In today's journey to kindness

I was a bit mean to the female server at Burgoo when I asked her about their lunch set that said pasta and nachos. I asked if I could choose the type of pasta and she said no. I asked if it had meat in it and she said, "Parang ganoon na rin." What the heck of an answer is "Sort of"?

So I snapped a little and said, but still nicely, "Importante ito. Meron ba o wala?" I just wanted a simple yes or no. But the manager stepped in and asked, "What is it that you would like to order, ma'am?"

Maybe he thought I was having a difficult time understanding the lunch sets or the server was having difficulty explaining it to me (it's relatively new). Or maybe the server herself was new.

But I started my sentence with "I'm vegetarian" and he already knew what I wanted. "There's no meat in the pasta and we'll serve the cheese on the side," he said.

This is why I love Burgoo. And I left a tip for the server I snapped at.

How to make a life

The other day, I took a tricycle driven by a man who took his business to another level. He had a portable TV and DVD player, with remote control, for the passenger. The reception was crisp and clear, volume just right. And below the player, he displayed around a dozen twist-type stainless steel and faux leather ballpoint pens for sale for P5 each. I wanted to buy out his stock, but I changed my mind because I wanted to share the experience with other passengers.

My speech at my best friend's wedding

April was all about saying goodbye to a huge part of my life. My best friend since I was 12 got married on the first Saturday of May, two days before the national elections, amid political rallies ending the dirtiest campaign season I've ever witnessed.

In April, my two best friends and I went on a road trip to send off Aweng's singlehood and her impending move to Nueva Ecija, and we split our time straddling this particular life change and the change that was coming to the country.

Now both the wedding and the elections are over. As always, I try to look at the changes in my life with hope. Try, being the operative word. I'm happy for Aweng, and I know her life will always be blessed. As for the country ... let's just say I try to be hopeful, but also wary. But that's another story.

Anyway, here's my Maid of Honor speech at my best friend's wedding. I'm posting it here for posterity.

***

"Aweng and I became friends in Grade 6. We were 11 or 12, and I whispered to her the answers to a test she was still answering even as our Religion teacher told us to pass our papers, finished or not finished.

Aweng had her own best friend and I had mine, but when by chance we were classmates again at 13, in high school, we knew right then and there that we were meant to be best friends forever.

I still remember looking at the first year high school class list and seeing Aweng's name. She was the girl with thick glasses and pigtails; the girl who was slow in answering tests; the girl who brought all her books and notebooks to school every day, even when they were not needed.

I was glad that there was one person I liked in a class of mostly strangers. But I also knew my life was forever changed. I thought, "Okay, so that's it. I'm doomed to be a high school nerd."

And what nerds we were! Nerds who fumbled our way through high school and college (and later law school for Aweng) and then ... everything adulthood, holding each other's hands, powered by love and laughter.

There is a lifetime of memories, and most of them, even the not so good ones, we can laugh at now.

But tonight, one memory stands out: I remember the hours before our first high school dance. We were each other's dates, as we would be in many other dances and parties through the years.

We walked around Tahanan Village, where they still lived, and found ourselves in the park. It was getting dark. We were already late for the dance, but laughing, we stopped to lie down on the grass and waited for the first star to come out.

Later, there would be no time to shower before heading off to the dance, and we would giggle to each other all night at that little secret.

That night when we were 13 we wished for true love. It was a wish we would keep making, in increasing levels of wisdom and discernment and maturity, in the many years before Dingkoy.

Tonight, I am very happy, Aweng, that your wish has come true. And that it came true in all the ways you wanted and needed it to be.

I am also very happy, Dingkoy, that you have brought out the best in my best friend.

You are both blessed with each other's love.

May all your dreams keep coming true. I love you!"

On closing doors and what to leave open

I have always been afraid of endings. I am not sure why I developed a fear of change, especially since much of my life has been lived in longing for something better. This is probably why I often hold on to things too tightly and tend to let go too late.

As I live through my thirties, however, I have come face to face with one ending after another, most of them predictable and inevitable, some of them unexpected.

I grieved through many of these changes, even the ones I wanted or even caused to happen, knowing that these were the end of some important stages of my life.

The endings I grieved the most, naturally, were those of friendships. Before some of those friendships came to an end, I had only known loyalty and grief that flows towards reconciliation. I had had disagreements with friends before, but we had always patched things up to either bring back the old order of things or build something new and stronger.

I had never known myself to be one to detach, especially after loving so deeply. I used to call bull on people giving up on people they still loved. But now, even without understanding how it can come to this, I know in my heart that there are some doors that need to remain closed as much as there are some doors that have to be left open even if nobody ever enters again.

One night, a long time ago, in a foreign country, I cried realizing a friendship had come to an abrupt end. The next morning I woke up with a conviction that I deserved better. All is forgiven and forgotten, and there is nothing but good wishes and affection, but that door is closed and labeled for that.

One night, much recently, in Manila, a friend I had loved since my teens told me to get out of her life. I had not imagined life with that door closed, not at all, and it hurt to imagine how things might have to be different. But perhaps that friend is a different person now, and maybe it hurts her to be with the person that I have become, so maybe -- and by maybe I mean I hope not -- our paths are headed in completely different directions. Still, love has left me holding the knob, ready for the door to open. That door is labeled for that.

Last night, I heard from someone I never thought I would hear from again. "I am looking for an old friend," he said, "Are you her? Do you remember me?"

Was I still her? I asked myself, as I composed my quick reply. What I did not write was: Of course I remember you. How can I not? You broke my heart.

Through the years, I have been revisiting that door, thinking of locking it up and managing to talk myself into just leaving it a little bit open until one of two things would happen: either I would understand why what happened had to happen or I would stop caring. So close to the latter, too many years later, suddenly the door swings open.

I understand, of course, that this can mean yet another stage, that of me after him, is changing.

There is a difference, though: Whatever happens this time around, I have already decided it will have a happy ending.

"you loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand"

Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell
By Marty McConnell

leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses.
you make him call before
he visits. you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.