Quiet is not my style. Patience is not my best suit either. Yet I recourse to playing games like Farmville on iPhone, Farm Story and Angry Birds on my iPod to pass the time. I'm re-reading Message In A Bottle by Nicholas Spark. Included in that list of re-reads is Eat. Pray. Love. just in time for the movie release. I have countless books and magazines waiting to be read to fill up my time. The only real task on my to-do list is to update my resume; oh and yes, to meet with a lawyer soon to draft some legal documents before I go back to Toronto.
I arrived back in Manila 9 days ago and I'm restless. I like action. I like controlling the course my life. I don't like sitting and twiddling my thumbs. Maybe I enjoy sitting idly and exchanging stories with my cousins and with my friends. But even that I'm used to scheduling in my jam-packed life. Since I arrived my schedule has been quite easy. I try to distract myself lest I start looking for work again. Here. And because I'm extremely lucky, I know I can find work if I wanted to. But I'm done with knee-jerk reactions. It's time to bring out the strategy board and weigh each action carefully. Yes, it's true, I finally grew up. Sorta. Sans the video games.
I'm also distracting myself from the inevitable. Saying goodbye to this. This Easy Life called Ayala Alabang. It will be a basket of mixed emotions when that day comes. Happy-Sad. I must leave because there is no more room for growth here. Everything that has kept me safe and happy as a child is hampering my calling to stretch out and grow roots elsewhere.
The good memories this little corner holds is seemingly endless. I still hear distant shouts and laughter of my friends in bike rides on new streets as the village built new phases after our move in the neighbourhood in 1981. My first playmates were my cousins and our driver's three children. Then I made more friends when I attended a co-ed school that was just a twelve-minute walk away from home. I still hear the secrets whispered in hours and hours of phone calls echoing inside these walls because text messaging was still unheard of then. I remember the Valentine notes I received from boys who first taught me about love. I also remember the disappointments of unrequited love; hardly did I know then that that wasn't anything like love at all. I recall the arguments between my parents and I, telling me what I could and couldn't do. Then there were the little triumphs of honor rolls and choir competition victories. Then came the UP acceptance letter, the Dean's List medal and all those roads of good fortune that lead to today. I think I'm the only one left who hasn't flown the coop. So yes the time has finally come. Unit 9L was the test. Perhaps nothing is ever lost, no time is ever wasted. Even if we question the validity of events, wrong turns, mistakes even. Maybe each step does eventually lead to the next. A real life Choose Your Own Adventure so to speak.
What I understand is this: I must go away. I must work overseas to send money back home. The task is overwhelming. Yet there is no one to fill in this job. I did not apply for this. Yet here I am with the sole responsibility to run a household. With individuals in it and a whole myriad of families, children and a web of other people connected to their own lives. There is no way to explain this to anyone not of this culture. No wonder there were such books as One Hundred Years Of Solitude in the past. I feel like I could write such kind of a book. Mrs. G, my mom, the grieving widow who believes she will spend her last days in the home that my father built for us. Lola P, the aging labandera who used to be my oldest cousin's yaya and is now also our cook. She is a spinster who has devoted the rest of her life to her nieces and nephews and their families. And yes to taking care of my mother. Young Lyn, who literally grew up with us, she is employed as our all-around helper for almost ten years now. Where she comes from, there is no running water. She flies back home, since she discovered airplanes two years ago, every year to attend their town fiesta. She sends money to her sister so that she can have an education that she never did have. Lyn is also my friend. Mr. Driver, who can spend the majority of the day on our hammock under the mango tree. If I ask him to drive me someplace, my mom worries that I might be cutting short his nap. WTF! Mr. Driver lives in my home with Wifey and their four little rascally children.
So I must leave and work elsewhere because I am responsible for my roses. When I am in Toronto, I can make believe that my other life doesn't exist. But I dread each time the phone rings, anticipating that long-distance call that would rouse me to reality.
Then I'm asked about my love life. As if that should exist too. Above all that is happening, I must still find my happy ending. Maybe, just maybe, I'm tired of searching. Maybe I want to play the Meg Ryan role wherein I get found eventually. Maybe words such as Strong, Independent, Generous, and the like are brands that I don't want to wear anymore. Plain Housewife. That's the ticket! Maybe not. But strong women need their Prince Charming too. This slowing down does say one thing. It's back to basics wherein what matters most is love. The stakes are high, but it will all be worth it in the end.
I arrived back in Manila 9 days ago and I'm restless. I like action. I like controlling the course my life. I don't like sitting and twiddling my thumbs. Maybe I enjoy sitting idly and exchanging stories with my cousins and with my friends. But even that I'm used to scheduling in my jam-packed life. Since I arrived my schedule has been quite easy. I try to distract myself lest I start looking for work again. Here. And because I'm extremely lucky, I know I can find work if I wanted to. But I'm done with knee-jerk reactions. It's time to bring out the strategy board and weigh each action carefully. Yes, it's true, I finally grew up. Sorta. Sans the video games.
I'm also distracting myself from the inevitable. Saying goodbye to this. This Easy Life called Ayala Alabang. It will be a basket of mixed emotions when that day comes. Happy-Sad. I must leave because there is no more room for growth here. Everything that has kept me safe and happy as a child is hampering my calling to stretch out and grow roots elsewhere.
The good memories this little corner holds is seemingly endless. I still hear distant shouts and laughter of my friends in bike rides on new streets as the village built new phases after our move in the neighbourhood in 1981. My first playmates were my cousins and our driver's three children. Then I made more friends when I attended a co-ed school that was just a twelve-minute walk away from home. I still hear the secrets whispered in hours and hours of phone calls echoing inside these walls because text messaging was still unheard of then. I remember the Valentine notes I received from boys who first taught me about love. I also remember the disappointments of unrequited love; hardly did I know then that that wasn't anything like love at all. I recall the arguments between my parents and I, telling me what I could and couldn't do. Then there were the little triumphs of honor rolls and choir competition victories. Then came the UP acceptance letter, the Dean's List medal and all those roads of good fortune that lead to today. I think I'm the only one left who hasn't flown the coop. So yes the time has finally come. Unit 9L was the test. Perhaps nothing is ever lost, no time is ever wasted. Even if we question the validity of events, wrong turns, mistakes even. Maybe each step does eventually lead to the next. A real life Choose Your Own Adventure so to speak.
What I understand is this: I must go away. I must work overseas to send money back home. The task is overwhelming. Yet there is no one to fill in this job. I did not apply for this. Yet here I am with the sole responsibility to run a household. With individuals in it and a whole myriad of families, children and a web of other people connected to their own lives. There is no way to explain this to anyone not of this culture. No wonder there were such books as One Hundred Years Of Solitude in the past. I feel like I could write such kind of a book. Mrs. G, my mom, the grieving widow who believes she will spend her last days in the home that my father built for us. Lola P, the aging labandera who used to be my oldest cousin's yaya and is now also our cook. She is a spinster who has devoted the rest of her life to her nieces and nephews and their families. And yes to taking care of my mother. Young Lyn, who literally grew up with us, she is employed as our all-around helper for almost ten years now. Where she comes from, there is no running water. She flies back home, since she discovered airplanes two years ago, every year to attend their town fiesta. She sends money to her sister so that she can have an education that she never did have. Lyn is also my friend. Mr. Driver, who can spend the majority of the day on our hammock under the mango tree. If I ask him to drive me someplace, my mom worries that I might be cutting short his nap. WTF! Mr. Driver lives in my home with Wifey and their four little rascally children.
So I must leave and work elsewhere because I am responsible for my roses. When I am in Toronto, I can make believe that my other life doesn't exist. But I dread each time the phone rings, anticipating that long-distance call that would rouse me to reality.
Then I'm asked about my love life. As if that should exist too. Above all that is happening, I must still find my happy ending. Maybe, just maybe, I'm tired of searching. Maybe I want to play the Meg Ryan role wherein I get found eventually. Maybe words such as Strong, Independent, Generous, and the like are brands that I don't want to wear anymore. Plain Housewife. That's the ticket! Maybe not. But strong women need their Prince Charming too. This slowing down does say one thing. It's back to basics wherein what matters most is love. The stakes are high, but it will all be worth it in the end.
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