness, filled with miracles, hope and the promise of magnificence. Here I am, Lord, use me and mold me.

By The River Piedra I Sat Down & Wept ~ an excerpt

2006-10-07T23:10:00.000+08:00

Chapter One

By the river Piedra I sat down and wept. There is a legend that everything that falls into the waters of this river -- leaves, insects, the feathers of birds -- is transformed into the rocks that make the riverbed. If only I could tear out my heart and hurl it into the current, then my pain and longing would be over, and I could finally forget.

By the River Piedra I sat down and wept. The winter air chills the tears on my cheeks, and my tears fall into the cold waters that course past me. Somewhere, this river joins another, then another, until -- far from my heart and sight -- all of them merge with the sea.

May my tears run just as far, that my love might never know that one day I cried for him. May my tears run just as far, that I might forget the River Piedra, the monastery, the church in the Pyrenees, the mists, and the paths we walked together.

I shall forget the roads, the mountains, and the fields of my dreams -- the dreams that will never come true.

I remember my "magic moment" -- that instant when a "yes" or a "no" can change one's life forever. It seems so long ago now. It is hard to believe that it was only last week that I had found my love once again, and then lost him.

I am writing this story on the bank of the River Piedra. My hands are freezing, my legs are numb, and every minute I want to stop.

"Seek to live. Remembrance is for the old," he said.

Perhaps love makes us old before our time -- or young, if youth has passed. But how can I not recall those moments? That is why I write -- to try to turn sadness into longing, solitude into remembrance. So that when I finish telling myself the story, I can toss it into the Piedra. That's what the woman who has given me shelter told me to do. Only then -- in the words of one of the saints -- will the water extinguish what the flames have written.

All love stories are the same.

We had been children together. Then he left, like so many young people who leave small towns. He said he was going to learn about the world, that his dreams lay beyond the fields of Soria.

Years passed with almost no news of him. Every now and then he would send me a letter, but he never returned to the paths and forests of our childhood.

When I finished school, I moved to Zaragoza, and there I found that he had been right. Soria was a small town, and as its only famous poet had said, roads are made to be traveled. I enrolled in the university and found a boyfriend. I began to study for a scholarship (I was working as a salesgirl to pay for my courses). But I lost the competition for the scholarship, and after that I left my boyfriend.

Then the letters from my childhood friend began to arrive more frequently -- and I was envious of the stamps from so many different places. He seemed to know everything; he had sprouted wings, and now he roamed the world. Meanwhile, I was simply trying to put down roots.

Some of his letters, all mailed from the same place in France, spoke of God. In one, he wrote about wanting to enter a seminary and dedicate his life to prayer. I wrote him back, asking him to wait a bit, urging him to experience more of his freedom before committing himself to something so serious.

But after I reread my letter, I tore it up. Who was I to speak about freedom or commitment? Compared to him, I knew nothing about such things.

One day I learned that he had begun to give lectures. This surprised me; I thought he was too young to be able to teach anything to anyone. And then he wrote to me that he was going to speak to a small group in Madrid -- and he asked me to come.

So I made the four-hour trip from Zaragoza to Madrid. I wanted to see him again; I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to sit with him in a caf‚ and remember the old days, when we had thought the world was far too large for anyone ever to know it truly.

Saturday, December 4, 1993

The place where the conference was held was more formal than I had imagined it, and there were more people there than I had expected. How had all this come about?

He must be famous, I thought. He'd said nothing about this in his letters. I wanted to go up to the people in the audience and ask them why they were there, but I didn't have the nerve.

I was even more surprised when I saw him enter the room. He was quite different from the boy I had known -- but of course, it had been twelve years; people change. Tonight his eyes were shining -- he looked wonderful.

"He's giving us back what was ours," said a woman seated next to me.

A strange thing to say.

"What is he giving back?" I asked.

"What was stolen from us. Religion."

"No, no, he's not giving us anything back," said a younger woman seated on my right. "They can't return something that has always belonged to us."

"Well, then, what are you doing here?" the first woman asked, irritated.

"I want to listen to him. I want to see how they think; they've already burned us at the stake once, and they may want to do it again."

"He's just one voice," said the woman. "He's doing what he can."

The young woman smiled sarcastically and turned away, putting an end to the conversation.

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The foregoing is excerpted from By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept by Paulo Coelho.

Going through a cathartic phase and found this piece of literature to be, once again, part of the healing process as I take on the next challenge that is part of my mission in life.

Freedom

2006-09-24T00:54:00.000+08:00

Three nights ago I dreamt of Lachmibai and Jianbai...they were together Lachmi guiding Jian, showing her the way...Lachmi was my paternal grandmother who passed away when I was a young girl, but I still remember her face...and it was so clear in that dream. I call her Amma.

Jian was my grandmother's younger sister, whom my dad calls Masi. When my Amma died, it was Jianbai whom we all call Amma Assan (Amma means Grandmother, Assan was the name of her only son, my uncle), who remained... and we all looked up to her as our family's grandmother... others called her the Godmother of the Menghrajanis. And she truly was...

Married at the age of 9 to a 12 year old boy named Bheroomal, they took a ship to the Philippines and set-up a store in Baguio with Bheroomal's family. From the age of 13 to 18, Amma Assan had several miscarriages and bore one son, my Uncle Assanmal. At 18, she was widowed as Dada Bheroomal was killed by a Japanese soldier with a bayonet right after the war. In 1986, my Uncle Assan, her only child, died due to a lingering illness. He left a wife, three daughters, a son and a mother whose greatest grief was to have her only child die ahead of her. My own Amma was married at 12 to Bheroomal's brother, my Dada Chuharmal Menghrajani. Two daughters married two sons--those were the days of arranged marriages and the India-Pakistan partition. And Amma Assan is the reason why everyone else in my dad's family moved to the Philippines through the years.

Back to that dream, I woke up early the next morning with so many text messages--I told myself no, I was to visit her still...but she was gone...the final, fatal stroke...and I was sobbing uncontrollably...her face kept flashing in my mind...and her last words to me on my last visit as happy tears rolled down her cheeks, as she was cupping mine, "You are always happy, always smiling, good...good girl." I replied, "I love you, Amma, God bless you." She said, "God bless..." with such strength while her right hand was flailing a blessing, her eyes, focused on me, tears still rolling down her cheeks. I guess she knew it was the last time she'd see me--physically that is.

In Hindu tradition, the body is cremated within 24 hours, embalming is not needed. Amma Assan was peacefully resting with tulsi leaves around her face and a golden seed of some sort on her lips when we had the wake that evening and waited for my cousins who were flying in from HK and Canada...they were her direct grandchildren...I could only imagine their tears...and they did flow freely as each of us made our way, all in white, to pay our respects to the last living ancestor of their generation.

The prayers and rituals began and it was all new to me as I was always just a spectator. This time, I understood. The men played a major role in performing the final ceremonies and each one, son, brother, cousin, grandson, nephew, friend, had to wrap a piece of colorful cloth around her, spray some perfume on it, offer flowers and a coconut. It was a very long line...as the Queen was well-loved and respected.

The 4 great grandsons were chosen to carry out the significant task of playing the role of the son...they shared responsibilities, but Ryan, 16, the eldest was the main participant. Traditionally, he had to shave his head after and bring Amma's ashes to India to be thrown into the Ganges River. My nieces were asking me how come only the boys get to participate. My cousin behind me quickly replied, "In their time, they thought we were so weak, we could not do anything, our roles were different then." So to make them feel better, I had them collect the coconuts that were being offered to Amma for safekeeping as they will be used in the crematory rites later. At the same time, I was thinking to myself that later that day they will feel worse as traditionally, women are not allowed to go to the cremation.

And then it was time to carry Amma into the funeral car to make her way to the Hindu Temple in Manila...the fire which is called diya, had to be placed in that car and cannot be put out for the next 12 days. For the same length of time, all of us relatives especially the families of the sons, had to be pure vegetarian as part of our mourning, wearing white and attending prayers daily. It was said that the soul goes through 12 stages and prayers and stories were told throughout.

As our convoy approached the Temple, a huge crowd was waiting for to see her off...My Dad did the final rites of respect for his beloved Masi and the tears began to flow once more. I took one last look and kissed her forehead before my Dad, uncles, cousins and friends lifted her coffin while chanting a victorious mantra--loud--invigorating--to acknowledge and give reverence to this mother, wife, teacher, friend, sister, aunt, cousin, grandmother, great grandmother, devotee, woman...source of life and miracles.

I got into my dad's car with my sister and brother, and joined the procession to the South for the cremation. The rain started to pour and while in the car, Daddy shared with us how he wanted his funeral to be...morbid, yes...but valid and definitely, one of the most important conversations we ever had.

As we arrived, my dad and the rest of the men in our family carried her coffin once again, chanting in the rain, into the crematory...We knew it was taboo for women to be present but as we got out of our cars, and waited...we were given a signal, to enter the holiest of holies, so to speak. This was groundbreaking.

So I proceeded to go in with my sister, my cousin's wife, and our three cousins--Amma's grandchildren. They proceeded to cover her in white, with just her face seen, honey was poured all over her, and ghee (pure butter) was poured in the same way...flowers surrounded her and coconuts, and every man present had to bow at her feet...before finally putting her body in the crematory.

We were led out after, we were no longer allowed to witness the burning of her remains but at that moment I remembered a line from a prayer my friend sent me the day before..."Embrace her, O Lord, into your Eternal Light and Love."

You're finally free, Amma...thank you for inspiring all of us with your courage, unconditional love and undying faith in the human spirit. We love you and we will forever carry you in our hearts.

My Little Prince~

2006-09-08T20:20:00.000+08:00

My Little Prince Dawidawen, my baby pitbull,

was sick this past week…

he had to be hospitalized for hookworms…he was bleeding daily and the vet was not giving me any hope that he would survive…I was visiting him daily and didn't want to leave him at all as he looked so sad and helpless.

I lost Nitro, my first pitbull in 2002 and I was scared I’d lose Prince too. Buddy, our askal (Filipino slang for native dog) had heartworms and was sick too but he wasn’t bleeding the way Prince was…

It has been pretty tough these past two months with business being difficult, the dogs now sick and my Spirit needing a break…. And just as I was about to succumb to putting God in a box, the tide turned.

I believe through the love, prayers and support of our family and friends, my dear Prince Dawidawen and Buddy were healed and they’re now prancing about like their old selves. Thanks to all of you. I pray blessings of health be yours and be with your pets, always.

A veil has definitely been lifted, the others will go soon, in time…in perfect time…

A Prayer for Remembrance~

2006-08-21T22:29:00.000+08:00

Help me, O God,

To understand that when objects in the rearview mirror appear larger than they are, they appear that way not to intimidate me but to get my attention.

Help me to understand that those images looming in my memory are just trying to get me to stop, turn around, and go back to my past, to pick up something that's back there, something that is essential for the journey I am on, something I need if I am to go on any farther.

Help me to remember the love I have received along the way, and to be remembered for the love I have given.

Help me to understand how short that journey is, and slow me down so I don't have to pass any of it by.

And if you grant me the grace of a long life, grant me the greater grace to always remember who I am and who it is that loves me.

by Ken Gire

Ode to a Boy of 7~

2006-08-14T21:11:00.000+08:00

JT turned seven,
His eyes all aglow,
Happy to be surrounded by family and toys.

How sweet and beloved,
How handsome and kind,
This little boy is growing up,
Right before my eyes.

You are my inspiration,
You keep me all afloat,
Every time you speak, I listen for every note.

Thoughtful and giving,
Talented and Bright,
Jesus’ darling angel,
Right by my side.

Stay as precious as you are,
Stay as happy as can be,
A wonderful destiny, my child, you will definitely see.

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Happy, blessed birthday to my Sugar Pie Nephew and Godson JT, oh how you make my heart sing, always. I love you! - Masi~

Rakhi: A Thread of Love & Protection~

2006-08-09T23:55:00.000+08:00

Eversince I was a little girl, Raksha Bandhan was one of my favorite Indian festivals. Set on a full moon evening, usually in the month of August, all of us girl cousins would go through the process of tying a sacred, intricate, thread around the wrists of our "cousin-brothers", say a blessing/prayer of long life for them while holding up a lamp or candle and moving it in counter-clockwise motion and then putting some rice and powdered red ink on their foreheads. Afterwards, we feed each other sweets and our brothers give us gifts as a token of their commitment to protect us and to love us forever.

The token gifts were usually in the form of cash, which we call karchi. But I would also receive gifts of clothes or jewelry. It's a tradition that has been carried on in our family for years and since then I've introduced some of my closest guy friends to it and they've taken to it quite naturally and seriously.

Today was one of the few times I missed our yearly Rakhi get-together at my aunt's house. My cousin called me up to remind me to go and I was touched by his invitation...He was my childhood buddy and despite our family's ups and downs over the years, we've kept in touch. It reminds me of this quote that says, " A brother shares childhood memories & grown up dreams."

I am grateful for my brothers, all of them, from all walks of life, and various cultures and religions, who have shown me their love, respect and support all these years. I salute you and I pray God's abundance, anointing and wisdom be yours now and always. :)

A Prayer for Awareness~

2006-08-09T19:15:00.000+08:00

Thank you, O God,

For seeing beyond the surface of my life
to the child sitting in the mirror.
Thank you for sitting down beside me,
putting your arm around me,
and speaking to me with such tenderness,
such compassion, and such understanding.
Help me to be aware of the pictures in my life
that are everywhere around me and at all times
showing me something I need to see,
telling me something I need to hear,
offering me something I need to receive.
Help me look beyond the surface of those pictures to see windows.
Give me eyes to see, ears to hear, and a heart to receive
what you are offering me through those windows,
that I might sense what is dear to You
so that it might become what is dear to me. . .

by Ken Gire

For Mama Rosie on her 80th birthday~

2006-08-03T23:39:00.000+08:00

I still have to tell your story, Mama.
About your life of adventure, challenges and risks…
Your wit and brilliance, your strength and power, your charm and beauty…
Stories of war and peace, fear and love, losses and triumphs…
Of fighting for love and winning…of remembering so as not to forget…
Summers spent sitting by the sofa listening to you take me back to times past…
Sharing herstories I will carry with me as your legacy…

I see them in black and white, painted photos, glam shots of the 50’s and the golden years of cinema…with your enchanting voice in the background, Soprano, singing usahay…

Te quiero, mi Abuela...I want our memories together to be forever preserved...you said earlier you still feel like your young self, you always were a child at heart and that's why it was always fun hanging out with you, you're game for anything and we'd always have a good laugh. Practically every suitor I had had to go through your enchanting spell...those were interesting times...you made sure I knew how to carry myself from head to foot, we'd swap make-up ideas and dressing tips, and talk about classic movies [and some pretty avant-garde ones] we love, music, and lots of coffee and hot chocolate, sharing tales of love, culture, tradition and life...of women and daughters, of sons, of mothers and fathers, of sisters, of land and of identity...I miss those times...and I long for more...Thank you Mama for choosing me to be your scribe...I will always be your biggest fan. Happy 80th birthday! May God keep you healthy and joyful always! Salut!

The Windows of Her Soul~

2006-07-31T23:52:00.000+08:00

With her left hand on my right cheek she draws me close, face-to-face, eyes searching, looking deep into mine...
I look back and search inside her soul as they try to tell me stories she could not share with words. What I would give to know and hear those stories told in her mother tongue, what I would give to understand and listen...but her eyes, full of passion and mystery, spoke wonders, wishes, blessings, hopes, dreams, and love...mostly love...amidst the sacrifices.

She would murmur, holding my gaze, and then uttering at last, with satisfaction and with such conviction, as if she knew some truth, a realization, perhaps an affirmation, "Suto ay"--in Sindhi this means "good"...she seemed to like what she saw...and I did too. My Amma spoke through her eyes, always, and what beautiful, enchanting, sheroic stories she told.

On stormy days when...

2006-07-25T00:30:00.000+08:00

He didn’t come home.
Carry him.

He feels alone.
Hug him.

You feel guilty.
Release him.

You cry.
Let go.

Have faith.
Pray.

Love.

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Then the rainstorm came over me
And I felt my spirit break
I had lost all of my belief you see
And realized my mistake
But time through a prayer to me
And all around me became still

I need love, love's divine
Please forgive me now I see that I've been blind
Give me love, love is what I need to help me know my name

Through the rainstorm came sanctuary
And I felt my spirit fly
I had found all of my reality
I realize what it takes

'Cause I need love, love's divine
Please forgive me now I see that I've been blind
Give me love, love is what I need to help me know my name

Oh I don't bend [don't bend], don't break [don't break]
Show me how to live and promise me you won't forsake
'Cause love can help me know my name

Well I try to say there's nothing wrong
But inside I felt me lying all alone
But the message here was plain to see
Believe in me…

'Cause I need love, love's divine
Please forgive me now I see that I've been blind
Give me love, love is what I need to help me know my name

Oh I, don't bend [don't bend], don't break [don't break]
Show me how to live and promise me you won't forsake
'Cause love can help me know my name

Love can help me know my name

by Seal, "Love's Divine"

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This was a memory from my childhood that I carry to this day but with God's grace, I have learned to let go of my fears and face them with love, His divine love that I pray, we all get to experience everyday.

Celebrating me~

2006-07-15T02:00:00.000+08:00

me and red wine1
Originally uploaded by Dulimaman.

Today was such a loooong day but it was equally productive...i'm finally back in my element, zipping left and right, focused, determined, driven and happy.

I'm sooo tired but sleep escapes me so I am choosing to write it out...hoping my lids would drop soon...my sister says I should just lie down and try to sleep or I might lose it and end up being up the whole night....sigh!

The past week has been a stormy one but what I love about seeing and hearing the rain fall is it feels like heaven pouring out blessing upon blessing...it helped me get my act together....the rain always inspires me to calm down, the strong winds showed me that this could all disappear in a second so why should I waste it worrying when I could just LIVE and BE?

My brain is beginning to unwind, I can feel it.... Looking at this photo of me enjoying my vino [with my funky blue weekend nails] and wrapped in my own little world amidst the voices of friends catching up is just the picture I want to be in right now. I close my eyes and taste the almost sweet CabSauv and its flavors, I feel all warm and fuzzy inside and soon my body gives in to my heart that pushes my Spirit to soar and bask in the magnificence of this moment.

Suddenly, an old new wave hit song by The Cure entitled, "Friday, I'm in Love" floats through the airwaves and I am back writing but absolutely free. Sweet dreams! :)

The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon

2006-06-22T09:28:00.000+08:00

I was leafing through my journal and saw this excerpt from Zafon's Spanish novel The Shadow of the Wind which I read over the summer. Aside from the fact that I think it speaks of how literature has influenced my life, it also reminded me of my goddess-sister who tagged me to come up with my own list of must-reads...something I hope to put together within the year...anyway, here is that lovely excerpt from page 6 of the novel which summarizes my personal thoughts and feelings about books...

"Once, in my father's bookshop, I heard a regular customer say that few things leave a deeper mark on a reader than the first book that finds its way into his heart. Those first images, the echo of those words we think we have left behind, accompany us throughout our lives and sculpt a place in our memory to which, sooner or later—no matter how many books we read, how many worlds we discover or how much we learn or forget—we will return. For me, those enchanted pages will always be the ones I found among the passageways of the Cemetery of Forgotten Books."

Nathan on the Runway

2006-06-11T20:50:00.001+08:00

My nephew, my sister's firstborn, the first of the 3rd generation of our family, turned 11 yesterday. And what better way to begin it than with a fashion show debut* together with his younger brother, JT. It was the opening of Fashion Wear Week in Manila and my darling boys strutted their stuff on the runway. And there I was, their proud Masi (in Sindhi this simply means "Sister of your Mom") at the fore, taking photos and cheering them on. It was only a couple of years ago when they were babies I would cuddle and woo to sleep and now, they're growing up so fast.

I am grateful to God for the blessings these children are to our family and how they have brought us closer together, how they give me hope and cheer me up when I feel that life is too much to take, how just seeing them and being a part of their lives makes me feel accomplished and how just spending time with them is such a pleasure, a breath of fresh air, and a reminder of God's promise that I will have my own, just like these two precious ones, one day.

I also know they will lead the next generation into the light.

Happy Birthday, Nathan darling! You sure ruled the runway yesterday. Cheers!!!

*found out recently this was his pre-teen debut, his first walk on the runway was a couple of years ago for a Regatta show...he started much earlier than I thought! How time flies!

Amma's Dhal~

2006-06-08T22:23:00.000+08:00

Amma. Lachmi. They all say I look like her and I'm proud of it. Some poeple would say it to me thinking I'd get offended because she was olive-skinned, old in the photo, couldn't speak English at all and simple. But they didn't know that was exactly what I loved about her. Because beyond that supposed simple old woman, was a big-hearted, petite, slim and strong lady who committed her life to her children, striving to make both ends meet, if only to have food on the table or should I say floor, everyday.

She could turn a simple, yellow, lentil bean called dhal into a dish generations of Menghrajanis will love. I myself can never resist dhal wherever and whenever it's served. Its sourness and saltiness trying to beat the other. As the late Doreen Fernandez would say of sinigang, "it had a nuanced sourness." And boy was it lovely!

My sister and I grew up looking forward to Saturdays at Amma's where Basmati rice was cooked and eaten with dhal, dudu and crushed papad. She would call my Dad everyday asking if he was awake and had he eaten, if he was on his way to the office, what would he want for lunch? And each of us would take turns answering her in what little Sindhi we knew, "Na Amma, Daddy sumipay (No Amma, Daddy is still sleeping) or "Daddy, Bathroom." She would call over and over till she got Daddy on the line.

She was my father's anchor and his heroine. My paternal grandfather died when Daddy was only 4 years old. And Amma had to single-handedly raise 7 children after that. What was amazing was she was able to do it. And that kind of love and care would find its way to us, her grandchildren. The moment our parents brought us home after being born, Amma was already there waiting to massage our newborn bodies with oils that smelled like coconut, herbs and spices. She would also gently put surmo in our eyes, that black inked liquid eyeliner that needed a silver instrument to create ancient, exotic-looking, dark eyes. How we loved the coolness of the silver as it rolled around our lids quickly. I hated the first part because my eyelashes were too long and putting the instrument in was torturous for me. But after some tears and lotsa anxiety, the ordeal would be over and I would look like a native Indian girl. Not that I needed all that eye make-up to look authentic, but it did make my strong features even stronger.

But that was then...soon Amma's dhal would become but a memory until Daddy would bring us back to those warm Saturday lunches with his own version of this simple meal generations of us have come to love. I miss you my Amma. You had the best hug ever. I'm glad i still get it today coz it's just like Daddy's hug.

Mama & Her Wheelchair

2006-06-08T00:09:00.000+08:00

You know that moment when you realize that you're entering a new phase in your life, that you really are getting older and the world is catching up with you? It was one of those moments for me this past month as I gave my grandma a wheelchair for Mother's day. It was a pretty, light and modern one and finding it was such a treasure--a sister-friend sold it to me and when I saw it, I knew she'd love it.

But the mere thought of buying her a wheelchair one day never occured to me or canvassing for the best one that would fit my budget through friends who've recently been in the same boat.

It's basically a milestone for two reasons: 1) Like my Uncle Bobby said, it's a blessing that Mama is still around now that she's almost 80--and I couldn't agree more--yes, she's got her illnesses but her mind is still as lucid and as sharp as ever... amazing! 2) It's an accomplishment for me to give my dear Mama Rosie that wheelchair, it's proof that God has sustained and blessed me so that I can share what I have with those I love and they can enjoy it...a sign that He will continue to fulfill His promises to all of us.

I'm really growing up fast now.... :)

Happy Birthday, Mama!

2005-08-03T23:08:00.000+08:00

Mama turned 79 today.
She sounded like a kid on the phone, "Darling, don't forget my lipstick!"
Tell me how many grandmas are as kikay at 79? Well Mama is definitely one of them.

I owe her a major visit...her lipstick and perfume are sitting by my cabinet, wrapped beautifully...I better see her before the month ends... It's been too long...and I have truly missed her.

My Grandmother Has Three Names

2005-03-07T00:36:00.000+08:00

My grandmother has three names: Maria Rosario Clarita.

I have two. Interestingly, my father-in-law feels that everyone must just have one name…Why two? Or three? Does it mean you have more than one identity? Why would you want three names?

I told him it was because of my Spanish ancestry. And if I were to break down my maternal grandmother’s names, I’d say Maria would mean the Virgin Mary, reverent, obedient and chosen by God. Rosario, still matches Maria as it stands for the Rosary…Clarita: little Clara? A variant of Lucia, I believe…which means light/bright.

My names on the other hand are: Karen Cindy. Karen means pure…while Cindy means light. Cindy also means moon.

Funny how Mama’s third name, Clarita has the same meaning as my second and preferred name, Cindy…are we similar in some way? I think that if there is anything I learned and absorbed from Mama, it would be grooming and image. She is the only woman I know who wakes up every morning, fixes her bed and puts make-up so that just in case someone comes by early in the morning, she can face them without being self-conscious. There must be others like her, I know, but Mama is just as regal as when I first laid eyes on her as a baby. She sleeps with stockings, a simple but presentable nightgown and a shawl. She would do the once over on me before I would leave each day and make sure my skirt was well-fitted, my shoes clean and my hair neatly combed for that “put together” look. Mama loved it when I dressed up…I think it reminded her of the good old days when Dada was still alive.

Mama was spoiled though. Dada lavished her with her every whim…and she enjoyed it like a true Lioness, Queen, and Muse. She can command a fleet, that I know, but she can also be very stubborn.