Deliver Me

I have been living in short bursts lately.

But, I like life with passion–with intensity. You can split an atom or fire a staccato burst of emotions. The intensity is there, but at the end of the explosion, or when the dust has settled down, it could leave you wondering how it had exploded, how you had exploded? What have you been doing? Where are you going?

I need to go back to the source often–very often. There is chaos when the self is a slave to auto-pilot programming, to conformity, to fears. The music dies. I can’t hum the tune. Or, it doesn’t sound beautiful. I retreat.

I no longer have the patience to wait on the sidelines. I want to be deliberate–make things happen and make others happy. It makes me happy.

Please be deliberate such that when I go back to the source, I still find you there–exactly you who I encounter in my every day.  I don’t want separation. We are one. I want you to be the same you when I accept the call, when I go through the trial, when I go back to the source until I return to the realm where I met you. I would want to find you at any point in my journey to self-discovery. I’m doing the lemniscate.

I am not sure who I’m talking to. I have this fear that I’m searching my heart for who truly loves me and who I truly love. I want the deliberate ones.

Times like this, when I go back to the source–of this passion, this intensity–I find my heart less-turbulent. I have been told that when less-turbulent, the wisdom of the heart comes in. It might not be wrong to say that the heart thinks.

Here’s hoping writing is the antidote to daily programming–to short bursts that are meaningless and empty.

Allusion

the windows are thrown open
to the trembling of a gong
struck by our truths
our confessions

our feet they falter but we thrive
in the death of cacophony

music is a religion
a slaughterhouse of our own dragons

you believe in angels
and you believe in devils
you sing them songs
i sing along

 

Pangandoy Kong Sugbo

The question is the call.

The movement that was once Stop Cebu Flyovers has every reason to go beyond stopping the construction of flyovers within the heart of the city and grow to have become the strong Movement for a Livable Cebu that it is now. What concerns it most about Cebu is a vicious cycle of living a program that kills the heart of creativity—old patterns, old templates and right answers to the wrong questions. It took only questions for one to realize the “imaginal” spirit within—to see the fire that burns.

The independent-mindedness of Cebu is being threatened. Somebody says he is worried that we are closely following Manila. Another adds that Manila is closely following Los Angeles. The thing with the flyover issue, for example, is that sustainably progressive cities had been tearing their flyovers down because they do not solve the traffic issue and cause more problems than solutions. “They are on their way back and we still want to go there,” one asserts. Do we want a city of cars or a city of people? One group says it cannot allow itself not to participate in the decision-making process—that it is not just for the government to decide.

Something is emerging in Cebu—“opening the fabric of history.” This is the place where Lapu-lapu killed Magellan, remember? “I refuse to accept the status quo,” someone says. “We want a sustainable and livable Cebu,” another says. “What are we willing to do? What are we willing to sacrifice?” he asks.

The Workshop Courage called “Pangandoy Kong Sugbo” that was facilitated by MISSION or the Movement of Imaginals for Sustainable Societies through Initiatives, Organizing and Networking (www.imaginalmission.net) more than a month ago was like a frame that provided a context in which to view the magnanimity of the movement’s dreams (mga pangandoy) for Cebu. Where it is now, MLC has been spreading across every institution—past the young and the old, past the so-called “elite” and the marginalized, past the cool and the uncool, past the artistic and the structured, past every other differences and limitations, with the realization that there are common dreams that are shared between every Cebuano and those who have acquired the Cebuano way of life. If it is of any inspiration and encouragement, one says Cebu is small enough to change but big enough to influence. This is the place where Christianity was born, remember?

Creativity is central to the process. Somebody describes it as marching to the call of creation—marching to the call of God. I think that one of the most beautiful experiences of being at the Workshop Courage is being one with someone who breaks into tears as he articulates what truly makes him happy: answering the call and making a difference to the lives of others. It makes you think what truly makes you happy—what you really care about. The purpose of life, says the great Emerson, is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well.

“What is the definition of Cebuano pride?” someone asks. He says we are warlike when our turfs are invaded, but only when our own individual spaces are invaded. Notwithstanding that, a lot of things are inspiring about Cebu. The different groups agree that everything here is “close by”—like the way the city is to the mountains or to the beaches, the way one is to his neighbor and the way Cebu is to its neighboring provinces. It is beautiful how we can laugh at our weaknesses and build on our strengths.

Workshop Courage teaches us that turfing is a sense of separation and that our default consciousness is separation. It lets us see that making change happen is about allowing the diversity to come together and having a deep sense of oneness with others and the society. There is no separation in the journey of the imaginal. No duality.

As I try to relive the spirit of the workshop, what I vividly remember is how each participant was amazed by his “most creative moment.” Someone says he can’t believe that it is him in the creative state therefore thinking that creativity is an entity in itself, dynamic and moving. He says that he had the feeling that God was on his side. Jagat says that we are like a funnel and that the creative ideas are just floating up there, somewhere, in some dimension.

“How do we keep our creative levels high?” somebody asks. It is tempting to remain in the cloud of creativity, see new cells emerge and give birth to a new way of thinking. But, Workshop Courage teaches us that creativity does not complete without action and that the action has to be repeated. The consciousness of the movement says that there is plenty to fix, that the problems are complex and interconnected. Understanding the relationship and the interactions between the self and the society grants us the wisdom that we are bound to re-enter the society while still in the cocoon of creativity—where old cells get killed. “But, as long as the ego is there, it will always come out,” Tressa warns.

The movement has resolved that the day-to-day self is in a tension when in the creative self. The programmed self pulls you to an opposite direction. Some writers call it taking the high road; others, the road less traveled. Workshop Courage teaches us that the heart becomes less-turbulent when we answer the call, when we accept the challenge, when we mobilize our creative self. “When less turbulent, the wisdom of the heart comes in,” Nick assures. It is the role of MISSION to bring courage and creativity, and MLC is a beautiful example of collective creativity.

Nick says that the key central act to civil society is to reframe—that it is not about stopping something but creating something.

I cannot give justice to what MLC and MISSION have been co-creating. It is beyond words. But, perhaps, a movement can be defined as something that keeps moving, with boundless energy, or a fire you can’t seem to put out.

—————

I wrote this for MISSION–first appeared on http://www.imaginalmission.net

Hello, WordPress!

Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs.

–Pablo Neruda

What A Shame

I haven’t blogged in the last six months!

¿Conoces A Eineda?…18 de Agosto de 2008

I thought that a smile was welcome when I saw her at the passengers’ waiting area. I smiled, and she smiled back at me. Perhaps, it’s more accurate to say that we smiled at each other–at the same time. It must be the aura.

We stayed in a spot where you get a view of the airplanes outside the gates. It was more than an hour before our boarding time. I told her that I wanted to get some drinks; she said she’d like to do the same. I got an orange juice in a huge bottle. Whether she got coffee or water, I can no longer remember. We had a nice chat.

She told me that her name is Eineda and that some call her Anita. She is from Cuba. I told her that almost anything about the revolutions in Latin America have become interesting to me. I told her that I like history. But she hasn’t been in her country for the longest time. She’s been in the US, where she works as a nurse, for twenty years with her husband who is an Argentino. She said he is in Mendoza, on vacations. We were to board the same plane from LAX to SCL–our connecting flight to Argentina. She will stay in Mendoza for a month, she said, and we both had to regret that there would be no chance for us to board the same flight in going back to L.A.

I was at 36C–aisle seat for a long flight. Eineda was waving from 39F. We had been talking about SCL before we boarded the plane. It is beautiful, she said. “Like a shopping mall,” she added. She said she would accompany me to the departures where I boarded my plane for Córdoba since she just had to wait for her flight for Mendoza until 9 am Santiago time. My flight was 7:05 am. We were scheduled to arrive at SCL at 6:00 am. She, probably, sensed that I was worried that I only had an hour to change planes and realised that I was not sure about where to go after getting off the plane.

Eineda is a very warm person. And, indeed, she stayed with me at the waiting area until I got to board my plane.

She doesn’t know how to use e-mail, she said, but that her husband does. She couldn’t recall his e-mail address either and had a hard time recalling her home phone number. She wrote down what she remembered and said in case I need to go to L.A, again, I should call her and let her know.

En La Mañana…18 de Agosto de 2008

I woke up to the alarm at 6 am. Seven in the morning still looked like 5 am. Ten in the evening back home. From the window, I saw Radisson Hotel and I knew that it was one of the hotels I passed by the night before. I thought of walking around and looking for a fastfood–I was told that there’s a McDonald’s along Century Blvd.

I passed by several hotels along Century Blvd. As I felt the straps of my sandals trying to tear the skin on my ankle, I decided to get a cab to take me to McDonald’s. On my T|X, I see a memo saying I spent a total of $7 for the cab (back and forth) and $5.50 for the big breakfast–with coffee (in a tall paper cup), of course.

I took some pictures when I got back to the hotel.

      

     

And some more (including the ones I have in the previous post) before I left the room past 1 pm. I had a white jacket with me for the Argentina winter. 

 

I bought 2 bars of Snickers (my power snacks) at the frontdesk lobby as I checked out and then waited outside for the shuttle to take me to the airport. I had a little chat with the assistant–”I hope you can come back,” she said.

Espero que sí.

Busco El Hotel…17 de Agosto de 2008

It was still the evening of the 16th in Los Angeles when I arrived. ”Saan po ang punta niyo?” greeted the admitting officer at LAX airport to my delight. “Argentina po,” I said smiling and added “but I’m staying here in L.A. for  a night.” My flight to Santiago, Chile–which serves as a connection to Córdoba–is scheduled at 3:55 pm the following day. I saw more minorities at LAX–Asians, Black Americans, Mexicans and more of those who looked like Latin Americans. The idea of a melting pot of races.

Apparently, I boarded the wrong shuttle at the airport–it stopped at LAX Marriott Hotel and not at Courtyard Marriott Hotel where I had a reservation for a night. I was told that my hotel is just a block away so I considered walking.

I went down one block along Century Blvd but realised that my hotel was nowhere to be found. I went down another block on the side, towards the back of the street (which I found out later on, as I googled, is W 98th St) where hotels were towering only to find out that not one of them was what I was looking for. I have asked in one of the hotels but they couldn’t give me directions, either. It was around 9 pm already and I wondered if I would find my way to my hotel.

Few yellow cabs purred the street. I can’t remember seeing anybody but there was one car parked in front of a building where I had asked for directions. The man I asked didn’t know where Courtyard Marriott Hotel is–he doesn’t live there, I was told.

I started becoming nervous–or frightened–as I trailed the second block, and as I realised that the state’s crime rate was not something I had read about before traveling (or that the probability of me not getting mugged on the street or raped is not something I have calculated before leaving the Philippines), I saw a black woman with the braided hair walking the same direction that I was. I asked her if she knew the hotel and, like I had guessed (or was that blind faith dictating), she said that the one behind the street must be it. A sigh of relief. She asked me where I am from and what I was doing in California. Just before I got to reach the back gate of the hotel and just before she bade goodbye, she warmly said: “welcome to my country.”

A smile greeted me at the lobby. My reservation was confirmed. To my surprise, it hadn’t been paid in advance. I had to pay for it. The corporate office just arranged the booking. My manager was right about having me file for a contingency fund.

Finally, I found myself in my room–tired but as happy as a clam.

 

 

Hace Un Año…16 de Agosto

It’s been a year since I traveled to Argentina. And that tells me how little I have blogged with only two entries after Recuerdo de Cordoba…Now, this is my attempt to document, on a daily basis, what transpired in that two-weeklong travel as I have not really done so.

I have not told you about what happened that night when I arrived at Los Angeles where I was walking down the street past 9 pm, wondering what the state’s crime rate is, looking for Courtyard Marriott Hotel. I have not told you, except close friends here in Cebu, that I was stuck at the Chile airport for 28 hours.

It’s now 9:19 pm on the clock. Between 9:15 and 9:30 a year ago today, August 16, 2008, I was outside Gate 6 of Ninoy Aquino International Airport’s Philippine Airlines departures submitting myself to the body check to board PR 102. And we went up into the sky at 10, taking off to cross time zones.

I was at 52C. I requested for an aisle seat for the 13-hour flight so it would be convenient to keep walking up to a booth to ask for water to drink and to the comfort room from time to time. To my left was an old couple—the wife, a nurse, whom I had been conversing with a lot. As usual, when I am with older folks on travel, we were talking about Politics and the different situations in the country.

The plane smoothly landed at LAX airport at 8 pm Pacific Time–on an evening that looked like four in the afternoon; the sun, still bursting with light. The wife to my left said “maganda ang landing niya,” then I heard an applause from the other passengers on the plane. I had to join them.

Our Cory

I was barely four years old when the Filipino people proved that we are no nation of cowards. I have no memory of the EDSA Revolution as it was unfolding. All that I could remember is that when I was six years old, my mother would buy me a yellow dress for the schoolyear’s closing exercises. I walked up to the street, past neighbours who were calling me Cory, in that yellow dress, in yellow socks, with  a yellow turban and a yellow shoulder bag.
 
As a young girl, I basked in the pride of being called Cory.

Corazon Aquino is a hero, I thought. She is great. I wanted to be like Cory.      

“Less than 24 hours after Marcos had had himself inaugurated, he was being helped off a plane in Hawaii, sickly, exiled and bewildered. His former home, Malacanang Palace, was now a melancholy tableau of abandoned power, overrun by thousands of revelers. The new leader of the Philippines was the reserved housewife who had worn plain yellow dresses every day of her campaign. For her determination and courage in leading a democratic revolution that captured the world’s imagination, Corazon Aquino is TIME’s Woman of the Year for 1986.”

“It soon became obvious that the only person far enough above the political differences to unite the opposition was the martyr’s widow. She was also, by no coincidence, the only one who did not seek the role. ‘I know my limitations,’ she said three months after the murder, ‘and I don’t like politics. I was only involved because of my husband.’”   

“The absoluteness of that belief gives Aquino a firmness that can turn into stubbornness. Indeed, her very real sense that she is an instrument of God’s will prompts friends and relatives to refer to her career, again and again, as a ‘mission.’ Says her mother-in-law and confidante, Dona Aurora Aquino: ‘I think this is a mission for her, to put her country in shape. Then she can retire. Ninoy’s assassination was his fate. The presidency is hers.’ Cory often says the same thing.”

There had been questions in my head. Like why woud there be six coup attempts in her administration? SIx is just too many. Was Cory too gentle on rebel soldiers? Did they get the punishment they deserved? What of Hacienda Luisita?

And yet my admiration for Cory intensifies as I read the papers telling stories about how she, again, led by example through the peaceful transfer of power to her successor, Fidel V. Ramos. The Philippines paved its way to the first clean and peaceful elections since 1965. I believe in the genuineness of her intention, that it was more than just a dictate of a democratic institution.

The many times I saw Cory on the streets on the “fight” against charter change and the many times I read statements about the preservation of democracy, I do not forget that the dictate of democracy is for the good of the people and not to block charter change (if for genuine reforms). In the years to come, whether or not we remain a Democratic Republic, what matters is that we do not forget the true essence of her legacy.

Cory did not die in vain.

Damo nga salamat! Saludo ak sa imo!

 

« Older entries

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.