Flashbacks

I dreamt about my mother the morning of her birthday. In the dream, I was with my brother and sister seated around a small table. We were sharing fond memories of our mother. Retelling stories of personal incidents during her life and our childhood. My mother was not in the dream per se. There was just a sense that if it were a video, her presence was there as an inset. And it was not creepy or mournful or even sad. She was there as if to listen to what we had to say.

And we had so many stories to share about her - even to each other as siblings. Because my mother was a great mother. I've always said that I sincerely wish everyone of my friends have met her. So they'd understand what I mean. A few minutes of talking with her - anyone would've known that she was a special person with a warm and welcoming heart. And maybe if people have known this, they'd understand why losing her has changed me so much inside. I do think that my close friends who have met her understand better why it has been so difficult for me to handle the loss.

You would have loved her, too. You see, we were the kind of children who rushed to go home after school not because our mother ordered us to but because we wanted to spend time with her. We're the kind of children who were envied because our mother read us stories before afternoon naps, sent us stuffed toys in school on Valentine's Day, baked us our own birthday cakes, helped build art projects, taught us calligraphy on weekends. She made us learn and recite nursery rhymes and well-loved poetry by Marlowe, Whitman, Longfellow. She bought me classic books like Wuthering Heights and Little Women. Also pocket dictionaries.

She was funny, gregarious, intelligent, sociable. My love for reading and writing were her influences. When she read out loud to us, she glided her fingertip along the line she was reading and so even before I actually knew how to read, I was familiar with the "shape" of the word in print. She gave me my first diary when I was eight and encouraged me to write my thoughts everyday. I've always kept a journal ever since - in the forms of juvenile scented notebooks, standard 80-sheet ruled notebooks, of .doc and .txt files, of blog entries, and more recently, a Moleskine.

In the dream, my siblings and I talked around a table. We don't do that anymore, but we used to have them all the time when we were growing up. My mother was the kind of parent who wanted to hear our opinions. The first time we transferred provinces, she all sat us around the table and told us of the many changes and adjustments that we will have to go through during the period. I was ten at the time, seated with the others in the table, asked of my concerns, and treated as an adult. And this happened often because we moved quite a lot.

And even when we were already working, she was the mother who would pick sampaguita flowers from our backyard and put some of the blossoms in my bag so that it'd smell fragrant. In fact, when I was packing my things in Azeus, I saw one of the sampaguita branches she gave me which I kept in a box. I don't know why I kept it. But I'm glad I have the dried up flowers in my treasured possessions. There was also the mask I had to wear when she was already in reverse isolation in ICU. I'm still conflicted whether to keep that one. I find myself constantly in this place where I want to forget but I need to remember.

My mother was also very human - with weaknesses and contradictions. Until the very end, she regretted not being able to give up smoking. And it was one thing that she always asked forgiveness for. To us and in her prayers. I have seen her try to quit all throughout those years. Many, many times. Often dramatic memories when she would ask us to throw out all cigarettes, lighters, ashtrays and she'd end up in tears. Weeks or days or hours later when she couldn't resist the temptation, she'd pick up the habit again.

As a kid, I never understood how hard it could be. Naively, I drew an anti-smoking poster and stuck it on one of the ref magnets complete with text copied from health books about how smoking is bad for the health and with a real cigarette stuck in the center of the paper for added effect. I think it was Papa who took the cigarette from the poster and smoked it. What irony. Yeah, we were a comedic family.

A part of me believes I'm meant to be single forever so I'm not keeping a list anymore of what I am looking for in a person, but if I were - smoking is a deal-breaker for me. I'm not being judgemental or self-righteous. In fact, it's because I'm being selfish. I don't ever want to go through all the magnificently long drawn out pain of losing a loved one because of this habit. I have gone through it with both of my parents. And it felt like you had to helplessly stand and see them kill themselves willingly and hate themselves for it. It is hell and it is as if your heart is wrenched out from chest. No, no. It would have to be somebody else's wife. Somebody else's child. I won't sign up for that all over again.

My mother would disapprove of this notion, I know. She always told me that I had a tendency to be inflexible in a sense that I have no in-betweens. Black and white - no grays. I am stubborn and she was worried that my extreme likes and dislikes would make me miss out on some of the things in life.

The way things stand, I'm set to miss out on a lot of things in life, anyway. Having a wedding where your parents give you away. Or having a family with a mother to guide you in raising a child. And a more trivial thing: my new office emphasizes on work-life-balance and they have these family day activities every now and then where you bring... well, family. I absolutely dread it. Because I can't bring anyone. Just yesterday, I had to call up an aunt I haven't spoken with for years just to ask if she could confirm my information to the bank where I was opening an account. It was funny and awkward and just utterly pathetic.

One of things my siblings and I talked about is that during those times when we were all living apart from each other - and it was not very unusual that our family of five were in five different cities at the same time - home was always where our mother was. Home was not a fixed city or even a tangible house. Home was where my mother can listen about our day, give us a hug, talk to us, let us know how much we were loved. And no matter where we're coming from - a toxic semester in college or a long day at work - we all knew where home was. Or who home was.

And it still stands true. We'll all be going home someday to where she is. In the meantime, I'm trying to live my life with intention. So I could have something worthwhile to tell her when I see her again.

Happy birthday, Mama.

Transubstantiation

I've heard a very interesting story today. A true one at that. Juicier than any of the showbiz tsismis. More incredible than any of the Ripley stories.

So a long time ago, there's this wife with a womanizing husband. What else is new, right? But this happened a really long time ago so instead of seeking annulment on the grounds of psychological incapacity or hiring a private investigator to follow him around - the wife instead consulted a Jewish sorceress to ask what to do.

So in keeping with her weirdness, the sorceress asks for a consecrated host in payment for a magical potion that will supposedly help the wife. A consecrated host - well, you know - it's the same host we get at communion. So the wife heard mass and after receiving communion, she removed the Host from her mouth and kept it in a knot in her veil. Just then, the Host began to bleed profusely. It bled so heavily that people thought that she was really, really sick. Or with a very deep wound or something. So she freaked out - naturally - and went home. She placed the wrapped Host in a wooden chest where she kept her clean linens.

When her philandering husband came home, he discovered the secret of the hidden Host because the chest was all lit up. Just absolutely beaming with brilliant light. In fact, it was so bright that it illuminated their whole house! The parish heard about the incident and after a couple of years, the Church recognized it as a legitimate miracle.

Amazing, huh?

But I just wanted to share what the priest reminded everyone - that physical miracles like that is not what people really need to see. The miracle that people - especially unbelieving ones are looking for, is the miracle of change in the lives of those who claim to follow Christ.

It's been mentioned that those who go to Church and openly pray but live un-Christian lives are so much worse than those who do not go to Church at all. Because they convince people that the Church does not change lives. But just breed a bunch of hypocrites. People shouldn't go to mass because they feel like they're being good. People should go to mass because they want to be good.

And that rang true in my head. Because I try not to miss mass not because I feel like I'm being better than those who don't go. But because I feel I need it more than others.

So what was the lesson from this Sunday's homily? Apart from the miracle of change in our lives - steer clear of sorcery when addressing marital problems.

Torrents (the non-digital kind)

I feel a little guilty for enjoying the heavy rains of this week. I know a lot of people find it bothersome - those who live in easily flooded areas, those who commute and find it inconvenient to wait for public transport in the downpour (I will be part of this demographic again soon enough). I'm sorry and I do empathize, but I couldn't help but feel gleeful over spending my bum days in the gloomy overcast of the indoors.

It is possible that I might be a hermitic, nocturnal creature in a previous life (if one subscribes to the belief of reincarnation, that is). I like being alone, being in the dark. In addition, I've always loved the heavy rains. A lot of people find this fact about me weird and most of them don't hesitate to let me know.

In college, when I have the room all to myself if I got off early from class - I turn off the lights, shut the door, and close the curtains - thereby keeping out all sunlight, noise, and movement. My roommates would find me in this state and would ask me what the heck I was doing sulking in the dark. One compared me to Anne Rice's vampires.

My current roommate, who usually shares my eccentricities, conceded that I was far too advanced in my dislike for socialization (and light) than her. Read: she thinks hanging an opaque curtain is a good idea, but closing it the whole way through is inadvisable and bordering on suffocating.

In my personality interview with Azeus, Miss Nettie asked me if I had any concern working late nights. I remember telling her that I actually preferred working when it's already dark and quiet, without sunlight. Those exact words. She laughed but she must've thought I was an absolute wacko. She was nice about it, though.

I'll be digressing a bit, but I just had to mention a little bit about my tech interview with Sir Spens - since we're on the topic anyway and I've been thinking lately a lot of how I started with my first company after my resignation. The way it went back then, you were given a problem to solve in a couple of minutes and you have to write the solution in a piece of paper. You can use any programming language or just even the pseudocode. You have to explain to the interviewer your logic. When asked "Is there a better way of doing this?" Without thinking and neglecting the hold on my sarcasm, I told him, "Well, I'm sure there is. But this is what I've come up with given the time."

I'm sure no one else remembers that incident but I've always fantasized of going back to that moment and answering that question with a little subtlety and tact. I still can't believe I got in after my seemingly disastrous qualifying interviews.

Anyway, fast forward to the present.

Just today, I woke up early and wanted to pick up where I left off on my reading. The morning light was taking a backseat to the cloudy skies and since my sister was still sleeping soundly, I couldn't turn on the light. I ended up rummaging through the shelves for my flashlight and used it for reading. A friend suggested I used a headlamp next time. Very interesting suggestion - one that I might follow. I'm still halfway through "The Time Traveler's Wife", by the way. It gets interesting once you get past the weird sense of pedophilia in the early parts.

I got the chance to do other indoor things lately. I watch movies, make origami, and follow recipes. I made something named 'Layered Cookie Cake'. It's made of raisin bread, cream, crushed chocolate cookies, and fruit cocktail. It didn't turn out to be much. Insubstantial mush. I also tried some writing. Like this entry. Oh, look. I can reuse the same adjective phrase for this: Insubstantial mush.