Pensieve

I recently went to the mall to meet an old friend. After the meetup, I happened upon this accessories store that was on sale. Against my better judgment--I'd recently thought of renewing my commitment to be minimalist--I decided to take a look inside the shop.

I ended up buying something: a silver sand dollar ring. I didn't need another ring, for sure, but I fell in love with this particular ring because it reminded me of something I did in the past for someone I loved: I collected sun-bleached sand dollars on a beach off Puerto Princesa so I could share a bit of paradise with him.

Many of the sand dollars didn't survive the plane ride to Manila. What was left of them disintegrated in the mail, and the recipient, while grateful and touched, didn't, couldn't, really appreciate the grandness of my gesture.

That was how I loved back then: romantic and impractical, thoughtful and contrived. How I threw myself into love!

I don't miss it, and I do.

On sitting with the discomfort

Yesterday, I ended up doing more work because someone didn't do a job well. I felt angry; my instinct was to lash out at the person, completely convinced that it would lighten my emotional load.

But I remembered these two things:

1. A quote from this excellent essay by Internet hacktivist Aaron Swartz.

In moments of great emotional stress, we revert to our worst habits: we dig in and fight harder. The real trick is not to get better at fighting — it’s to get better at stopping ourselves: at taking a deep breath, calming down, and letting our better natures take over from our worst instincts.

2. This expression that I see often in discussions on mindfulness, meditation, and yoga:

Sit with the discomfort.

Or, in this context, sit with the uncomfortable feeling. So I did.

I still ended up doing the work, but at least I was no longer doing it upset.

Purposeful whimsy

Whenever I try to picture the kind of life I want to create this year, I always end up thinking of teacups, delicate ones made of porcelain or bone china, with pretty flowers and edges gilded with gold.

I see myself drinking tea or coffee in them, gracefully holding the saucer, even. There are no sandwiches, scones or cake in the picture, because while I do drink tea and coffee, I am not really one who actually does tea, you know?

There's a word I discovered when I was working in media many years ago: aspirational. I still can't use it with a straight face, but maybe this dainty teacup I keep envisioning is exactly that, aspirational for me.

What words do I associate with this teacup? Elegance and design. Beauty. And also purposeful whimsy.

I'm also reminded of criticism--the kind you want when you want to improve as a writer--I received at a class writing workshop many years ago: Your words are beautiful, but they say nothing at all.

A teacup is beautiful and elegant in its service.

***

Yesterday, while organizing our bathroom shelf, I realized I don't like decorative soap. I mean soap that is molded in shapes like seashells, animals or, worse, flowers.

Their design defeats their purpose.

They look sad within a couple of uses and they're uncomfortable to scrub your hands with. As décor, they gather dust. As fragrance, most of them quickly lose scent.

What is the use of it, really.

***

I have three miniature teacups, all gifts or souvenirs. Today, I planted sansevieria in the remaining two.

We are off to a slow start, 2018

Last night, I dreamt that I was in the United States with some people, including a boy I liked years ago, someone I was interested in again. We were all staying in a relative's house; the family was out of the country and had invited us to use their home.

All of us were friendly, but we weren't exactly traveling together. I had my own plans, including reunions with other friends I didn't share with them. However, as people who find themselves together tend to do, everyone started planning as a group: tours, night outs, shows. I hesitated; I always start out wanting to do my own thing, not following anyone else's agenda.

But when they invited me to a barbecue night in the backyard, I looked at the boy I liked shyly and thought: This is a good way to get to know him better. I imagined the two of us chatting on the porch, laughing over drinks and maybe liking each other a little bit more.

I ran off to my room and took a shower. Before dressing, I decided to lie down in bed for a few minutes. It was morning when I woke up, still with bathrobe on and a towel wrapped around my hair. Barbecue night was over; I had lost my chance.

That was the end of the dream.

I woke up a little upset at myself. Later, when I shared this dream with friends, I wondered: Do I feel bad because I am so slow at everything?

Years ago, I tried to make a vision board, but I couldn't fill it up. Someone I went to grad school with scoffed at it and said, "Dagdagan mo naman ang mga pangarap mo." Add to your dreams; have more ambition; be more; do more.

Lately, I've been rethinking this idea of "more."

One of the articles I read last year that left an impression asked this question: What if All I Want is a Mediocre Life? Of course, the writer doesn't really want a mediocre life. She wants a small, slow, simple one and she defines it for herself and declares it enough.

That's something that I am committed to this year, but it's also something I'm slow at defining. But I'm getting there. I'm getting there. 

The ghosts of November

I've been having telco troubles lately, so I decided to get prepaid SIMs from other networks. I didn't want to buy a new phone, so I dug up the old ones I had. Happily, despite my frustration with my telco, revisiting my old phones was a somewhat delightful trip down memory lane.

I found some old photos of my nieces and other family members. I saw some old texts I had forgotten I'd saved, like the text my brother sent me to inform me that Tutay, our dearly loved and clingy Sharpei, had died. I also found some texts from someone I used to be in love with.

There were old photos from trips with friends I used to travel with and a friend I will mostly probably no longer travel with.

Has it really been so long ago now?

I also found the photo above of the last two dogs we had, Basha and Boris. Basha was the only offspring of Sasha, our beloved German Shepherd and Lab Mix that my mom bought off a newspaper ad.

Sasha was sweet to us, but a Jekkyl and Hyde to others, especially cats. She was a big dog and needed to run, and since our garden didn't give her a lot of space, whenever someone opened the gate, she'd barrel past that poor someone and run out into the great wide open.

When she had Basha, the younger dog would follow her mother out. They'd run so far out that we'd often give up chasing them and just wait until they got back home by themselves. I was always worried, but they were good dogs and they never got into trouble and never got lost.

This was before our village became strict with dogs roaming the streets.

When Sasha passed away, Basha never went out again. How she got pregnant, we don't know for sure, but we suspect a small dog snuck in and knocked her up.

She had six puppies, and we kept the one that looked like Sasha. That puppy was Boris. He was a big bully to his siblings, and so they all ganged up on him and he eventually became the bullied one.

The smaller dog in the picture above is Basha; Boris is only a puppy in that picture. He grew to be more or less Sasha's size.

We've had so many dogs in my lifetime, and I loved them all, but it was Boris' death that, I think, ended my desire to care for another dog. Long story short, we had a flea infestation. I was able to nurse Boris back to health a couple of times, but that last time, it was too late.

When he was sick again, he climbed up the garden chair next to the door and nudged my hand. Maybe he was saying goodbye to me. Or maybe he was asking for help again. I wish I had brought him to the vet right away. I really thought I had some time.

That is one of my regrets and why I hesitate to have new pets. Boris died this year, so maybe the pain is still fresh, but I really don't see myself having any dogs of my own again.

One of my versions of heaven is filled with all the dogs and other pets I've had that I failed to love one hundred percent, and they'd still love me and tell me that I was the perfect human to them.

One of my versions of hell is the same, except that I am racked with guilt and unable to forgive myself.

Here's to Peachy, Keenie, Chewy, Duchess, Duke, Mako, Misha, Tutay, Diwata, Sasha, Midnight, Basha, Boris, and all the other dogs, birds, chickens, ducks, rabbits, fish, and hamsters who shared our home.

I loved you, but most importantly: you loved me. Thank you.