Quiet Suffering

Well meaning

People

Try to listen.

They are

Sympathetic,

Giving 

Comfort.

Patient. 

They know,

Too - 

That there is

Really

Nothing

I can

Do,

Or

Should

Do, 

But 

Quietly

Suffer. 

Alone.

For the peace

Of others.

Fake it. 

Perhaps

Someday, 

I will

Make it. 

It is not okay.

But

I must not 

Say it. 

Lance N. Roses (2024)

#poetryonpoetry

The trigger was this post: 

https://www.facebook.com/share/p/19gdRxXDjN/

Rest Today and It's Okay

It's okay

Remind yourself that

When you spend time

Alone

In your little corner

Of peace

Oblivious

Of the seemingly 

Hundreds of things

To do

In your task list

Remind yourself that

It's okay

To rest 

To be quiet 

To be away

Even if 

It's just that 

Little corner

Because 

Tomorrow is

Another day

And it's going to be 

Okay

#selfcare

#selflove

#urbangardening

2021.02.20

I did not know zucchini rots so easily

-->I bought one, I think for 50 cents

A week ago from a farmer's market

Something like market day back home

Quite an event, in this part of the world

Two days a week

You can buy farm produce

And cheese

At much lower prices than they would

At supermarkets

But of course, you can get some rotten tomatoes

But a few out of a lot

It is still a bargain

Anyway, I bought this zucchini

And forgot about it

I didn't know it turns liquid when it rots

I had to scoop it out of a bag where I put the vegetables

I cannot put all the vegetables that I buy in the refrigerator.

We share the refrigerator with a house mate

I am amazed that we have a large refrigerator

And still have not enough space in the cooler.

=====
Again, something from my past life.
Wonderful days.. Wonderful days... 

Thoughts After Viewing Akasha's Friendster Photo Album

I have forgotten
That I was drawn to you
Precisely because
You can give words
To seemingly unfathomable
Thoughts
and
Feelings

That I should not have

Because

I am Joy.

I have forgotten
That it was the colors you painted
That made me understand
To let mysteries be
Because they are not meant to be understood

I have forgotten
That I have lost joy
Because I turned my back on grief altogether

You see,
I thought I have grown tired
Of feeling lost
And that I'll work my way out

And yet,
I am still not found.


=======
This is another something that I found in the draft bin. Obviously, again, from so many years ago - because there's no such thing as Friendster now.

I'd say - if someone said this is actually theirs and not mine - I would believe them.
The muses have left me for so long... I don't remember anymore.

To Be Heard

I wasn't really back.
That newly published post has been in the draft folder for the past - - - five years.

But I just might be getting my muses back... just might...

Today, I read the story of a security guard.

https://newsinfo.inquirer.net/1236292/greenhills-hostage-taker-refused-p1m-from-employer-insisted-on-being-heard

He just wanted to be heard.

Such a sad story.
That we should resort
To extreme measures
So that our voices could
Be discerned
By unhearing kings
Or callous lords

That we have to beg
For an audience
In a world
That claims to be
Free

And yet
To be heard
We have to lose
Our freedom.

He just wanted to be heard.

Coming Home

... and I'm back. Lets get this blog out of the dusty storage bins and bring it back to life. 

What better way to come back than by writing about coming home - and paying tribute to people who matter most - my parents. 

*********

We moved into our old/ new home recently. Old, because we lived here some years back before moving somewhere else outside the city. New because we've come back after so many years and as a gift my parents gave the place a new look, adjusted the layout of the old structure and gave it new dimensions. My husband and I are basking in the new paint, and the significantly greater space. More importantly, we have come home to a place we call our own. 

It is not an impressive structure. No architect was involved in the designing. No fancy fixtures. No big construction. It is not something that could be featured in magazines. It is a mix of concrete and galvanized iron, bits and pieces of materials brought together, almost like a mosaic of the old and new.  The frontage is the remnant of what used to be a sari-sari store - with galvanized sheets covering the grills, and a foldable door converted into a wall. 

I walk around, opening the doors, going up and down the small, wooden spiral staircase that didn't use to be there. I couldn't help but well up with emotion feeling the love that my parents have for me in every corner and crevice of this house. Here I am, already an adult, supposedly capable of earning my way to have my own properties and yet, here are my parents - bona fide senior citizens - giving what they could to show their affection. This house was literally built with their own hands. My father is a carpenter and along with my ever entrepreneurial mother, they held the hammer that placed a nail in place, carried a shelf to put into position, and held the broom that swept the dirt to get the place ready and clean. To expand the floor area, they gave up their own private space. They did not tell us about the renovations nor asked for money that was necessary to see it through. It was meant as a surprise. Surely they have used a portion of whatever savings they had, and my brothers have certainly chipped in one way or another. My youngest brother willingly gave the tiles which could have been used for his own house. Thank you my dear brothers - older sister will try to make it up someday, somehow.

Just the thought of how much a labor of love this gift is makes me cry with gratitude. Thank you Daddy and Mama - for this precious gift - an expression of your great love for us. We could not ask for more, and pray to God that He would allow us the opportunity to bless you back. We love and honor you! 

 “Honor your father and mother. Then you will live a long, full life in the land the Lord your God is giving you.” - Exodus 20:12  (NLT)

If blogs had feelings... mine would feel abandoned

It's exactly 23 months since I last posted here.
That's two years. Almost.
Blame it on Facebook.

Surely, I have a story somewhere that should be written.
In the time of social networking, it's so much easier now to just post an "update" to my status. Or post a photo album - which I trust blindly will do the story telling for me. Put a caption here and there, tag as many friends as possible. Click "like". Post a comment.

No more long emails.
No more blog entries.

Someday. I'll write you a story someday, or of one of the many lessons I learned in life since the last time we ever shared a good conversation. Or a meaningful email exchange.

In the meantime - you can check my Facebook page. Nah, just kidding. :)

My Chiang Mai Story

No, it's not Shanghai. No, it's not in China. Not Vietnam. It's in Thailand. Chiang Mai. Charming Chiang Mai.

These are just some photos during my Chiang Mai, Thailand trip from February 3 to 8, 2010. Enjoy!

Click on the picture to go to the album.

My Chiang Mai Story

Serendipitous Little Words of Encouragement

Nothing really, just appreciating how you get the same message from unrelated people and in various ways. It's sometimes creepy - but it's also mysterious. And that makes it beautiful.

 

click on the image to get a bigger view

My Barcelona Story 2

You cannot avoid the question, "How was the food?", when you have just come from a foreign country.

Unfortunately, I do not have much to say regarding the food in Barcelona.
For one, I brought my own food - my stash of instant noodles, bottled sardines. Not because I expected the food to be bad. I just expected it to be expensive. I ended up saving those Euros, but then you're shortchanged with the stories. :).

For another reason, my mostly Asian contingent was fiercely loyal to eating rice - and for all the other times that we had to eat in a restaurant - it was to be, without fail, a Chinese restaurant. And there was only one Chinese restaurant in the vicinity. So there we were, in Barcelona, eating Chinese.

Our room was also a recipient of left overs from restaurant meals by our other colleagues. Throughout the nine days that we were in Barcelona, we had more than enough food in our mini - ref. I actually ended up bringing food I brought back to the Philippines. That's a lot of food miles for those oatmeal packets. I still have not eaten them.

So I really couldn't say how the food was. We did try some. On our second day, we had our lunch in the hotel restaurant. It took around an hour (or maybe 2) before the food we ordered arrived. Lunch was also served at 1 PM, which was actually an hour early than their usual lunch hour of 2 PM. We started streaming into the restaurant at 12:00. We had to go back, of course, because there was no way lunch would be served at 12:00.


Two of my African colleagues ordered fish and rice, and chicken and rice. All of us agreed that they didn't look or tasted the 15 Euro each that they were worth. The one who ordered fish complained it was bland. The one who ordered chicken was so aghast at the "rice" part of his meal. It was probably a mound of just five tablespoons of rice.



I ordered paella (pork and seafood). I thought our paella tasted better. And my Asian and African colleagues kept on saying, "They don't know how to cook rice.", because  the rice in the paella was what we would normally consider half done.

On our second to the last day, we did get to eat in a Spanish restaurant. We were with an Italian colleague who did the ordering for us. We had steak on a sizzling plate, which did not seem to taste any different from the steaks that I did get to eat before. (Although I did not eat much because it was medium - rare). And then we had artichokes - which tasted pretty much like - the banana "heart" (What is "puso ng saging" in English?) Except you don't have to struggle with fibers when you eat "puso ng saging".

I did get to eat in a "semi - Spanish" household on the night before we were to leave Barcelona. I say "semi - Spanish" because it was an American husband with a Catalan wife who have lived in the UK (and probably other places in the world) with multi - lingual children. We were served vegetarian lasagna, pomegranate salad, and cake. I'd say it was the greatest way to culminate my food experience in Barcelona. It was the best food I ate throughout my stay.

Worthy Undertakings

"Indigenous peoples account for 5% of the world's population, yet they protect and care for 22% of the Earth's surface, 80% of remaining biodiversity, and 90% of cultural diversity on the planet. They are also among the poorest and most socially excluded people in the world. (World Bank, Social Dimensions of Climate Change Workshop Report 2008.)"

Bangkok 2009

All This Talk

The Russian Federation currently has the floor. And the Co-chair interrupted him to ask what he meant by BPOA - to which he replied "The Bali Plan of Action - it came out funny, somehow, generating laughs from the people inside the conference room. It was usually referred to as BOP or the Bali Action Plan. Australia is now speaking, chuckled when she said she would express the principles she had in mind in sixty seconds.

It's hard to be distracted, on such a time like this, actually. I have the bigger urge to listen to what the speakers are saying, rather than trying to write this - fearing I might miss something -  something that will definitely be historical and worldwide in scope - and missed it because I was not paying attention.

It is already overwhelming being a spectator as all these talks go on. On some other circumstance, I would have been very cynical, having such an aversion to "so much talk." With the news of typhoons, floods, earthquakes, and tsunamis that have recently rocked the world, this gathering of 4,000 people has become more real to me, and I am actually appreciating it, even the tedious process. As part of the delegation of an observer NGO representing indigenous peoples, I am even in more awe of the thought that what we are here for can make a difference on the lives of millions of people who have historically been marginalized, and are placed in a most vulnerable position, despite being least contributory to climate change.

There is yet more talk to happen, until deals are sealed at Copenhagen in December. Bangkok has its place in this process. And as I watch, I can only hope that "all this talk" will amount to something that people in here, including me, would be proud of.

News of Manila in Bangkok

"There's a typhoon now. Floods all over this am. But seems to be fading."  Got that as a text message, and just took note of it. Because the day was far from done, there was more to talk about, by this group of around a hundred indigenous peoples all over the world. I do not think the arguments became much hotter than the warmth of the Bangkok sun, and as I strained to listen, I was more concerned with those 34 pieces of translation equipment that my colleage and I issued to the participants. I had a lot on my mind. Including, how to get all of them back.

At the end of the day, in the restaurant, we finally had a chance to talk about the flooding in Manila, but we became engrossed on the bouquet of greens that was brought to our table - which happened to be my dinner.

The following day, the flooding in Metro Manila was all over the news. I finally got the details of the situation from the Bangkok Post paper that I picked up from the hotel. It did look bad. It looked even worse when I was finally able to view videos of the flooding.

Now, as the talks on climate change start here in Bangkok, many of the speakers, representatives of the different countries who are here to negotiate on what to do with the changing climate,  have already expressed their sympathy for the disaster that has befallen the Philippines.

It feels strange being a recipient of these sympathies, and having to respond to people from other countries asking what the situation in the Philippines is now, when I have also been merely a spectator of the news that has come.

I feel that things are okay, because I have contacted family and they have assured me of their safety. But I know it is not, because when I watched TV this morning, the Metro Manila flooding is still in the news.  "Worst flood in 20 years. " "A month's worth of rain, in a day."  Tell me this is not climate change?

Counting Blessings 1 - Clear Sidewalks

Walking my usual route to work, I became aware of a pleasant sight - a stretch of sidewalk I could actually walk on.

It's not a spectacular view, but in communities where there's not much parking space, it's quite often to see something like this:

As you get nearer the business area, the walkable sidewalks even become more scarce:

It could be worse, because sometimes, you can't use the sidewalk at all:

So I am thankful for that stretch of sidewalk. And although it can be annoying that sidewalks are used as parking spaces, or storage spaces, or whatever, I still like this part of Quezon City.

Favorite Places 1 - UP Diliman

UP Diliman's welcoming trees.

I was born and raised in Baguio, and most of my travel experience before graduating from college was mostly in the Cordillera - where even if the roads seem totally dangerous, I was with family and relatives. And I felt safe. Oh, our high school class had a field trip to Zambales - a few years after Mt. Pinatubo erupted - and I brought home two lahar rocks as a souvenir - I still have them, gathering dust on the divider that my father made - but still there.

Anyway, the first time I was in (UP) Diliman, was probably when I needed to get my transcript of records, just before graduation. I was with college friends and it wasn't so bad. I do not remember having memories of fear, but then I don't remember much.

The next time I was there was summer of 1999 - for summer classes - at the college of Education. I was to become part of the second batch of volunteer teachers under the Ugnayan ng Pahinungod - Gurong Pahinungod Program, and the summer classes was part of our training. I guess for many of us who were there, it was a life - changing summer. I was blessed being there with the people I was with. Diliman became for me a friend as well. I relished every corner that I discovered. I delighted in the welcoming trees that seemed to give me a warm hug evertime the jeep enters the campus. I eventually, considered it home.

I remember how Diliman became my safe haven after that, when I didn't go home and instead chose to work in Manila. I would take the hour-long commute after work, to get from Sta. Mesa, Manila where I was teaching, just so I could have 30 minutes of quiet in the Diliman grounds.

Until now, almost a decade after, it is still one of my favorite places.

Finding Sunshine in Grey Skies

Spent the last 10 minutes just trying to set up.
Fifteen minutes before that trying to open the door.

Realized I did not really know what to write about.
Checked out Twitter and decided I did not need another social networking site to log into.
I thought I'd write about the different people I saw while walking on my way to work -
A young boy with a plastic bag over his head, maybe some magic hat to protect him from the rain
With a cart of nice looking vegetables.
Had the urge to stop and look at his wares.
But moved on, thinking I don't know what sort of vegetables to buy, anyway. Having nothing in mind to cook.

Work Day Ramblings

Time wasted so far: 41 minutes

Doing what: Downloading internet explorer for Windows vista

The nice thing about being in Metro Manila, as compared to being in Baguio, is that the day seems longer. When in Baguio, 8:00 PM is already very late, and it's likely that you'd like to be asleep by 10:00 pm then wake up the next day at 7:00 am. In Metro Manila, sleeping at 11:00 PM is normal and for some reason, your body wakes up at 6:00 am.

Time wasted so far, since last count: 8 minutes

Doing what: Waiting for windows internet explorer to install

Doing this because: Everytime I use the internet explorer that I have in my computer, it always suddenly closes, after I close a tab, for example, the whole thing just disappears - and it does not even go bak to the sites I was previously on.

It is hard to type without using the left forefinger. I cut myself yesterday trying to open a pack of mongo.

Comfort Room

I surprisingly found comfort walking in the hallways of a hospital in this time of anxiety and tension.
It was familiar, the corners not daunting, the walls unimposing. But also maybe because, here, I had the experience of being cared for and of being assured safety.
Should it be strange, that a hospital incident could actually be pleasant?
Maybe.
When there are high hopes for the body's wholeness, and people who really care, then a hospital is a place of comfort indeed.

Horizontal Communication

This girl gives us a smile - Clark Kent and I, in a later conversation, thinks she's one of those fund raisers, out to ask for money - asks us, instead, if there's anything that frustrates or bothers us about the world - and if we could write and add that to the list she's holding. Clark Kent writes: Buses running late.

Because Clark Kent is curious, she answers it's part of a class project. Members of their performing arts class were to position themselves in the different subway stops, and do what she just let us do. She explains it provides a way for people to talk to each other, and people get to have a glimpse of other people's minds by reading all the rest of the items in the list. Horizontal communication, I think that was what she called it.

Chloe, that was her name, then asked us if we could hand the list to another friend of hers in the subway station where we were going to get off. She said her friend will be easy to find - and we only need to look out for someone who's holding the same sign she was holding - "underground communication."

And we did see the friend, who was also named Chloe (and it was not part of their performing arts thing - they were just both named Chloe) - waving the sign frantically over her head when we got to the station where we were to get off. Chloe 2 gave us a warm thank you and generously obliged to have her picture taken.

We thought it was an interesting interaction.