wingwmn

spreading my wings and sharing random lessons learned along the way

Intermediate Spanish

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In Spanish, there is a grammatical concept called the Subjunctive.  The subjunctive mood expresses uncertainty or un-reality.  For example, a speaker would use the subjunctive when giving advice (“I  suggest you call home”) or expressing desire (“I wish you were here”) to convey tentativeness in what the other person might actually do.  

The form of the subjunctive is curious; the verb becomes almost unrecognizable.  Take the verb Tomar, to drink.  Normal conjugations would be toma, tomas, tomando, tomaba, has tomado (drink, drinks, drinking, drank, have drunk).  But in the subjunctive, the verb becomes Tome.  Very distinct.  If there were an english equivalent, it might be something like DRONK!  

*

At a cafe, I heard the lady at the next table call out to the server “La cuenta por favor, cuando tu puedas.” 

I was bewildered.  “PUEDAS.  Cuando tu puedas.  Normal conjugation of Poder would be Tu PuedES.  Why did she use the subjunctive? Is she expressing doubt on the actions of the server?  EVEN IF she knows the server will surely undoubtedly absoluletly undeniably give her the bill?  EVEN IF the server will hand her the bill in the so very immediate future that she can actually already smell it?  Why the subjunctive??”

*

Late last night, the boy said, “I invited the neighbors for a 9 o’clock dinner tomorrow.”

I pointed at the fridge, “Have you noticed its emptiness?”

“Don’t worry.  I’ll go shopping after work tomorrow.”

I bit my tongue, anxious to see how this would all play out.

This evening, this is how it went down:

At 7:30pm, the fridge was still empty.  The boy was still hard at work.

At 7:45, he stepped out of his home office, “Give me 15 minutes. Don’t stress, there will be food for dinner.”

At 8, there was no sign of progress in anything but my hyperventilation.

At 8:15, he re-emerged from his office and said, “Alberto just cancelled.  They’re feeling under the weather.”

I was dumbfounded. And enlightened. 

*

I am learning that making plans in Spain and talking about the future is practically living in the Subjunctive.  No matter how immediate the future is, even if it is a mere 2 inches from your face; no matter how practically absolutely unambiguously certain the plans may feel to you, there is always a shroud of tentativity.

A DRONK is a DRONK and will continue to be a DRONK until you actually have the glass in hand, lift it to your lips, and DRINK.

Too Independent

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To HER, who doesn’t understand all my life choices,
But has the grace to count to 10 before unleashing her opinions.
Who thinks that the relationship I am in is “too independent”, 
but is coming to terms with the idea that my partner may never become a formal “husband”, 
and is consoled that “at least there is a person who will bother to look for my body if I go missing on one of my solo trips”.

With much love and gratitude, Happy Mother’s Day!

*

And To THEM, the actual embodiment of a “Too Independent” relationship,
who have proven that you CAN thrive together with separate interests, separate schedules, separate bathrooms;
who are celebrating independently today (one in Bataan, one in Manila) and might be happier for it;
who have discussed “You can be buried in Bataan if you want, I’ll be buried in Manila.  Anyway, til death do us part,”
and who validate that the further apart the legs, the more stable the stance.

With much love and awe, Happy Anniversary, Parentals!

The Arc

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The sky looked menacing, so I ducked under the awning of a taberna, took a seat at a mesa a fuera, and ordered a copa de blanco.  

The man at the next table looked over and asked if I lived here.  Because “hablas español”.  I chortled, and we got to chatting.

His name is Stewart. Australian, and traveling solo for his 50th birthday.  He arrived from a week in Italy, and is starting a hopefully reflective Camino tomorrow.  

Shortly after our intros, a thin young guy with a glass of red in hand walked over.  He cried out “Ingles! Yes!” and joined our conversation.  His name is Ravi.  Brit-American, with the passports in his pockets to prove it.  He just turned 30, works in Silicon Valley and is visiting a friend in Madrid.  

*

Over a few hours and a few more copas, we got to really talking. 

Ravi told us how dating has been entirely taken over by apps, but he did it because — “how else was I supposed to meet women?”  But his cultural expectations-driven anxiety about not being married at this age has led him to agree to an arranged marriage.  Because he wants to start a family sooner rather than later.  

Stewart talked to us about how his first marriage ended, how he’s become more discerning in relationships, and how he’s learned to hold space for only the people that matter most to him.  

Ravi talked about the work that he enjoys, and yet still can’t help comparing where he is against where his peers are.

Stewart shared how he wants to work less, accumulate less and actively downsize.  “I don’t want to leave a burden for my children to sort through.  Look at the Romans with their incredible villas!  They couldn’t take anything with them!”

*

We realized the time.  At a break in the rain, we thanked each other and went our separate ways:  Ravi – to meet his friends and paint Madrid a fiery red.  Stewart – to prepare for his early start to the pilgrimage tomorrow.  And I – to write this little note of gratitude for these two strangers who represent both who I was and who I am becoming.  Who show that we are all on the same natural arc:  first, of an opening — of expanding outward, accumulating, building.  And later, spurred usually by a crisis (or the sudden awareness of the accumulation of subtle losses), of a closing —  contracting, releasing, and looking inward.  

Each point on the this arc to be honored as part of the shape of Life.

Thank you all for the birthday greetings.  It was a simple, ordinary, divine day. 

Gentle Portugal

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Evora, Portugal

“There is no menu.  We will just bring out various courses of traditional Portuguese dishes.”

So out came a parade of dishes.  It started with the nibbles:  olives, and jamon, cheese with jam, and a refreshing cold soup.
Followed by heartier small dishes including fish empanada, stew of pig feet, and a lengua sandwich.
The mains included a duck rice dish, slow-cooked black pork, various vegetables and mushrooms.
And the dessert platter consisted of a sorbet, fruit, and a flan.

It was all very delightful.
And all very Spanish.

*

Similarities between Spain and Portugal shouldn’t come as a surprise.  After all, at different points in history, they were one and the same country. They were part of the same Roman Hispania province, then again they were unified under Philip II in the 1500s.  Throughout history, their royals married each other. 

Now, even as 2 separate countries, they share the same religion, the same Iberian land with its flora, fauna and animals, the same surrounding waters, the same climate.  

*

However, there is a palpable difference between the two.

Spain, I would describe, has edge. 
Her people are intense and fiery.
The language is impassioned; it strikes the ear roughly.  Almost angry, always making a point.  

Spain has a cultural RBF (resting bitch face).  She comes off aloof until you beg and plead for years to make her like you.
Spain is proud.  She will have dinner at 11 pm just because she wants to.  

Meanwhile, on the other side of the border in Portugal, the difference is immediately visible.   

The Spanish landscape of austere scorched flatlands, grain warehouses, and endless rows of solar panels give way to rolling green hills dotted with age-old cork trees.  Wild flowers abloom where they can. 

As with its docile landscape, there is a certain softness to Portugal.

Her people are gentle.  And smiley.  And calm.
They are your instant best friends.  
Her language, too, has a lilt, a soft susurration.

And she eats dinner at 8pm because she is agreeable.  

*

As the two Iberian kids, there is also a certain dynamic in their relationship.

If I dared, I’d say Spain is like the older sibling — the ambitious one with her sights far outside her backyard.  She wants to join the cool kids out yonder.  She’s busy achieving and doesn’t spend time thinking about what her younger sibling is doing.

Portugal is the agreeable younger kid.  Relaxed, going about her business with far less ambition, but always peering over her shoulder at any aggressive moves from Spain.

Writing Fragments + a Challenge

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Is File Fragmentation still a thing?  

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Before I made the switch to Mac computers, my PC regularly suffered marked slow down.  The usual cause: file fragmentation — when pieces of files are found throughout the hard drive. 

Think of it this way:  you are carrying a basket of goods — socks, jewelry, the Harry Potter series.  You had plans to put them away, but your kid roars awake.  So you store the items hastily into whatever free space you find, jamming a pair of socks into the lingerie drawer, another with the belts. You squeeze some of the Potter series on the shelf, but the rest go in the shoe closet.  Some of the jewelry go into the box of photographs, and the rest are dumped in a bowl on the dresser.  Then you rush off to attend to your child, praying you find things when you need them.

The PC does the same thing. As we delete files, we free up bits of space throughout the hard drive.  Bits of space free up in the music section when we delete a song; space frees up in the images section when we delete a photo.  The computer tries to do things efficiently.  So when we add a new app, for example, the computer puts it in the first available free space it finds.  It may put part of that new app in the music section and another part in the images section, all resulting in fragments of files stored in random places.  As this fragmentation builds up, computer speed is compromised.  (Imagine having to find those socks while your family is waiting in the car!)

When this happens, your IT department tells you to DeFragment your files. The process of file defragmentation instructs the computer to sort out its internal mess so it can once again function properly. 

*

I am a PC. When I am triggered, or experience new emotions, or have curious thoughts, I park them in crevices of my brain with a note to explore in the future.  As these unprocessed little thoughts accumulate, I start feeling unmoored. Shallow breathing and tensing of the jaw starts.  I become woman on the verge of system shut down.

This is where writing comes in.  I write to defragment.  To take a mental shard of unsorted information, decipher what it is, give it a name, and store it in its proper place.  Writing allows me to pick up pieces of my puzzle from all over the room, and put them together to see the larger picture of who I am.  

Someone once challenged me, “why do you write anyway” as if to suggest I should stop with my over-analyzing.  But the opposite is true. I write to un-over-analyze.  To bear witness to my chaotic inner landscape, and distill like crazy so I can figure out the singular truth of who this person is and who she is becoming.  

Writing is my release.  It is my out breath.   

* 

Yes, all well and good.  All beautiful theory.  

The truth is, I hardly write.  Unless the message is so clear that it’s practically writing itself, I very seldom have the desire to sort through my inner wreckage and write my way to salvation.   Writing is a harrowing activity for me.  It is equivalent to cutting off my head to end the headache.

And this is why, on a sober Spring day in Spain, I decided to embark on a challenge: to write and process my fragments every day for 100 days.  Why the hell?  Because first, I so desperately want to believe in the saying that “Practice makes comfort”.  If I write everyday, it is my sincere hope that at the end of this fantastical challenge, it will no longer be as agonizing.*      

And because second, while I am now a Mac, file fragmentation is very much still a thing.  With so much that has whirled and continues to whirl around me, unprocessed thoughts of this Woman on the Verge is accumulating at a perilous rate.  She is kindly asking to be pulled out from under the heap.

Wish us luck.

* Important note:  while I am hopeful, I am also realistic and merciful. There is absolutely no intention to produce 100 new written work.  Just the act of writing for 30 minutes . .  .20 minutes . . . heck, 10 minutes is sufficient.  And processing the same one fragment for 50 days is fine, too. Let’s see.

Photo by Monstera from Pexels

For Tata

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Tata must be shocked in heaven that I volunteered to speak, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I didn’t take this opportunity to honor her and her friendship.

*
Together with many of us here, Tata and I were friends for a very long time. We were classmates in Woodrose since the 2nd grade and went to Ateneo together. She was always so lovely, but you couldn’t describe our friendship then as “close”.

That never stopped her, though, from going direct to the punchline. I remember having just graduated in NY where she had come to visit her sister, Trina. We were hanging out, and she asked me what my plans were. I said I wanted to move to Europe. Without batting an eyelash, she said “You’re trying to chase your happiness, Anita. You think your happiness is elsewhere. But you can find happiness wherever you are.”

So I stayed in NY for another 12 years.

*
It was after I retired from the NY corporate life and semi-returned to Manila that our friendship went on overdrive. For some reason, Tata took me under her wing and reintroduced me to the city — she introduced me to friends she thought I might find interesting, invited me to events, took me to her favorite places. But more than anything, we just taaalked — in person, when we were still able to, then in the last couple of years, via daily text or marathon phone calls that required several banyo breaks.

Since neither of us had children to raise or anything that resembled a real job, we had all the time in the world to navel-gaze. We overanalyzed everything.

Last month, I went to buy a pair of glasses. She said she wanted to shop with me from the safety of her apartment. So I sent her 30 selfies. Then she called and said, “Wait, Anita. I need the bigger picture. Are you buying A pair of glasses or THE pair of glasses? Because my choice of glasses will be different.”

“Well, I’m always looking for THE pair of glasses and have always been willing to plonk down a pretty penny for them, only to realize after a few months that THE pair of glasses had devolved into A pair of glasses. Which makes me go in search of THE new pair. So this time, I’m looking for THE pair of glasses. But cheap.”

*
We were both on an intellectual pursuit of what a meaningful life is. Our conversations were dotted with pocket philosophy quotable quotes:
“Tats, what do you think is the purpose of life — is it service and sacrifice as we’ve been taught or is it learning self love? Because to me, they are contradictory.”

“Well, Anita. The more you’re generous with yourself, the more you can be generous with others. When you find balance, you GIVE happily and it doesn’t FEEL contradictory.”

Even if she often answered with such wisdom and confidence, she, too, had her own struggles. One of them was setting boundaries because she gave so much. She texted: I don’t want to give aaallll my energy away to others anymore.

She’d celebrate the little victories: Anita — i did it, i declined the offer and wished them well.

Sometimes I’d bring in 3rd party opinion into the conversation in the form of messages from my angel books. We both had the same quirks, that way. “Hey Tats”, I’d start. ‘This is what the angels told me today: Your purpose is to find yourself, your own divinity, and truly discover who you are. Allowing your true self to come through is the greatest gift you can give humanity.’

*
Tata was my confessional. I told her everything. “Tats, you know i’m trying to be more generous in spirit, right? — but shiiit, i couldn’t help it. I blew up at someone today.”

She’d always be gentle, “Don’t be so harsh on yourself. That’s why there’s a difference between self love in a vacuum and self love in reality. Because in reality, being inis is normal and could even be a teacher.”

She was relentless in making sure i understood what she was saying. If i didn’t reply to her texts, she’d pester: Yoohooo. Hellooooo?

Tats, i’m watching Nadal win his 21st. Very important.

Fine. But we’re picking this back up tomorrow.

*
A couple of weeks ago, while i was getting my annual check up, she texted: Anita, how is this moment serving you?

I don’t know Tats but I’m waiting for my boobs to be squeezed.

I just want you to start looking at your life that way and be mindful of your motivations. Because maybe you’re living your life on autopilot without realizing that this moment isn’t serving you and your intentions anymore. And when you realize that’s happening, go live your life!

*
She was the Socrates, the gadfly, to so many of us. The angel who had so much time to listen, to guide us, to overanalyze for us. And who always forced us to look deeper.

*
The morning of her death, she texted: Want to chat? I was busy doing busy stuff that I missed a chance for my last life session with her. I often wonder what she would have said. If she sensed anything.

*
The morning after her death, in an effort to understand, I opened the angels book.
And I got a strong urge to text her:
Hey tats, i kid you not, this is what the angels told me today:. . .When you are in self-love. . . you bow your head in wonder at the beauty and divinity that is all around you. You beam love to those who were part of your life, and are no longer. You know all too well that you are all one and the same. You also know that the short time you shared physical space is honored and sacred. You say your goodbyes knowing all too well that you will always be connected, and your paths are woven with invisible golden strings of love. . . . When it is time to say your goodbyes, honor the ones who taught you, thanking them for showing you the way.

*
Thank you, Tats, with all all all of my heart. I will miss you forever.

Meditation on Landscape

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This time of year usually sparks frenetic self-evaluation. How did I do over the past year — have I done enough, built enough, lived enough? What do I have yet to do? Resolve, do act. Tick tock tick tock.
*

Perhaps it’s because I have no children, I felt like the buck stopped with me. I was the dam at the edge of a majestic river — so much pressure to do so much in a year, in a lifetime.
*

The poet and philosopher, John O Donohue, points to Landscape as a magnificent teacher. In its stillness, it reminds us of our timelessness. Contemplate the mountains, the ocean, the rivers — ‘this landscape was the firstborn of creation and was here hundreds of millions of years before us. . . It knows what is actually going on’. We, in our brief lives, are mere guests.
*

There is a kindness to taking on this wider perspective. Deep beyond our current fleeting manifestation, we are an eternal landscape of stars that connects us with other beings, and with generations that have come before us and that will come after us. We are all part of an infinite line of Life, and the dashes on our gravestones between the date of birth and the date of death is our contribution to this infinite line. We build on what was laid before us, while we do our best to set the foundation for who comes after. It is not necessary to build the whole house.
*

We are not the dam. We are not where the buck stops. Instead, we are all part of an endless flow of river. There is gentleness and liberation in that thought.

Holiday Balloons

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Imagine a jar of inflatable balloons.
Take the balloons out of the jar and blow them up one by one.
Now, gather those balloons and cram them all back into the jar.

*

This is, essentially, what “Coming Home for the Holidays” can feel like —
Middle-aged psyches 
inflated to inelasticity with obligations, practical needs, unfulfilled dreams, quarantine-and-non-quarantine-related trauma, unexpressed hurts, and ideas and opinions made rigid by lived experiences,
All trying to wedge under one roof.

*

And learning that the only way to fit is to deflate 

or to burst.

*

Family — our hardest lesson and our greatest gift.

______

Original photo by Natalie from Pexels

An Examination of Fear

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“You’re basically committing suicide. For a man.”

I usually eye-roll at my Mom’s hysterics. But this time, I understood what she meant: In an imploding world, you’re safe here. You have food, help, and a support system that can provide whatever you might need — doctors, supplements, oxygen concentrators, horse anti-parasitics.

But you’re leaving. Protected by a questionably-effective vaccine. Taking a long-haul flight into a country where you know no one, are unfamiliar with the health care system, and can barely say “cough” in the native tongue. You are launching straight into ever-morphing travel rules and anti-asian sentiment that might find you homeless and helpless.

*
As a traveler, I used to be pretty audacious. Unfortunately, covid fearmongering changed that. I am now pure paranoia. For months, I equivocated about leaving. What nga if I get sick? What if i . . . die??? I needed to find a way through this fear and wrest back some of my power.

*
The Stoic Epictetus said, “Philosophy’s main task is to respond to the soul’s cry; to make sense of and thereby free ourselves from the hold of our griefs and fears.”

I parsed through my angst and pitted them against rational thought:
What if I travel and get sick? / You could catch covid even if you stayed home.
What if I can’t get medical attention? / Getting covid doesn’t necessarily mean you will need medical attention. And worst case, you have medical insurance.
What if I leave and there is a family emergency? / Get over yourself; staying home doesn’t equate to the prevention of family emergencies. Talk to the family before you leave. Have a plan.
What if I die? / Well, then there really wouldn’t be anything to worry about, would there?

An examination of the fears we hold illuminates this important point: Our fears are not Fact. Nor are they Foregone Conclusions.

*
And what about my other latent fears that haven’t had enough air time recently? The fear of regret. The fear of living with What Ifs. The fear of settling back into a too-comfortable life that doesn’t propel progress. Aren’t these more valid fears worthy of consideration?

*
To thrive, the Stoics believe constant exposure to our fears allows us to prepare for them. They espouse practicing or at least visualizing the materialization of the worst. “The man who has anticipated the coming of troubles takes away their power when they arrive,” said Seneca.

Mentally going through what could happen allows me a prepared response. So, I do as much as I can. I grab myself a fully changeable airline ticket, good medical insurance, a hefty stock of vitamins and supplements, and a WHO-certified vaccination card. I do walk-throughs with my family about what to do in case of emergencies back home. I keep travel plans wide open and entirely flexible. I do contingency planning with staff. I write my will.

Then I take a deep breath and go forth.

Because if I am to flourish in a time of extreme uncertainty, I need a radical reframing.
I could choose to view this as committing suicide for a man. Instead, I choose to see it as recommitting to courage. For me.

Light and Shadow

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Hate is a strong word.  So, I will say:  I really, really, REALLY dislike Aprils.  They make me very uncomfortable.

I postulate that it is because as a toddler, my extroverted mother threw introverted little me a birthday party.  Since my birthday falls at the end of April, the entire month was about me (or more accurately, my party) — the cake, the decor, my dress.  My mother moved on from party planning hence, but she left a little twisted psyche in her wake.  April became the month I turn the spotlight on myself.

Every April, I unconsciously put myself on stage for appraisal; I inspect the physical changes and contemplate what is ahead.  And every April, I am fraught with melancholy and dread.  

On my 7th birthday, for example, I knew I was entering what Catholics call the the age of reason, and despaired that I was no longer a child of God (did I mention twisted psyche?).  At 11, with the onset of my period and a morphing chest, I braced myself for the implications of womanhood, motherhood, and girlfriendhood (not necessarily in that order).  Every year in my 30s, I worried about the mounting loss of coolness or pick-up-a-guy-at-a-bar-ability. And now in midlife, I fret over the loss of any relevance in society and, more importantly, any control over a softening midsection.  

Thus, my deep dislike for Aprils.  They illuminate change and impermanence.  And the past two Aprils have been especially intense reminders of mortality.

Over the years, I’ve coped in various ways — distractions; being grateful; taking care of my health.  But I come back, April after April, to my ever aging body and the temporal nature of everything I know and love. And year after year, I am felled.

Two birthdays and a full year in lockdown, however, has carried with it a gift.  With the dearth of distractions and the incessant reminder of our temporality, I am forced to do nothing but Stay.  To learn to sit and soften to the inevitability of aging and impermanence.  

More often than not, it is a biyatch. And more often than not, I fail to rid myself of the angst.

BUT BUT BUT.  There have been moments, rare MAGICAL moments, when I am able to turn off the spotlight on the graying hair and the shaky future, and allow them simply to recede into the shadows.

Rumi says:

Forget the future.

I’d worship someone who could do that.

On the way you may want to look back, or not.

But if you can say, There’s nothing ahead,

there will be nothing there.

In these rare moments, when I am able to forget the future, when I take it off center stage and place it with trust at the feet of the One that is much larger than I am, I know all will be well. In the deepest way — in aging, in sickness, in loss — nothing is ever lost. And in these extraordinary magical April moments, I touch peace.