A Lifted post.. From a friend's FB Wall, taken from Exceptional Living.

The Radical Self Love Manifesto

Strive to always be thankful and optimistic.
Focus your gaze on what is good and positive; never dwell on the negative.
Do not allow life to make you cynical or closed off.
Remaining open and true to yourself is a life-long adventure, and the only one worth having.
Choose to see the best in people.
Strike up conversations with strangers.
Never be afraid to ask for what you really, really want.
To love, purely and fiercely, without agenda, is the most terrifying and rewarding thing you'll ever do.
Travel is essential to the spirit.
A pair of great shoes means nothing if you have an ugly heart.
Try your hardest not to judge anyone else; it never leads anywhere good.
Always avoid tabloids and gossip; they destroy the soul.
Be kind and loyal.
Many things in this world are more important than money.
Always trust your intuition, always.
Rescue animals, it will strengthen your heart.
Never delight in anyone else's misery.
Trust in others.
You are your own best investment.
Believe in the magic of a new day and a fresh start.
Follow your bliss.
Do more of what you love.
Always do the best you can.
Create your own family and care for them ferociously.
When people offer you opportunities that scare you, say yes: it's the very best way to grow.
You are never as stuck as you think.
Stay eager.
Love yourself.
Say YES to the adventure of Life.

Written by Gala Darling

The 18th of July Anniversary

(Amelia "Mely" Valencia Juban 29 December 1921-18 July 2008)

Three years ago, today, sometime between 2:50-3:00 in the morning of July 18th, 2008, you went to meet Poppa God.

You were diagnosed with Cancer of the Parotid. A condition that dovetailed with the onset of Alzheimer's Disease which, towards the end, robbed us all of a chance to fully live your last days with you in what typically would be frought with invitations to lie down to nap at mid-day, or sit down to merienda, or to come down to breakfast, lunch or dinner before the food got too cold, or the commentaries on how this bag or that was perfect because it had so many utility pockets, or whether or not the main dish we ordered at the restaurant to celebrate a graduation or special occasion might be too pricey and...my favorite - did I want you to place a call to your childhood friend to have me work for a prestigious local broadcasting network. (?)

That last morning, standing at the foot of your bed, with everyone else who was there, I found myself hearing muffled voices through the many thoughts buzzing in my head. Thoughts like: "is this really it? time for you to go?" "wait, this is a dream and they didn't really wake me up to say goodbye", "why are we standing about at this hour, and why is everyone quietly crying?", "why are you not awake and out of bed yet?" "why are your eyes not open with you smiling up at us saying you'll be okay in the morning?" "Wait! You can't die! You're supposed to get better!" Who was I kidding. Talk about false hope. But that was how it was for me. I remember the growing panic which was masked with a stoic and dumb stare as I watched you slowly breathe in and out until the time they said you were gone.

You died peacefully by the time the clock struck 3am. The wave of awareness washing over me as surely as if I had been engulfed by a silent but no less fatal tsunami at the shore of the land of the living.

You slipped away long before you actually said goodbye, so maybe it was best this way.

All of us who were at your home, the moment of your "departure" were properly woken to bid you a final farewell. But I never really got a chance to say goodbye. I stood there, clutching at your feet, by the edge of your bed, watching - as you took your last shallow breaths...as i listened to the final pronouncement na... "Wala na ang Mommy."

My grandmother, the one who figured larger than life itself with her shy prepossesing demeanor during my growing up years lay dying and I couldn't say goodbye. The grandchildren - myself included - all wrote and recited our 'memorials and farewells' to you at the wake on the morning of the funeral, but - I never really said goodbye to you. Maybe that is why I have to write to you today, on your Third Death Anniversary. I've let you go, yes, it was - as everyone says - and I agree - better this way. That you didn't have to undergo much more discomfort, suffering or loss of dignity. And although I should have been 'ready' for your death - I wasn't ready when Death finally came to claim you. I wasn't prepared. I was.. Not ready to let you go.

After we buried you, I went to visit your grave as often as I could (which makes it convenient that where you are now is a shorter drive from where we stay), and for a spell, wondered if I had spent four years in college only to choose a career as someone who tended a grave for a living.
I would troop to the cemetery with a bottle of oil, a rag to clean and shine your marker, candles and a pot of flowers, sometimes with mom, but sometimes alone, to 'visit' with you.

During those times I'd talk to you out loud (but not too loud, of course) and tell you how things have been, or complain about this thing or another or this funny incident or what-not that occurred since my last visit. After I'd cleaned your marker, I'd sit there and feel the breeze in my hair and tell you it was a nice afternoon and that I'm glad to be sitting there quietly with you. I've taught myself not to cry openly as much when I am there because - well, f I did that too frequently, the roving guards might have cause for concern - and I didn't really want to be taken away by the "men in white coats" or have my shrink alerted due to any excessive display of emotion on such a regular basis.

It got easier to visit you as the months went by, but like I tell you each time I visit, and on the morning of your funeral - I MISS YOU EVERYDAY.

Growing up with you has shaped many a thing in my life, in my personality - I even attribute my fondness for sweets and my first taste of coffee to you. You and the ten teaspoons of sugar for a glass of Calamansi juice meant - a glass of Calamansi juice would never be quite as perfect if it didn't have the right 'sweet twist' to it. Di ba? You said ten teaspoons of sugar!
The fondness for doughnuts, don't worry, I developed that on my own. haha.
You always laughed at the corniest of my jokes, and never failed to make me feel like I was the cutest, smartest and wittiest person you happened to be speaking to - ever. You always were, ready to give - even if it was the last money you had. I remember the one time I fancied that I "ran away from home" and showed up at your gate unexpectedly (I was still in high-school) and you were insisting I take the only money you had on you - your last Twenty Pesos, from the pocket of your house-dress. You were sure I could deal with it and go back home to "face the music." I don't even remember how I got home that day. I think eventually you called my mom and she and dad had to come fetch me and bring me home.

My tastes were partially defined by the comments I heard from you growing up, my habits formed under your tutelage - you insisted on tying my shoelaces for me till I was nearly 15 years old, even when I insisted I could do it myself - and even when you let me - you'd always remind me - "itali mo ulit." insisting that I double-knot it, so it doesn't come loose as I walk. I forget to do that sometimes and as I retie my laces, your voice always rings in my head... "Dapat kasi Babe, di-noble mo yun tali."

I measure my choices by the way you would feel about the decisions I make, by how you'd feel if I chose one thing over another and basically - if it was (or at least felt like) the best thing to do at the given moment. My choices aren't always stellar, but I know you'd understand that I was (and continue) to grow into myself as my own person.

You always had faith in me - even when I didn't have faith in myself.

Up until before you slipped into the fog of illness and Alzheimer's and we'd sit up and read the paper, your vision was still much better than mine. Something I found truly amazing. I developed drug induced Cataracts, YOU never got Cataracts! And it was only because of you that I stuck to those piano lessons because I knew how that was one of your frustrations. (I still feel that Mark plays the piano a whole lot better than I ever could)) But I stuck with it, and I can read notes! Now, I'm glad you were so insistent about the piano lessons, thank you. But I do NOT regret refusing to take those ballet and jazz lessons you suggested I take. haha. See? I can imagine you smirking at that. Even my sense of humor has been colored by you.

You were among one of the most concerned and devastated when I was diagnosed with Lupus in 2004, and always worried after my health and safety whenever I'd come to visit. Somehow, sometimes I feel that I let you (and everyone else who loves me) down by getting sick with this chronic dis-ease. But I realize then, it may all be just...part of the game of living. Roll of the dice, so to speak. But I'm sorry that you and everyone else in my life, has had to, and for those who are still here - are currently - living through my being not quite 100%. I don't mean to cause undue alarm. I'm fine. Half the time, no one can even tell there is anything different about me, if they don't mind that I might be a little too young to be using a cane.
It's still all good. No worries.

I miss your cooking. I miss your distinctive script and handwriting which I read and touch gently as I ask to borrow and re-read your recipe books. I carry around a prayer you re-wrote for me on a piece of yellow pad paper, a talisman of remembrance, of hope - one you gave me with the promise that "God will make you well!"

And yesterday, we visted your grave. Poppa, Thea and I, where we sat for a bit and said prayers for you, lit a candle and enjoyed the breeze. I was quiet. Sharing my thoughts with you, only in my head. Holding back tears that I desperately wanted to shed. But I was your big girl, I know you are "in a better place" and that it is as it should be.

I know you love me... And I trust that you know I love you.

I love you Loly, even as I carry you in my heart, I miss you everyday.

(not MY favorite photo from high-school, but I was told this was one of YOUR favorite pictures)

Fascinating...

I'm exhausted today...so what am I doing writing this blog entry?

I suppose I just have something I need to say.

There are monsters....and there are MONSTERS.

We have the usual hideous beasts of lore that we read about and imagine and see in our worst nightmares, and then there are those kinds of monsters that seem like normal people, but are actually hideous and beyond beastly on the inside.
Dorian Gray is alive and well in various forms.

If you're lucky, you are able to identify one from the other...and take note, sometimes it doesn't take a scary countenance or extreme physical deformity to be a monster. The worst sort are the monsters who try to kill your spirit, who steal the joy in your soul.

I hope I never turn into one of them...and I hope you never have to encounter this type of monster either...

The trick in dealing with the Dorian Gray type of monster is - know who you are and live your life for the greater good, thinking only good for those around you whether or not you know them personally.

Life feels too complicated and unfair most of the time - so let's spread as much love as we can... shall we?

Tread lightly, but without fear, although never forget - Here Be Monsters.

ROCK ON!!!

from the 1945 movie - The Picture Of Dorian Gray, c/o Wikipedia

On Fate, The Acceptance Thereof (or did I mean Faith?)

It's odd, the things that compel me to write again so soon.


1. An email I just read from a friend.


2. A disquieting (yes perhaps paranoid of me, but warranted) notion that I shall never again see one of the resident cats here at the condo where I live. Pusa may have met a horrible end tonight. =(


Both have to do with fate.  Either you accept things as they are or make it harder for yourself.


Not that the email had anything to do with MY fate per se, but my friend had mentioned accepting it and having to just accept things and deal with things as they come.


The thing about being human, I suppose is that, for all the complexity and drama, not to mention intelligence that we are awarded (some more than others, some less - yes, i just HAD to say that) - We are driven by the same basic things ego tells us to fear, love, hate, etc.  
Yes, we are sentient beings, we think (maybe sometimes a bit too much?) but we also more often feel.   Anger, pity, love, scorn, passion, compassion.  Our egos have become so powerful that it seems like we've developed a co-dependent relationship with - The ME that we'd like to think we are and the me that we want everyone else to see.


Is there a difference, you may ask?


My answer - a shrug and a non-committal - most likely.


I'd like to think that there is more to life than just the usual rat-race and that it IS possible to just BE.  But what of those who have mouths to feed? Children to send to school? Medication to purchase? Those who have jobs but don't make enough to pay for fare to get to work or gas up their cars?  What of those who stand up for their rights and are denied justice, are detained or become part of those who are accosted by the authorities and just "disappear"?  What of the many stray animals who wander the streets of the city - looking for scraps of food, given or stolen, who, if unluckily enough end up as roadkill or pulutan (the term for appetizers or food for those who drink alcoholic beverages) or, considered "vermin" and are summarily executed?  


1. The email - Much as I miss (and have taken for granted) the art of letter-writing, I confess I enjoy the ease afforded by correspondence via e-mail.  It's easy, fast and instant.  Communications made, ties mended or broken all without having to head to the post office to purchase a stamp and mail someone a letter.  For this, all one needs is an active account and a functional internet connection. (obviously also a computer even at an internet cafe - in which to access this account, for those who don't have computers at home)
I am confident though, that actual handwritten and posted, hand delivered missives will still be sent and received for as long as there are those who still send cards, postcards and actual letters. Hey! Not EVERYONE has an email account or knows how to use the internet yet.
In 2011, I hope to send those important to me an actual (read: handwritten) letter.  It should be a nice break from the usual bills or disconnection notices. ;-) haha.

2.  The cat, Pusa.  In late 2009, an orange stray cat has started sitting with me out on the Fire Escape.  In an effort not to become attached to it, i refused to name it and just called it "Pusa". 
In hindsight, this effort seems to be in vain as I have been accused by my mother of spoiling it - taking out bits of left-overs and sometimes setting aside portions of food just to have something to give it.  In the last few weeks, Pusa has been coming up together with a grey and white kitten - whom I also refuse to get too attached to, so I started calling it HeyYou.
At approximately half-past ten in the evening of February 3, I was sitting out on the Fire Escape.  Some ten or so minutes later, I hear a muffled cry from somewhere downstairs which - disturbingly enough, seemed like a cat who was just struck.  But not for so long as for me to be sure that any actual violence had occurred.  My heart stopped for a beat.  I had seen Pusa and HeyYou just minutes before that and now they are both strangely absent from the fire escape.  I linger a bit longer as my coffee started to grow cold.  Some five minutes later, HeyYou comes skittering up the stairs.  I feed it left-over hamburger.  No sign of Pusa.

My anxiety grows, but I am refusing to fuel my worst fears.  Over and over again, reminding myself of the philosophers who say there can be no proof that one cause is the effect of something that has occurred. Was it Hume who, speaking of Causality who said - we could NOT perceive cause and effect.  If I will lull myself into a form of complacency for this evening, then I'm willing to buy this theory.  My peace of mind depends on it.


Note: This condo has (for me) a history of not abiding by the Humane Treatment of animals, I've actually called in police to investigate the killing of a dog here sometime in 2010.  I'm surprised they've let Pusa loiter around the premises for as long as they have. Sigh.


Must I just resign myself to thinking that Pusa just went "on vacation" in case I never see him again?  Is that the fate of the cat i'm preparing in my head despite all the sordid scenarios I might have concocted in my head?


Is it my fate to just pop an anti-anxiety pill when I feel my nerves getting the better of me or take a pill to get to sleep or choose to tire myself so I don't stay up all night?  


I start to pray silently to whatever Greater Being is out there. Let the cat be okay.  Let the people who have battles to wage be strong.  Let those who  know better, do better, be better.


It is a relatively uneventful day as yet.  But I am filled with a strange sense of dread just the same.   


I often say - The Universe Has A Plan! Well, I sure hope there's more than one.


There HAS to be.