On Self Preservation

Behind the driver’s seat, I listened intently to his story. He’s been driving all his life, the only skill he knows that can earn him a living. For two years, many moons ago, he was in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, too, driving under the scorching heat of the Middle Eastern sun, serving the thousands or so servants of the King. 

He’s been driving his brother’s car for a month now, to bring commuters to wherever they need to go. Brother is in Qatar, earning a living, for his daughter who is left in Manila with her grandparent. 

Back to the driver. He’s earning a decent amount every month but things could be better. Much, much better, he says. 

And so he wants to try his luck again abroad. In Bahrain this time to earn more and more and more. Life abroad is difficult. Very, very difficult but what can he do? 

"The loneliness can kill you," he says.

"But it’s where the money is." 

The stories of survival in the Philippines are varied as they are endless. 

In the streets of Metro Manila at night, small time drug pushers are playing cat-and-mouse chase with the police and vigilante groups. 

Everyone’s trying to survive the times -- in the most mundane of hours, the most difficult days. 

And it’s not only a matter of life and death. It's also about one’s happiness and sanity.

There are a hundred and one ways to do it — from the illegal to the overt. 

Those in unhappy marriages, for instance, take in paramours and those who fall in love with their paramours just try to fight the misery. 

Some wives settle with their philandering husbands for the family to survive. 

Others just go on with their lives, just winging it, surviving on other people’s skills, talents and perhaps, even money. 

We all have our ways. 

As for me, I write to survive. I write to stay sane. I write to breathe. Most of all, as Anais Nin said, I write to taste life twice. 

Notes from Heartbreak Hill

Curtains close. Music stops. Kisses end. Some good things never last. Moments, however intense, disappear with the passing of time.

Perhaps, ours disappeared with the cherry blossoms blown away by the February breeze or as we stood up there in the mountain that took my breath away. Or perhaps, in the middle of the night as dragons breathed fire and red lanterns lit up the night, you just decided that you would leave.  

Or maybe, you weren't ready or you couldn't. Or you simply just had to go. No goodbyes. 

It was short, sweet and forever etched in my heart. You have made your mark. I will find comfort in the possibility that we had. 

Who was it who said that one can never go back to the same place ever? We can never go back to the way things were. 

Not a day will go by without me succumbing to the misery of losing the “we,” the “us,” the “you and I." It has rearranged everything inside me into an incoherent, incomprehensible narrative.

There's no lesson in all this, no sense at all, just pain -- a deep, profound and lingering pain. 

Home

There's no point to any of this. It's all just a... a random lottery of meaningless tragedy and a series of near escapes. So I take pleasure in the details. You know... a Quarter-Pounder with cheese, those are good, the sky about ten minutes before it starts to rain, the moment where your laughter become a cackle... and I, I sit back and I smoke my Camel Straights and I ride my own melt. - Troy Dyer, Reality Bites

Life isn't perfect but there are many perfect moments. There are so many things to be thankful for. You know when it's a perfect day.  You feel it in every piece of you. You remember everything. You savor the details and the taste lingers in your mouth, like a shot of single malt whisky. 

Last Monday was one of those days. I went shopping for an electric fan even if the most important person in my beat was giving a speech at the House of Representatives. I didn't mind. It's been an exhausting week before that so for a change, Jes and I just wanted a quiet and perfect time, away from all the chatter and the noise. And what a perfect day we had just bumming around.

Today is another good day. Feeling sick and tired after a frustrating coverage out of town, I slumped into the comfort of my bed. I asked the househelp to prepare soup and a hot cup of calamansi juice. I was feeling so weak but the exhaustion disappeared when my little girl gave me a massage. It's true what they say, your child will love you unconditionally. 

This is the part I like best about being a single mom -- the chores, duties and responsibilities are double but so is the immense joy. She and I -- we're quite a good team. She knows just exactly when to give that hug, that warm embrace or  to ask how things are. 

These are the little things in my life that I would never trade for anything else. In between chasing stories, writing a book, keeping a blog for a London-based publication, traveling around the world for assignments -- his and mine -- I try to be a mom. It's not easy and I've had my outbursts and big sighs of frustration but again and again and again, I try. I try with enough love. 

Such are the details that put meaning in my life. And I take pleasure in each and every detail, like enjoying a kaleidoscope of colors in a giant canvas. There are of course monster days in between the perfect ones because as Troy Dyer said, "life's a random lottery of meaningless tragedy." The key is to treasure the details; to cherish the good ones, to find delight in every sorrow; to be shaken, to learn, to take that leap of faith and to embrace life's uncertainties with enough love. As Tuesdays with Morrie said, "love always wins."


And that after all is what it means to be human.