wingwmn

spreading my wings and sharing random lessons learned along the way

On Breasts and Warriorship

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This was a tough one to write. I wasn’t sure I wanted to say anything at all about this, and yet, there are things to say.

So here. I’ll say it.

On March 2, after a regular annual check up and several follow-up tests, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Two lumps in my right breast, relatively small ones, but of the aggressive kind. I was told I would likely need the whole shebang — surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, and hormone therapy. It would be a slog.

I went on a free fall. A cancer diagnosis, in a brand-new country, with a health system I didn’t know how to penetrate, in a language I was still struggling with. I was brought to my knees.

*
In the ensuing days, I ransacked my library for guidance from spiritual leaders whose teachings have helped me time and again. Through them, I found strength and a strategy to face what was coming.

Zen Buddhists say that bravery is looking directly at what is frightening us. Rather than unraveling, the spiritual path is to keep stepping into our fears, to keep moving into what terrifies us. With cancer, there is nowhere else to run anyway. So, I did as suggested and became acquainted with my fear. I listened to the stories of women who have treaded this path; I visualized myself already bald and breastless; I moved around doing chores with only my left arm to simulate post-surgery limited mobility. And as promised, by being intimate with fear, it ceased to hold me in its palm. Fear dissolves, and what is left is a state of openness, curiousity, and wonder. Where will this experience take me? Have I released enough attachment to the superficial? Can I be as brave as the other women who have experienced this?

My sister asked me, “Are you scared?”
“Not at all.”
That was the truth. At doctors appointments, potentially devastating news — that I would enter early menopause, that I would lose my hair, that depending on test results, I may have to consider doing an “Angelina” — fell on me like a feather. No impact.

*
Stoic philosophers say that virtue is having control over our minds, which is really the only thing we can control. Govern our thoughts, and we will find strength. Suspend desires, and we avoid suffering. So, I did as suggested and acknowledged my tiny place in the infinite universe. I gave up any ridiculous ideas of control, and instead, allowed my diagnosis to unfold.

My friends told me, “Let’s hope for the best results.”
“No, no hoping. That can only lead to disappointment. Let’s let this evolve as it should.”
Not trying to micromanage the universe brought tremendous relief. And it brought miracles I couldn’t possibly have orchestrated on my own, in the form of human angels taking turns providing relief, guidance, emotional support, and translation services.

*
This was me during the first few weeks: grinning and bearing it. I felt courageous. Calm. I was a spiritual warrior.

*
The past few days, however, saw this spiritual warrior break and throw spiritual tantrums. “Dear God, gudamit. I was JUST starting to live, and you do this. Eating plant-based in the land of jamon? No alcohol in the land of wine?? Bald, tired and nauseous in the land of La Vida Loca (or is that Puerto Rico, but whatever)?? What kind of joke is this?”

While I wait for more results that are supposed to come in in the coming days, I find myself praying for miracles, “Can I get the easy treatment protocol? Can I NOT lose my hair? Can i NOT have menopause weight gain? Can I just NOT do this?”

Some days, many days, the only prayer I can muster is “Fck this sht”.

*
On the morning of Good Friday, feeling a little guilty for falling off the spiritual path, I closed my eyes to meditate on Jesus’s words “not my will, but yours,” as he agonized in the garden.

But instead, these words flashed prominently in my mind, “Father, if you are willing, take this cup of suffering away from me. . .” These were Jesus’s words, too! Right before saying, “I’ll do it if you really want me to”, he slid in, “Dad, if you want to change your mind about the torment awaiting me, I won’t be mad.” I loved that! It reflected Jesus’s humanness. I was immediately consoled. Being an unwavering spiritual warrior takes superhuman strength, and if the Son of God can ask for a pass, why not little-human-speck-in-the-universe me?

We know how Jesus’s story continues from that fateful Friday. I’m not expecting a free pass either.

Eckhart Tolle says there is great opportunity in illness. I still believe that — there will be great learning on the other side of this. I am determined to learn every lesson there is to learn; to evolve into who I am meant to be after this. But I also cannot deny that it will be a pain in the fcking arse. And I cannot promise that there will be no shaking of my tiny spiritual fist at the vast sky every now and then. But that is the gift of the slog that is this illness – to offer opportunity after opportunity to get back on the warrior horse each and every time I fall off.

I suppose this is the mess and beauty of straddling both our spiritual and worldly dimensions — to seek wisdom and virtue, to find the courage to accept our fate, and to keep doing so, all while being a weak, fumbling, fist-shaking, cursing human being.

For Better or For Worse

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As a visitor, Madrid had always felt intense. For better or for worse. Its culture is undiluted. Its streets and tabernas — teeming with cacophonous herds. Its people — direct, vibrant, overflowing. The language — impenetrable and unrelenting.

Also, the meals — abundant, and late. And store and office hours — incomprehensible.

As a historically imperial city, land-locked in the very center of the country, it didn’t care to be anything else. While its coastal neighbors were being transformed by centuries of immigrants, Madrid was a stronghold for the Spanish way of life.

*
I love a coffee shop, and I love cities with a specialty coffee shop culture. You know the kind — cozy and bright spaces; soothing playlists; Chemex on display; serving coffees, lattes, and chia bowls. Their young international english-speaking staff in pink socks take your orders and talk bean origins and roasting methods. Digital-generation customers nurse their drinks, minding nothing else but their laptops.

To me, these places feel like a neutral safe space. They call out, “Rest your weary backs on our subway-tiled walls and pretend, for a lingering moment, that you’re home. Or in East London. Or Brooklyn. Or Melbourn. Or Berlin. Or heck, even Manila.”

*
The traditional Madrid coffee shop, on the other hand, is not a neutral space. It is ‘cafeteria’. Like Madrid, they are loud and spirited.
The disorganized bar, laminated tables, and napkin-strewn floors belie any intentional aesthetic considerations. Surly men serve 10 customers at a time and dispatch of them with admirable efficiency.

The coffee culture in Madrid is transactional. Customers approach the bar, order their cafe solo, chug it while catching a bit of news on the overhead TV, and leave. If they stay, it is to gab emphatically with friends and family over food. There are old people, young people, children; the whole village.

There is no spotify playlist to appreciate, no non-dairy milk options to choose from, and absolutely no laptop in sight.

*
Very recently, however, specialty coffee shops have sprouted hard and fast around Madrid. Mostly founded by expats, they cater to an equally international customer base of travelers and migrants who, judging by their strong endorsements, have been hankering for these spaces just like I have.

*
I sip my black sesame latte and think about coffee and culture.
On the one hand, I am thrilled that in a full-on city such as Madrid, I can finally escape into any of these happy spaces. But at the same time, I am unsettled by this trajectory.

Because to travel is to expand; to tear us away from our everyday. To travel is to be part excited, part uncomfortable. It is to allow a new place, in all its distinctiveness, to dictate our experience and leave a mark on us.

However, as post-pandemic travel and migration rise at remarkable levels, visitors are making their mark on their destinations. The cross-pollination of cultures and tastes seem to be producing increasingly standardized cities. Extremes and Uniqueness are moving towards an Average. Paris is finding its smile; Tokyo is discovering a bit of chaos. Fortress Madrid has sprouted specialty coffee shops and vegan restaurants. Will restaurants soon be serving dinner at 7pm?

The homogenization of cities is a sign of cultural gentrification on a global level. We trade in a city’s essence for what is universally agreeable. In the near future, travel may no longer be associated with novelty and growth. Rather, it may be simply about posing in front of a famous landmark, but being assured of comfort and predictability. For better or for worse.

The Hustle

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“Have you ordered from Pablo yet?” our neighbors asked with a mischievous smile.  We were having dinner at their house catching up on neighborhood news.

“Who’s Pablo?” we asked.  

“Our neighbor who sells paella.”

A small pause.  “Wait, he sells paella . . . from his house?” we asked confused.

“Yes!  He actually lives right across the street from you!  We used to be able to run to him for last minute orders but he quickly became so busy that he now requires advance notice!  Well, he’s also a pilot so he only takes orders for the weekends.”

Another brief pause of disbelief. “A pilot that sells paella in his spare time?” 

“Yes,” they laughed.  “Pablo Piloto Paellero!  Que raro, no?!”

*

A few weeks later, we placed a paella order.

Gathered around his delicious paella, family and friends discussed this Pablo character with a lot of befuddled vigor.  “I still don’t get it! No lo entiendo! Why is he doing this? As a pilot, I can imagine he doesn’t need to.”

“Must be a passion,” I volunteered.

“Sure, but he could indulge his passion by having family over for lunch.  Why make it into a business?” 

The concept of Pablo, the paella-peddling pilot, just didn’t compute with these people.  A side-hustle, particularly a laboriously manual one, is a very foreign idea in these parts (“If it were a consulting side-gig, maybe I’d understand it better.”)  Also, governed by a strong dedication to leisure and socialization, weekends and work never ever mix (“Bosses don’t call on weekends. Saturday lunch is the absolute latest they would dare call.”)  Pablo the weekend warrior was a very rare breed in Spain.

*

I thought of the Philippines, the land of the home-based enterprise. Where the national past time is tossing around ideas of what new discovery from the outside world can be replicated, baked, or imported and sold from home.  Where every iconic ensaymada, caramel cake, ube-cheese pandesal, sushi bake, creative pie, you-name-it likely began with a sparkle of an idea, a home oven, and a hustler who said “why the heck not?”  

In the Philippines, home businesses are a source of creative expression, entrepreneurial adventure, and communal gastronomic advancement.  Additional income is often the cherry on top.  To the delight of customers, the number of home businesses exploded in the pandemic.  During the dreary days of quarantine, they fed our bodies, our economy, and our sanity. They are our modern-day ‘bayanihan’.

*
After our lunch, Pablo came over to pick up the paella (pan).  I greeted him at the door and told him how much we enjoyed the paella, and how thrilled I was that he was open for business. He asked where I was from. I said I was Filipino.

“Oh, my wife is Filipino.”

And at that precise moment, everything clicked!  It suddenly all made sense! Of course!  The only way to explain this maverick Spaniard entrepreneur was a hustler Filipino wife!


Photo credit: Manuel Mouzo

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

By ·

Is File Fragmentation still a thing?  

*

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

By ·

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

By ·

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.