.MUNIMUNI NG IBANG TAO, ATBP.

THE SACRAMENT OF WAITING

2009-11-24T18:00:00.000+08:00

Reposting THE SACRAMENT OF WAITING, an excerpt from God's Crooked Lines: The Search for Truth by James F. Donelan, S.J. that did the email forwarding circuit in late 2007.

---------- Forwarded message ----------

THE SACRAMENT OF WAITING

How difficult it is that a desire for something is planted in our
hearts, yet it is withheld from us. What comes to mind is a baby in a
mother's womb, already a baby, yet still being formed. Or a mango tree
filled with fruit, yet not ready for the picking, still waiting to
ripen.

Many years ago, while wrestling with the word waiting, I happened to
be at the 12:15 p.m. mass at the AIM Chapel when Father Donelan, S.J.
delivered this beautiful sermon. It spoke to me so clearly. It was
what my heart needed to hear. In fact, I went back for the same day's
afternoon mass and listened to Fr. Donelan read it again.

THE SACRAMENT OF WAITING
(from God's Crooked Lines: The Search for Truth
by James F. Donelan, S.J.)

The English poet John Milton wrote that those also serve who only
stand and wait. I think I would go further and say that those who wait
render the highest form of service. Waiting requires more discipline,
more self-control and emotional maturity, more unshakable faith in our
cause, more unwavering hope in the future, more sustaining love in our
hearts than all the greatest deeds of derring-do go by the name of
action.

Waiting is a mystery - a natural sacrament of life. There is a meaning
hidden in all the times we have to wait. It must be an important
mystery because there is so much waiting in our lives.

Every day is filled with those little moments of waiting, testing our
patience and our nerves, schooling us in self-control --- pasensya
lang. We wait for meals to be served, for a letter to arrive, for a
friend to call or show up for a date. We wait in line at cinemas,
theaters and concerts. Our airline terminals, railway stations and bus
depots are great temples of waiting filled with men and women who wait
in joy for the arrival of a loved one, or wait in sadness to say
goodbye and give the last wave of hand. We wait for birthdays and
vacations. We wait for Christmas. We wait for spring to come or
autumn, for the rains to begin or to stop.

And we wait for ourselves to grow from childhood to maturity. We wait
for those inner voices that tell us when we are ready for the next
step. We wait for graduation, for our first job, our first promotion.
We wait for success and recognition. We wait to grow up, to reach the
stage where we make our own decisions.

We cannot remove this waiting from our lives. It is a part of the
tapestry of living, the fabric in which the threads are woven to tell
the story of our lives.

Yet current philosophies would have us forget the need to wait. "Grab
all the gusto you can get!" So reads one of America's greatest beer
advertisements: Get it now. Instant transcendence. Don't wait for
anything. Life is short. Eat, drink and be merry because tomorrow
you'll die. And so they rationalize us into accepting unlicensed and
irresponsible freedom, pre-marital sex and extra-marital affairs. They
warn against attachments and commitment, against expecting anything of
anybody, or allowing them to expect anything of us. They warn us
against vows and promises, against duty and responsibility, against
dropping any anchors in the currents of our life that will cause us to
hold and wait.

This may be the correct prescription for pleasure, but even that is
fleeting and doubtful. What was it Shakespeare said about the mad
pursuit of pleasure? "Past reason hunted, past reason hated." No, if
we wish to be real human beings, spirit as well as flesh, soul as well
as heart, we have to learn to wait. For if we never learn to wait, we
will never learn to love someone other than ourselves.

For most of all waiting means waiting for someone else. It is a
mystery, brushing by our face everyday like a stray wind of leaf
falling from a tree. Anyone who has loved knows how much waiting goes
into it, how much waiting is important for love to grow, to flourish
through a lifetime.

Why is this? Why can't we have it right now what we so desperately
want and need? Why must we wait - two years, three years - and
seemingly waste so much time? You might as well ask why a tree should
take so long to bear fruit, the seed to flower, or for carbon to
change into diamond.

There is no simple answer, no more than there is to life's other
demands - having to say goodbye to someone you love because either you
or they have made other commitments, or because they have to grow and
find the meaning of their own lives; having yourself to leave home and
loved ones to find your own path. Goodbyes, like waiting, are also
sacraments of our lives.

All we know is that growth - the budding, the flowering of love needs
patient waiting. We have to give each other a time to grow. There is
no way we can make someone else truly love us or we them, except
through time. So we give each other that mysterious gift of waiting -
of being present without making demands or asking rewards. There is
nothing harder to do than this. It truly tests the depth and sincerity
of our love. But there is life in the gift we give.

So lovers wait for each other - until they can see things the same way
- or let each other freely see things in quite different ways. There
are times when lovers hurt each other and cannot regain the balance of
intimacy of the way they were. They have to wait - in silence - but
still present to each other - until the pain subsides to an ache and
then only a memory and the threads of the tapestry can be woven
together again in a single love story.

What do we lose when we refuse to wait? When we try to find short cuts
through life? When we try to incubate love and rush blindly and
foolishly into a commitment we are neither mature nor responsible
enough to assume? We lose the hope of truly loving or of being loved.
Think of all the great love stories of history and literature. Isn't
it of their very essence that they are filled with this strange but
common mystery, that waiting is part of the substance, the basic
fabric against which the story of that true love is written?

How can we ever find either life or true love if we are too impatient
to wait for it?

Speed Dating Fundraiser

2007-09-27T19:21:00.000+08:00

Link

SOME THOUGHTS ON THE REAL WORLD BY ONE WHO GLIMPSED IT AND FLED

2007-07-20T00:47:00.000+08:00

Speech by Bill Watterson
Kenyon College (in Gambier Ohio) Commencement
May 20, 1990

I have a recurring dream about Kenyon. In it, I'm walking to the post office on the way to my first class at the start of the school year. Suddenly it occurs to me that I don't have my schedule memorized, and I'm not sure which classes I'm taking, or where exactly I'm supposed to be going.

As I walk up the steps to the postoffice, I realize I don't have my box key, and in fact, I can't remember what my box number is. I'm certain that everyone I know has written me a letter, but I can't get them. I get more flustered and annoyed by the minute. I head back to Middle Path, racking my brains and asking myself, "How many more years until I graduate? ...Wait, didn't I graduate already?? How old AM I?" Then I wake up.

Experience is food for the brain. And four years at Kenyon is a rich meal. I suppose it should be no surprise that your brains will probably burp up Kenyon for a long time. And I think the reason I keep having the dream is because its central image is a metaphor for a good part of life: that is, not knowing where you're going or what you're doing.

I graduated exactly ten years ago. That doesn't give me a great deal of experience to speak from, but I'm emboldened by the fact that I can't remember a bit of MY commencement, and I trust that in half an hour, you won't remember of yours either.

In the middle of my sophomore year at Kenyon, I decided to paint a copy of Michelangelo's "Creation of Adam" from the Sistine Chapel on the ceiling of my dorm room. By standing on a chair, I could reach the ceiling, and I taped off a section, made a grid, and started to copy the picture from my art history book.

Working with your arm over your head is hard work, so a few of my more ingenious friends rigged up a scaffold for me by stacking two chairs on my bed, and laying the table from the hall lounge across the chairs and over to the top of my closet. By climbing up onto my bed and up the chairs, I could hoist myself onto the table, and lie in relative comfort two feet under my painting. My roommate would then hand up my paints, and I could work for several hours at a stretch.

The picture took me months to do, and in fact, I didn't finish the work until very near the end of the school year. I wasn't much of a painter then, but what the work lacked in color sense and technical flourish, it gained in the incongruity of having a High Renaissance masterpiece in a college dorm that had the unmistakable odor of old beer cans and older laundry.

The painting lent an air of cosmic grandeur to my room, and it seemed to put life into a larger perspective. Those boring, flowery English poets didn't seem quite so important, when right above my head God was transmitting the spark of life to man.
My friends and I liked the finished painting so much in fact, that we decided I should ask permission to do it. As you might expect, the housing director was curious to know why I wanted to paint this elaborate picture on my ceiling a few weeks before school let out. Well, you don't get to be a sophomore at Kenyon without learning how to fabricate ideas you never had, but I guess it was obvious that my idea was being proposed retroactively. It ended up that I was allowed to paint the picture, so long as I painted over it and returned the ceiling to normal at the end of the year. And that's what I did.

Despite the futility of the whole episode, my fondest memories of college are times like these, where things were done out of some inexplicable inner imperative, rather than because the work was demanded. Clearly, I never spent as much time or work on any authorized art project, or any poli sci paper, as I spent on this one act of vandalism.

It's surprising how hard we'll work when the work is done just for ourselves. And with all due respect to John Stuart Mill, maybe utilitarianism is overrated. If I've learned one thing from being a cartoonist, it's how important playing is to creativity and happiness. My job is essentially to come up with 365 ideas a year.
If you ever want to find out just how uninteresting you really are, get a job where the quality and frequency of your thoughts determine your livelihood. I've found that the only way I can keep writing every day, year after year, is to let my mind wander into new territories. To do that, I've had to cultivate a kind of mental playfulness.

We're not really taught how to recreate constructively. We need to do more than find diversions; we need to restore and expand ourselves. Our idea of relaxing is all too often to plop down in front of the television set and let its pandering idiocy liquefy our brains. Shutting off the thought process is not rejuvenating; the mind is like a car battery-it recharges by running.

You may be surprised to find how quickly daily routine and the demands of "just getting by: absorb your waking hours. You may be surprised to find how quickly you start to see your politics and religion become matters of habit rather than thought and inquiry. You may be surprised to find how quickly you start to see your life in terms of other people's expectations rather than issues. You may be surprised to find out how quickly reading a good book sounds like a luxury.

At school, new ideas are thrust at you every day. Out in the world, you'll have to find the inner motivation to search for new ideas on your own. With any luck at all, you'll never need to take an idea and squeeze a punchline out of it, but as bright, creative people, you'll be called upon to generate ideas and solutions all your lives. Letting your mind play is the best way to solve problems.

For me, it's been liberating to put myself in the mind of a fictitious six year-old each day, and rediscover my own curiosity. I've been amazed at how one ideas leads to others if I allow my mind to play and wander. I know a lot about dinosaurs now, and the information has helped me out of quite a few deadlines.

A playful mind is inquisitive, and learning is fun. If you indulge your natural curiosity and retain a sense of fun in new experience, I think you'll find it functions as a sort of shock absorber for the bumpy road ahead.

So, what's it like in the real world? Well, the food is better, but beyond that, I don't recommend it.

I don't look back on my first few years out of school with much affection, and if I could have talked to you six months ago, I'd have encouraged you all to flunk some classes and postpone this moment as long as possible. But now it's too late.
Unfortunately, that was all the advice I really had. When I was sitting where you are, I was one of the lucky few who had a cushy job waiting for me. I'd drawn political cartoons for the Collegian for four years, and the Cincinnati Post had hired me as an editorial cartoonist. All my friends were either dreading the infamous first year of law school, or despondent about their chances of convincing anyone that a history degree had any real application outside of academia.

Boy, was I smug.

As it turned out, my editor instantly regretted his decision to hire me. By the end of the summer, I'd been given notice; by the beginning of winter, I was in an unemployment line; and by the end of my first year away from Kenyon, I was broke and living with my parents again. You can imagine how upset my dad was when he learned that Kenyon doesn't give refunds.

Watching my career explode on the lauchpad caused some soul searching. I eventually admitted that I didn't have what it takes to be a good political cartoonist, that is, an interest in politics, and I returned to my firs love, comic strips.
For years I got nothing but rejection letters, and I was forced to accept a real job.

A REAL job is a job you hate. I designed car ads and grocery ads in the windowless basement of a convenience store, and I hated every single minute of the 4-1/2 million minutes I worked there. My fellow prisoners at work were basically concerned about how to punch the time clock at the perfect second where they would earn another 20 cents without doing any work for it.

It was incredible: after every break, the entire staff would stand around in the garage where the time clock was, and wait for that last click. And after my used car needed the head gasket replaced twice, I waited in the garage too.

It's funny how at Kenyon, you take for granted that the people around you think about more than the last episode of Dynasty. I guess that's what it means to be in an ivory tower.

Anyway, after a few months at this job, I was starved for some life of the mind that, during my lunch break, I used to read those poli sci books that I'd somehow never quite finished when I was here. Some of those books were actually kind of interesting. It was a rude shock to see just how empty and robotic life can be when you don't care about what you're doing, and the only reason you're there is to pay the bills.
Thoreau said,

"the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation."

That's one of those dumb cocktail quotations that will strike fear in your heart as you get older. Actually, I was leading a life of loud desperation.

When it seemed I would be writing about "Midnite Madness Sale-abrations" for the rest of my life, a friend used to console me that cream always rises to the top. I used to think, so do people who throw themselves into the sea.

I tell you all this because it's worth recognizing that there is no such thing as an overnight success. You will do well to cultivate the resources in yourself that bring you happiness outside of success or failure. The truth is, most of us discover where we are headed when we arrive. At that time, we turn around and say, yes, this is obviously where I was going all along. It's a good idea to try to enjoy the scenery on the detours, because you'll probably take a few.

I still haven't drawn the strip as long as it took me to get the job. To endure five years of rejection to get a job requires either a faith in oneself that borders on delusion, or a love of the work. I loved the work.
Drawing comic strips for five years without pay drove home the point that the fun of cartooning wasn't in the money; it was in the work. This turned out to be an important realization when my break finally came.

Like many people, I found that what I was chasing wasn't what I caught. I've wanted to be a cartoonist since I was old enough to read cartoons, and I never really thought about cartoons as being a business. It never occurred to me that a comic strip I created would be at the mercy of a bloodsucking corporate parasite called a syndicate, and that I'd be faced with countless ethical decisions masquerading as simple business decisions.

To make a business decision, you don't need much philosophy; all you need is greed, and maybe a little knowledge of how the game works.

As my comic strip became popular, the pressure to capitalize on that popularity increased to the point where I was spending almost as much time screaming at executives as drawing. Cartoon merchandising is a $12 billion dollar a year industry and the syndicate understandably wanted a piece of that pie. But the more I though about what they wanted to do with my creation, the more inconsistent it seemed with the reasons I draw cartoons.

Selling out is usually more a matter of buying in. Sell out, and you're really buying into someone else's system of values, rules and rewards.

The so-called "opportunity" I faced would have meant giving up my individual voice for that of a money-grubbing corporation. It would have meant my purpose in writing was to sell things, not say things. My pride in craft would be sacrificed to the efficiency of mass production and the work of assistants. Authorship would become committee decision. Creativity would become work for pay. Art would turn into commerce. In short, money was supposed to supply all the meaning I'd need.
What the syndicate wanted to do, in other words, was turn my comic strip into everything calculated, empty and robotic that I hated about my old job. They would turn my characters into television hucksters and T-shirt sloganeers and deprive me of characters that actually expressed my own thoughts.

On those terms, I found the offer easy to refuse. Unfortunately, the syndicate also found my refusal easy to refuse, and we've been fighting for over three years now. Such is American business, I guess, where the desire for obscene profit mutes any discussion of conscience.

You will find your own ethical dilemmas in all parts of your lives, both personal and professional. We all have different desires and needs, but if we don't discover what we want from ourselves and what we stand for, we will live passively and unfulfilled. Sooner or later, we are all asked to compromise ourselves and the things we care about. We define ourselves by our actions. With each decision, we tell ourselves and the world who we are. Think about what you want out of this life, and recognize that there are many kinds of success.

Many of you will be going on to law school, business school, medical school, or other graduate work, and you can expect the kind of starting salary that, with luck, will allow you to pay off your own tuition debts within your own lifetime.

But having an enviable career is one thing, and being a happy person is another.

Creating a life that reflects your values and satisfies your soul is a rare achievement. In a culture that relentlessly promotes avarice and excess as the good life, a person happy doing his own work is usually considered an eccentric, if not a subversive. Ambition is only understood if it's to rise to the top of some imaginary ladder of success. Someone who takes an undemanding job because it affords him the time to pursue other interests and activities is considered a flake. A person who abandons a career in order to stay home and raise children is considered not to be living up to his potential-as if a job title and salary are the sole measure of human worth.

You'll be told in a hundred ways, some subtle and some not, to keep climbing, and never be satisfied with where you are, who you are, and what you're doing. There are a million ways to sell yourself out, and I guarantee you'll hear about them.

To invent your own life's meaning is not easy, but it's still allowed, and I think you'll be happier for the trouble.

Reading those turgid philosophers here in these remote stone buildings may not get you a job, but if those books have forced you to ask yourself questions about what makes life truthful, purposeful, meaningful, and redeeming, you have the Swiss Army Knife of mental tools, and it's going to come in handy all the time.

I think you'll find that Kenyon touched a deep part of you. These have been formative years. Chances are, at least of your roommates has taught you everything ugly about human nature you ever wanted to know.

With luck, you've also had a class that transmitted a spark of insight or interest you'd never had before. Cultivate that interest, and you may find a deeper meaning in your life that feeds your soul and spirit. Your preparation for the real world is not in the answers you've learned, but in the questions you've learned how to ask yourself.

Graduating from Kenyon, I suspect you'll find yourselves quite well prepared indeed.

I wish you all fulfillment and happiness. Congratulations on your achievement.

Bill Watterson

WHAT MATTERS

2007-03-20T16:05:00.000+08:00

CTALK By Cito Beltran
The Philippine Star 02/09/2007

Having opted to live a less stressful lifestyle away from the limelight or the Rat Race, it's but normal for people who made the choice, to sometimes wonder if they did the right thing.

They experience pangs of guilt about being under employed, less productive and certainly reduced in their income potential. While everyone else is BUSY making a LIVING, you ask yourself if it's a mature thing to be at home or semi-retired at the farm.

Are you wasting all your God-given talents raising kids, growing your own food, or simply living on very little money and simple needs? Shouldn't you be involved in today's politics, today's technology? And are your friends right about saying "Sayang Ka"?

Last month, a friend called me about an opening in a major corporation that was paying P300,000 a month, all the perks, and even a brand new Volvo. My friend asked me how I would react if the job was offered to me since I was very qualified.

It took me all of 5 seconds to tell her I wouldn't accept it.
To begin with P100,000 would certainly end up with the government as taxes. That would leave me with only P200,000.

To earn that, I would have to be at work by eight everyday, instead of coming up with imaginative tricks to wake up my daughter like placing her puppy in her bed, or simply standing over her watching this angelic child in her field of dreams.

I would have to eat breakfast by six, leave the house by 6:30. That means no more breakfast conversations with my wife and certainly an end to our morning prayers not just for us but for family and friends.

From the P200,000, I would have to spend at least P20,000 a month or 10% of net to pay for gasoline driving the brand new Volvo to office everyday.

So in effect, I would only be earning P180,000 or even less. Not to mention that my friends who sell Mercedes Benzes, Jaguars, etc. would brand me as a traitor.

From the net salary of +/- P180,000, I would have to give up the lunch I have with my wife 3 to 4 times a week at home.

Instead my power of choice adds another burden where I would have to decide daily where in the business district I ought to have lunch, merienda if needed, and from time to time even dinner. I would have to choose from a menu instead of whipping up something in my kitchen.

When you add up the bill, plus service charge, plus VAT you can easily average another P20,000 in expenses. Which means, that what we originally thought would be a net income of P200,000 has now gone down to P160,000.

In the absence of maintenance you can enter about P10,000 as your average monthly repair bill for labor and materials. So now, you discover you're only earning P150,000 a month.

Instead of being in a HOME I own, I will have to try to be "at home" in an office where I will be spending more of my "awake time". This finally solves the puzzle; why do we always fill our offices with personal stuff which we will have to take home in a box when we retire, resign or get fired?

From having my independence and personal views, I would then have a real live flesh and bones Boss (because of what I thought was P200,000 a month salary) can tell me how to jump! Someone who's seniority or proprietary rights automatically makes him right even if he's stupid.

Because you now have to spend most of the time at the office or behind a desk, you can't do your regular walk in the park or jog around the village which is also your bonding time with your spouse, your kids, or your dogs. You either join a gym or get a personal trainer.

When you total fees, travel, and outfits, your monthly fitness bill would be around P5,000 which means your net pay just went down to P145,000 a month or less than half the original offered salary.

My dear wife reminds me to include clothing and image-related expenditures specially for women. The clothes, the make-up, the jewelry, as well as the business accessories such as the laptop loaded with Vistas program, the latest cell phones, iPod etc.

Even if you paid all of that on installment for 24 months, it would be in the area of P20,000 a month which further reduces your income to P125,000 a month.

The problem with this major part of the expense is many people mistakenly call them necessary investments, professional expense, but don't see them as deductions from PERSONAL wealth.

It would also mean, not sharing the responsibility of taking our child to school, missing out on small talk that tell you big things in children's minds, and dropping out on all the parent-child activities.

I would also nullify all the adjustments we made in the last 5 years where we integrated home life with work in order to be more of a family than employees with a family.

Speaking of home life, anyone who spends a lot of time at work can testify that in your absence you will have to hire a full crew to do all the maintenance and repair you use to prevent or do yourself when you spend time at home.

In your absence, who's going to fix leaking roofs, flooded toilets, busted aircons, creaking doors, or all the usual things REAL MEN with real tools do?

If I actually went out to get the job that pays P300,000 plus a brand new Volvo, it would have cost me breakfasts with my wife, trips to school with my daughter, morning talks and prayers with God, affirmation of my role as husband, father. I would be relinquishing responsibility for my house, as well as my home.

What we've done is determine what really matters, what and how much we really need, give up what we don't need or care for and trust in God and not in men.

This is what I call real life cost-benefit analysis. To make an accounting of what we think we're getting against what we know we're losing. Sometimes earning more actually costs more.

Eternally beautiful

2007-03-19T21:38:00.000+08:00

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Reflections and writing style of a 50-something Atenista.
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Eternally beautiful
Humming in my UNIVERSE
By Jim Paredes
The Philippine STAR 11/05/2006

Exactly 29 years ago on Oct. 29, Lydia and I walked down the aisle. She was 20 and I was 25, both of us wide-eyed but so sure of ourselves and our decision to stay together forever as we plunged into matrimony. We were sure, the way young people tend to be certain, that it was going to be an adventure. But little did we know that it was going to be a big one, probably the biggest one we'd ever know.

Getting married is like signing a blank check. You have no idea how much it will cost you. You are committing an unquantifiable amount of material and emotional capital – time, money, patience, sacrifice, and an infinite number of things you have not even begun to imagine that you must deal with eventually.

Many of them are real minefields as Lydia and I, like all couples, soon discovered. There are the in-laws, kids, expenses, the balance between career and family life, personal habits, sex, jealousy, etc. There is also the process of arriving at a "negotiated settlement" on how to deal with things like getting along with each other's friends, child rearing, spending habits, religion, hobbies, and how much "independence" the partners should be allowed. The institution of marriage, as we inherited it, was very complicated.

One of the things I found out much later in our married life is that there is a difference between a love affair and a marriage. A love affair has a dynamic that is different from a marital bond. Generally, love affairs are not meant to last. They are meant to have a beginning and an end. Why? Because they are about two separate people bonded by romantic, oceanic feelings of what seems like love. They live for the intense feeling, riding it as far as it will go and split up when the thrill is gone.

Marriage, on the other hand, is the experience of life by two people as a couple. Many times, new couples discover that they are not an easy fit, as Lydia and I discovered early on. That's why in a marital relationship one must necessarily give up big parts of himself/herself to the union to get a payback. While one may still want some privacy and independence, one cannot have them without a large dose of a shared life. From the start until the end, marriage is about two people experiencing one and the same lifetime.

It starts with romance and the sexual thrill of being with each other, but you can only count on those for so long. Anyone married for more than 10 years can attest that there are times when the attraction which seemed so strong when you first laid eyes on each other as single people can be non-existent for long periods. Viewed from the perspective of a love affair, that is certainly not a good thing. One may feel like the journey has reached a stretch of uninteresting flatlands. The joyride is over.

But from the perspective of a long marriage, this is simply a hiatus of sorts, or may even be the first signs of a qualitative change in the way one loves. It can be disconcerting at first but if you stick around long enough, the picture starts to get clearer. While gone may be (from time to time) the breathtaking highs and exhilarating moments, something else may be happening. Author M. Scott Peck put it so well when he wrote that "the death of romantic love can be the start of true love."

In our early years, Lydia and I felt that being married meant we had to do something dramatic all the time to keep it going. But as we got older, the doing often gave way to just being. Where before, love had to be "proven" by the sparkling diamond on her finger, or the great trip abroad, or the special dinner with wine in some plush place, love in our 29-year marriage feels no compulsion to prove itself as dramatically. Having long walks, conversations after dinner, holding hands during long drives, snuggling in bed or just simply being together – sometimes without even talking – have often taken the place of all that. While sex can still be as great as ever, the truth is, as an older couple, we have discovered other ways to remain interested in each other. There is not only comfort but magic in the "ordinary," as one realizes that love can be expressed in simply caring or supporting each other's steps towards personal and spiritual growth.

One of the big recent highlights of our journey as life partners was Lydia's big cancer scare three years ago. We felt so helpless as we tried to deal with the fear of losing each other. But we took it on as a couple. As far as we were concerned, we both had cancer. Those were days of great emotional upheaval. Ironically, they were also moments of calm and assurance. Even as we cried about it, we also learned that we loved each other enough to willingly suffer together because, paradoxically, by doing so, we eased each other's pain.

This may sound flippant, if not cruel, but looking back, I can say that if I could only guarantee survival, I would recommend cancer to everyone because of what it has done for Lydia and me. It has been such a rare opportunity to meet and accept unconditionally the hard-to-take faces of love that we often run away from. Yet when we bit the bullet, we opened ourselves to greater depth and began to see the face of the Divine in the other human being we had chosen to love. Only then did we realize that all the suffering made sense.

In the end, the very suffering we undergo turns into something eternally beautiful.

New Year's resolutions for a happier life

2007-01-02T00:09:00.000+08:00

http://www.odemagazine.com/article.php?aID=3744

For more and more people the unending stream of media reports on failures, frauds, violence, setbacks and frustration has become a source of growing discomfort. But optimism can still triumph over cynicism. A practical guide for those who want to stay optimistic and healthy.

Choose your information sources carefully
Television news is more entertainment than news. Many local newspapers are advertising vehicles and, therefore, are seldom controversial. Beware of psychic pollution. Learn how to put news in its proper perspective. Many of us suffer from information overload and can become addicted to dramatic news with its life-or-death pitch. This is a manufactured reality, like a drug or alcohol high. Limit your digestion of sensational news. Don't allow your thoughts to become dominated by the lives of strangers and events you cannot control. Be ruthless about what you allow into your mind. Make an agreement with yourself about how much time you will worry about a given subject each day. Stick to it. You will notice a difference in how you feel.

Make your world smaller
The domination of media and advertising can overshadow our personal lives with a bigger, more fearful world. We have to choose which world holds our allegiance. If we really look around our own lives, in our own towns and our neighbourhoods, we see that things are not as fearful or violent as they are often portrayed in the media. We have to trust the reality of our own lives. Get close to your world. Go out walking in the woods near your house or in your neighbourhood. Get to know your immediate environment by getting to know your neighbours and spending more time at home. You will find that a comforting reality exists all around you.

Grow a progressive community
When we feel oppressed by circumstances or by society, it is often because we feel alone. It's important in tough times to find a community of like-minded people. In the early years as parents, questions about our children bring us together, and these early communities can sustain us through our whole parenting lives. We can also develop communities of people who share the same political, social, environmental, or spiritual beliefs.

Infuse everyday events with magic and ritual
Make meals a time of community and connection with loved ones. Eat at home more. Ask friends over for dinner. Turn washing, drying, and ironing clothes into acts that add order and rhythm to life. Rediscover the smell of line-dried clothes. Make your home a place of solace and refuge. Create an inspiring and regenerative personal environment. You will feel a difference.

Sing and dance
In the most difficult of times people sing and dance. Get some new music to listen to in the car or at home. Better yet, get together with friends to listen to and play live music. Teach yourself songs in the shower and the car. Dance anywhere. Dance in the living room, in the car, while you're gardening or working outside. Immerse yourself in music, and it will make you feel better.

Choose your companions carefully
In times of oppression and difficulties, it is especially important to keep good companions. Our companions strongly influence not only our opinion of ourselves, but also our state of mind. The dramatic emotions of others can lead us to develop a more negative and hopeless view of the world. On the other hand, companions who have a new sense of things or who talk of life in positive and hopeful terms can help us to feel strong enough to tackle life's challenges. These friends give us courage.

Lead an examined life
Tough times require honesty and self-reflection. It is easy to take things personally when the chips are down. Increased self-awareness allows us to take responsibility appropriately and to let go of what we can't control. It is important to cultivate the habit of self-reflection.

Focus on others
Sometimes when we are absorbed by a problem in our family or in society at large, we lose perspective. We exaggerate our own importance. Our problems become the worst in the history of the world. Helping others, especially children, can put things in perspective.

Become an activist
Find a cause that you believe in and support it at whatever level you can. Give money or time. Become a member. Educate and organise others. Vote. Register others to vote. And remember that activism is not about instant success, but about long-term social change. Talk to your kids about peace. While others may wonder how to talk to children about war, talk to your children about peace. Protect them from overexposure to war talk and war images. It's important to answer their questions openly and honestly, but follow their lead. Include them in conversations about peace and justice. Talk openly with them and others about your beliefs.

Don't be a victim
Often, when times are hard, we bemoan our bad luck. Why me? Why now? When you can refrain from taking life personally, however, you can act more effectively. Tough times will generate courage in proportion to the difficulty of the situation. It is tempting to criticise things as they are without having any idea of how to improve them. Part of the seduction of modern times is the false belief that this is as good as it gets, that things couldn't possibly be any better. The wisdom of living your own reality despite tough times is that your everyday reality ever improves itself; it always gives birth to a more positive future. Spend time imagining solutions to the problems you face in your life or to the problems of society. Talk to your friends about positive solutions. Take action to add at least one positive solution to your life.

Keep your sense of humour
At the heart of an optimistic spirit lies a hearty sense of humour. When you can laugh at yourself and the world, you can keep perspective. When you can't, you know that you need some help. Reach out to others when you've lost your sense of humour. Watch a funny movie or do The Twist. We must create our own personal realities to raise our children with hope and optimism. We must become increasingly active in re-creating democracy in our lives and in our society. Our personal lives parallel the collective. Speak with your own voice and it will uplift others. Work on your own life and it will inspire others. Come together with one another and you will touch others. Keep hope alive for the future, for the children. Children are the evidence that love, not fear, is the answer.

Christmas not X-mas

2006-12-22T01:35:00.000+08:00

I'm always wary of using the word "X-mas"-- there's something improper (even disrespectful) about it..got this fwd today-- recommended reading before you send out those text and email blasts this Sunday. :)

MERRY CHRISTMAS, dear friends and family! :)
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Hi Friends in Christ,

It takes just take a couple of seconds to write the word CHRISTMAS instead of X-Mas but people get used to write X-mas.

Please do not save time on "CHRIST" (MAS) by writing "X" (MAS). ?

CHRIST gave his Life for us so that we may be saved and it’s a pity that we are unable to SPARE a few seconds of time to write his name with pride as 'CHRIST"MAS. ? (CHRIST as MAN AND SAVIOUR).

The word "Christmas" means "Christ mass,"
Mass= a special celebration of the Lord's supper -- called a mass in the Roman Catholic Church and a Communion supper in most Protestant churches.

So meaning of Christmass is Lord CHRIST special celebration service….

Then what is the meaning of Xmass…??????? What is X ????

In mathematics x=nothing…….are we saying Christ is nothing……????
’X ‘doesn’t have any value…….are we evaluating X= Christ…?????? ?
Please stop writing XMAS or Please stop wishing happy XMAS……

Do not encourage yourselves in buying cards with the words X? MAS, but make sure you give CHRIST HIS rightful name,
Which is the name above all names, that every knee shall bow and every Tongue confesses that 'JESUS CHRIST IS LORD".

WHAT DOES THE WORD "CHRISTMAS" MEAN?

The modern English word "Christmas" comes from Christes maesse, "Christ's mass," the Old English name for the service of Holy Communion that commemorates Christ's birth. Familiar names for Christmas from other languages, such as the Spanish Navidad and the French Noël, are derived from the Latin, dies natalis, "Day of the Birth."

WHY DOES CHRISTMAS FALL ON DECEMBER 25TH?

While Scripture contains many details about Christ's nativity, it does not record the exact date of His birth. However, ancient documents show that the Christian community in Rome began celebrating the Lord's Nativity on December 25th starting around the year A.D. 336. No one knows for sure why the early Roman Christians chose December 25th, but the most widely held explanation is that they appropriated the already
existing winter solstice festival honoring the pagan sun god, Mithras. This popular festival was known as natalis solis invicti or "Birth of the Unconquered Sun." According to this theory, Christian leaders in Rome chose December 25th to turn people away from the pagan Unconquered Sun and toward Jesus Christ, the Sun of Righteousness (see Malachi 4:2). This connection to the Roman sun cult has led some contemporary Christians to reject the celebration of Christian as pagan and sinful.
On the other hand, there is also some evidence to suggest that the choice of December 25th was based on attempts by early theologians to calculate the date of Christ's birth and that it had nothing to do with the natalis solis invicti. The article Calculating Christmas by William J. Tighe discusses in detail this explanation of the date of Christmas.

http://www.touchstonemag.com/ docs/issues/ 16.10docs/ 16-10pg12. html

WHAT IS THE LITURGICAL COLOR FOR CHRISTMAS?

White, the color of joy, holiness, and light, is the proper liturgical color for the Christmas season. Red, the color of martyrdom, is generally used for the festivals of Saint Stephen and the Holy Innocents (see below).

Make room for CHRIST in this and every CHRISTMAS!
All Honor and Glory to our LORD JESUS CHRIST.

“Christmas gift suggestions:
To your enemy, forgiveness.
To an opponent, tolerance.
To a friend, your heart.
To a customer, service.
To all, charity.
To every child, a good example.
To yourself, respect.”

Descending to the Top

2006-11-13T17:35:00.000+08:00

PLDT's Butch Jimenez talks about rising to the top by being 1) first in mind, and 2) burning an attribute uniquely yours, and he zones in on two attributes that he considers most important for success: discipline and execution. He then ends his speech by saying that "descending to the top" is actually better than ascending there, a lesson Steve Jobs learned the hard way.

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93rd SILLIMAN UNIVERSITY COMMENCEMENT EXERCISES
Luce Auditorium Lobby
March 26, 2006

Descending to the Top
Delivered by
Mr. Menardo "Butch" G. Jimenez ! Jr.
Senior Vice-President, Retail Business Group PLDT
OIC, Wireless Consumer Division, Smart Communications

It is a privilege of mine to be here. In 2003, I was requested to be the commencement speaker for the graduating class of the University of the Philippines-Diliman. And after I gave that address, I said to myself-and this is true-the only other invitation that I will accept after UP Diliman is Silliman University . I have actually been waiting for almost three years. And I would have waited 30 more years to address you. You may be asking, "Why is that?" It is simply because of the Christian roots and the Christian heritage that this university has; the same roots and the same heritage that my great grandmother, my grandmother, and even my mother have tried to instill in my life.

That is why I am here. So thank you very much for the privilege. I am actually quite excited to address all of you. One of the questions running in your mind today as you graduate and move forward is, "How do I reach the top?" A fair question and one that needs to be answered. And since I now presently handle marketing for both PLDT and Smart, let me share with you some marketing principles that I have learned, that may guide you on your quest to the top.

A battle for the mind Success in marketing is a battle to be the first in the mind of the consumer. That is the principle proposed in the '80s by two authors, Al Ries and Jack Trout, in their classic book, "Positioning."

Ries and Trout said that success in marketing is a battle to be the first in the mind of the consumer. If you are first in the mind of the consumer, in most cases, you will rise to the top and become the leader or number one. So, the battle is to be the first in the mind.

Let's give a couple of examples. When I say cola, what comes first in your mind? It's Coke. And today, Coke has risen to the top and is number one. When you say beer, the first thing that comes into your mind is San Miguel. They are first in the mind, they are at the top, and they are the leader. When you say toothpaste, in most cases, what comes to mind is Colgate. The same rule holds true. Colgate is at the top of your mind, and they are number one. When you say photocopier, it's Xerox. They are first in the mind, they are the leader, and they have risen to the top. Let's try something more hip for the new generation kids. When you say mp3 player, what's first in your mind. I can actually read your mind. The iPod.

They are first in the mind, they are at the top, and today, they are number one.

So, in many instances, the rule actually works. If you want to rise to the top, you have to be the first in the mind.

The second thing that Al Ries and Jack Trout talked about, aside from being the first in the mind of the consumer, is burning an attribute or a characteristic in the minds of the consumers.

For example, Volvo did that. They burned into the mind of the consumer the attribute of safety. If you want a safe car, Volvo is it. iPod, for example, is burning in all our minds the attribute of being cool. They want to drive into our minds that the Ipod is the coolest gadget in the universe today.

So, two concepts we learn from Marketing to reach the top: Be the first in the mind and burn an attribute in the mind. Then, you start rising to the top.

So what does this all mean to you, as you go out into the workplace?

If you guys want to start rising to the top, you have to do the same thing. You have to be the first or the top of mind amongst the people that you work for specially your boss. When the boss needs something done, you have to be the first in his mind. If you're just the third, or the fourth, or the fifth, or the tenth in his mind, you're just like a company that is in third, fourth or fifth position -- far, far away from rising to the top.

But like I said earlier, being top of mind is not enough. You also have to burn an attribute in his mind. Now, a slight word of caution. Burning an attribute in your boss's or co-worker's mind is a double-edged sword. You have to make sure that you burn a positive attribute and not a negative one. Ries and Trout explain that it is very difficult or next to impossible to dislodge an attribute in ones mind once it has been established. If you go into the workplace and the attribute you burn in your boss's mind is tatamad tamad ka (you're lazy), mahirap kang pakisamahan (you're not a team player), or di ka mapagkakatiwalaan (you're not trustworthy) then chances are, that attribute will stick in his mind for years to come and you'll have a hard time rising to the top.

How many classmates do you know have been branded "lazy", "a flirt", "playboy", "cheater" etc. Think about it, no matter how hard they try to change their image, it just sticks and is so hard to dislodge from your mind isn't it? That's how powerful burning an attribute in the mind is, positive or negative.

So, key lessons if you want to rise to the top is, you have to be the first in their mind and you must burn positive attributes in their mind.

Discipline

This leads me to the question, "What attribute should you burn in the minds of the people in today's world?" There are many attributes that I would have wanted to share with you, but in the interest of time, I will focus on two. The first one is the attribute of discipline. If we want to be able to compete not only with our peers, but with the best in the world, we have no choice. As a person, as a people, and as a country, we have to be disciplined.

Discipline is a very fascinating thing. In the world of competition, you're always competing with somebody else. There is Smart competing with Globe, There is GMA competing with ABS-CBN, there is Sony competing with Samsung, and the list goes on. But when it comes to discipline, you are not competing with anybody else. You are only competing with yourself. And if you lose, guess who actually loses, only you.

A year and a half ago, I went to a leadership conference in Singapore that put together and assembled some of the best speakers in the world. I actually had to pay a huge amount-probably my whole month's salary-just to be able to enter that conference. Al Ries was speaking. Film legend, Francis Ford Coppola was speaking, Rudy Giuliani, who led New York to rise from the 911 crisis, was speaking and Lee Kuan Yew, Prime Minister of Singapore was one of the speakers.

I wanted to listen to Lee Kuan Yew and what he had to say. Lee Kuan Yew shared how he built Singapore from nothing to where it is today. He shared that Singapore , barely a generation ago, was far worse than many of its peers. But today, it is an economic superpower. He narrated that when he first started to lead Singapore , he asked his think tank to visit neighboring countries like the Philippines , Indonesia , Vietnam , Laos , Cambodia , and figure out what they don't have. He said they all came back with one conclusion: These countries lacked discipline. So to differentiate Singapore from its neighbors, he decided to build his country on discipline. This meant that if Singapore promised something to its people, to its foreign investors, and to other countries, it will be fulfilled. A disciplined country and a disciplined people-that's what he built Singapore on.

Discipline is a very important attribute all of us must have to be able to bring this country up from where it is today. If you want to reach your goals and dreams, you cannot do it without discipline.

One of my good friends is the president of Alaska Milk, Fred Uytengsu. I used to see him on the baseball field when he used to coach his son's team and I was an assistant for my son's team. One day, I saw him wearing a shirt that said, "If you don't have discipline, you don't deserve to dream." No matter how harsh it may seem, the point is true. If you're 350 lbs. overweight and you're dreaming to become the next big hunk, but you don't have the discipline to watch what you eat, to exercise, and to make it happen, it isn't going to happen. Don't even bother dreaming, if you don't have the discipline to make it a reality. You'll just get frustrated. That's how important discipline is in achieving success.

In the world of business, discipline is defined as work ethic. I'd like to share with you an anecdote from a great man who epitomized what work ethic is all about. Thomas Alva Edison. At the age of 82, the President of the United States said it was about time he was honored with an award for his lifetime work. So they put together a huge event in honor of Thomas Alva Edison. Being 82, he felt a bit sick that night and fainted. Good thing they were able to revive him and he was still able to go up on stage. Edison upon accepting the award simply said, "I am tired of all this glory. I want to get back to work." 82 years old, and all he can think of is going back to work.

That is work ethic. That is discipline. And that is one of the attributes we need to burn in people's minds if we are to rise to the top.

Execution

The second attribute we should burn is execution. We need to be able to drive in the minds of the people that we work with that we are the "go-to" guy. That if they want to make something happen, you are the guy to go to, because you are the person who can execute. Execution is one of the attribute that will help you rise to the top.

I'd like to quote one of the greatest mentors of all time who said to his pupil: "Luke, there is no try. There is either do or not do." You know who that is? That is Yoda teaching Luke Skywalker of Star Wars one of the most important lessons in life: execution or making it happen.

An icon of execution, of course, is Michael Jordan. He is arguably one of the greatest basketball players that ever lived, but not without getting the ball, taking that shot, and executing the play. Can you imagine what would have happened to Michael if all he ever did was to plan on shooting the ball but never did? One of the things you have to remember about execution though is that it doesn't mean you have to be successful every single time. Part of execution is learning how to fail yet rising up again.

Michael Jordan says this, "I missed more than 9,000 shots in my career and lost almost 300 games. On 26 occasions, I have been entrusted to take the game-winning shot and missed. I have failed over and over and over again in my life, and that's precisely why I succeed."

When you go out to the real world, you will realize that there are many people out there who have great ideas and great plans. And that is good. But like I always tell my team in PLDT, what separates the good from the great is execution. We can spend endless hours and tons of money strategizing, planning, team building, and analyzing to come out with a great plan. But until we execute that plan, that's all it will ever be, a plan.

When something goes wrong in a company, the question the leader or the CEO almost always asks is not, "Who has the best grades?" "Who has a diploma?" Who has all the awards?" "Who is the summa cum laude?" "Who graduated from an Ivy league school?" The CEO just asks one question: "Who can get the job done?" That, dear graduates is the importance of execution.

Let's learn a lesson from Mickey Mouse. Well, maybe not from Mickey, but from his originator, Walt Disney. Walt had four mantras: dreaming, believing, daring, and then doing. Of the four, "doing" is what turns everything into a reality. Walt said, "Dreaming, believing and daring without doing is just like Dumbo, the elephant, without ears. It just won't fly. ABRAKADABRA will never work." Only execution does.

Descending to the Top

In my UP speech, I talked to them about "what's better than," and I juxtaposed what's better than this versus what's better than that. Now, all of us want to ascend to the top. No doubt about it. And we should. We should plan on ascending all the way to the top. But I will pose the same question I did three years ago: "What's better than ascending to the top?" The answer is DESCENDING to the top.

That may actually baffle a lot of your minds. "What is he talking about?"
"How can descending to the top be better than ascending to the top?" It is a biblical principle. The Bible tells us that he who wishes to be the greatest must be the servant of all. That is the concept of descending to the top. What I want to share with you is that as you rise to the top, the more you have to be a servant. The keyword is humility. The more you start rising to the top, the more humility needs to become an important place in who you are and in your life.

I want to share with you what happened to Steve Jobs the founder of Apple computers and now the Ipod. We all know what a great visionary Steve Jobs is. But if we chronicle his career, Steve Jobs, as he was ascending to the top, as he was rising towards greatness, forgot all about humility. While he was hitting his peak, all he thought about was how great he was, how fantastic he was, and how the world and his company revolved around him. That is ascending to the top. The higher you go, the bigger your head.

What happened to Steve Jobs as he hit the peak? He was driven out of his company both in failure and in disgrace. Then after having failed in many other endeavors, he started again and went on to make an indelible mark in the entertainment industry, and with the extraordinary success of the iPod, regained his reputation as the "greatest innovator of the digital age". And so Steve Jobs, after having ascended to the top and then unceremoniously booted out, now gets the chance to lead Apple again. But something was different about the man this time. People started to feel Steve had changed. And so in a big conference at the Moscone Center in San Francisco , there he was, listening to the chants of his people, demanding him to come back and run Apple again. Let me share with you how the new Steve answered the call. No longer ascending to the top, but understanding what descending to the top is all about. And I will quote from the book, "Icon: The greatest second act in business".

For the first time in his public life, there on stage, Steve appeared genuinely touched when the people were starting to ask him to come back and take the CEO position. He wasn't brash or cocky anymore. Maybe his four kids and the complete failure of a company and the near failure of another taught him something. There on stage, he fought back the tears as he mumbled something to make it clear that yes, even Steve Jobs can change.

He had made the transition into a world where feelings and passion could partner with business and technology. Steve Jobs said, "You guys are making me feel funny right now. I get to come to work with the most talented people on the planet at Apple and Pixar. The best job in the world! But these jobs are team sports. I cannot do it alone; I can only do it with a team."

A team sport. Fifteen years ago, it would have been a lie. It would have been all about him and how great he was. But now, everything was different. He now understood that it was really the many others who helped him succeed. He did realize it wasn't all about him. That Apple is a team sport.

That is descending to the top - the higher you fly, the lower the ego.

If you're able to get a copy of Time Magazine's issue where they declared who their Man of the Year was for 2005 you'll see their choice was Bill Gates. But not because of what Bill Gates has done for Microsoft. Not because he revolutionized the computer industry. But because of what Bill Gates has started to do for humanity. If you read that article, Bill realizes that this is probably the generation where if health care were given enough resources, he can actually make a big difference in millions of people's lives. And that has become the man's passion and advocacy, donating billions to uplift the health of poverty stricken nations. This today is what truly defines him; no longer his technological achievements. It is now about serving and helping other people. In other words, descending to the top.

A heart for our Country

Finally, as you rise to the top you should never lose your heart for our country.

I always tell my team in PLDT, that yes, we have a business to run, but let us never forget we also have a country to serve. And that is the same thing I will tell you as you guys rise to the top. You will have businesses to run, you will have your own careers to take care of, and you will have your own dreams to pursue, but never forget you have a country to serve.

You may ask, "How? How do I serve the country?" One way is actually quite simple. I'll give it to you in one word. If you are great, if you are smart, if you are the best, if you have a Silliman education, then, please STAY. Just stay in the country. You would have actually done a great service to our country just by staying.

But if you can't stay, or you don't want to stay, that's fine. If you think you want to make it out there in the world, that's a-ok with me. But I want to ask two things of you.

First, go out there and show the whole world how great the Filipino is. In whatever field you're in, prove to the world how special we Filipinos truly are.

Second, don't just plan to COME back. Plan to GIVE back to the country. If you do that, if every Filipino who goes out there into the world -- and there are millions of us already -- proves to everybody how great the Filipino is, and not only plans to come back, but actually plans to give back to this country, in less than one generation, we will be an even greater nation.

I will end with what I told the UP students in 2003. You must be asking yourselves, "How do I reach my dreams?" or "How far can I go?" I told them this: In the last 42 years of my life, I have realized one thing, "There is no destination beyond the reach of those who walk with God."

So when you go out there in the world, take God's hand and walk with him. Because when you do, whatever destination it is you are hoping to reach, if God walks with you and takes you through, there will be no destination beyond your reach.

To the graduating class of 2006, I will meet you at the top and nowhere else!

PINOY LESSONS IN LINGUISTICS

2006-10-07T21:59:00.000+08:00

Hahahah! Pinoy humor --raw and biting!
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1. Noong 1940's, kapag may bra ang babae, pinagbubulungan na at mababansagang malandi. Noon din ay may French perfume na ang tatak ay Eclat (silent T). Kaya ang taong maarte ay tinawag ng mga Pinoy na Eclat (pronounce the T). Ngayon kapag maraming tsetseburetse at kaartehan ganon din ang tawag, "Ang dami mo namang eklat." Kinalaunan, pinaikli pa ang eklat at naging ek-ek- "Ang tagal mo namang magdesisyon kung sasama ka o hindi! Ang dami mong ek-ek!"

2. Noong elementary ako, uso pa ang Wakasan, sinusubaybayan ko ang nobelang Tubig at Langis; ang Movie Especial na komiks kung saan kapanapanabik ang bawat eksena sa buhay ni Zuma na siya namang ama ni Galema. Sa komiks ang tawag sa babaeng nagbebenta ng panandaliang aliw ay baylerina. Kinalaunan, naging belyas, tapos naging English, hospitality girls tapos ngayon GRO.

3. Elementary ako nang makagisnan ko ang batiang "Give Me Five". Masyado yatang pormal ang handshake kaya "Give me Five, Man" ang pumalit. Tuwang-tuwa ang mga magulang kapag natutunan ng kanilang anak na paslit ang mag-give me five. Tapos sa mga American games, naging High Five o "Give me five, up here!" Hindi pahuhuli ang Pinoy basta galing sa America. Ang "Give me five, up here" ay naging "Appear". Halos lahat yata ng Pinoy babies ganito ang series of training, "Anak, where is the light; where is the moon?" Ang nadagdag, "Appear! Appear!" At dahil sa E.T. ni Speilberg, "Align, Align!" Again, tuwang-tuwa ang mga magulang.

4. Nang mag- Community Medicine ako noon sa isang slum area ng Sta. Ana, Manila. Ito ang top 3 gamit na hindi mawawala sa mga bahay, gaano mang kaliit ang barung-barong:

Panyong may tatak na panalangin ng El Shaddai
Television
Karaoke.

Kakambal na ng Pinoy ang pagkanta. Noon, kapag nagkakantahan, gamit ay gitara at song hits (Jingle). Napalitan ito nang 70's-80's ng minus one.

Tapos, karaoke. Ngayon, videoke, at sa huling talaan ng pagkakaalam ko, 8 na ang namamatay sa "My Way". Naalala ko noong elementary pa ko, nagtayo ang kuya ko at ng kanyang mga kaibigan ng isang Combo. Ngayon, ang tawag sa singing group ay-- Band, hindi na Combo at ang Combo ngayon ay tumutukoy sa Jollibee o McDonald's promo.

5. Sa PGH, may tinatawag na Central Block. Nandoon ang Radiology Department kung saan ginagawa ang mga X-rays, Ultrasound, CT Scan at Radiotherapy.

Dito ko naobserbahan ang evolution ng mga pinoy medical terms. May mga pasyente o bantay na aking nasasalubong, ang madalas magtanong ng direksyon.

Mga Versions ng CT Scan: (Ganon na rin yon, no!)

"Dok saan po ba ang Siete Scan?"
"Doc saan po ba magpapa-CT Skull"
"Doc saan po ba CT Scalp"
"Doc saan po ang CT Scam?"

Madalas akong mapagtanungan ng direction papunta sa Cobalt Room. "Doc saan po ba ang Cobal" Yes, laging walang T, marami na ang ginagamit na term ay Cobal. Saan napunta ang "T". Marami din kasing nagtatanong, "Doc, saan po ba ang papuntang X-Tray?"

Conclusion: Ang "T" ng Cobalt, ay napunta sa X-Tray.

7:00 am. Nagbigay ang kasamahan kong doktor ng instruction sa bantay ng pasyente, "Mister, punta po kayo sa Central Block at magpa-schedule kayo ng X-ray ng pasyente ninyo."

3:00 pm. Kadarating lang ng bantay. Nagalit na ang doktor, "Mister, bakit namang napakatagal ninyong bumalik? Pina-schedule ko lang naman ang X-ray ah." Sumagot ang bantay, "Eh kasi po Doc, ang tagal kong naghintay sa gate, haggang sabihin ng guwardiya na sarado daw po ang Central Bank kasi Sabado ngayon." (Nasa Roxas Blvd ang Bangko Sentral ng Pilipinas, at sarado nga naman yon kapag Sabado,

6. Nang mag-rotate ako as intern sa Pediatrics ng PGH, mahal na mahal talaga ng mga nanay ang kanilang mga anak na may sakit. Pilit nilang tinatandaan ang mga gamot at tawag sa sakit ng kanilang anak.

Doktor: "Mrs. ano po ang mga gamot na iniinom ng anak niyo?"
Mrs 1: "Doc phenobarbiedoll po."
Doktor: "Ah baka po phenobarbital." (Gamot sa convulsion ang phenobarbital)

Doktor: "Mrs. ano po ba ang antibiotic na iniinom ng anak ninyo?"
Mrs 2: "Doc metromanilazole po."
Doktor: "Ah baka po metronidazole." (Gamot sa amoeba ang metronidazole)

Ang tawag sa recovery room ng PGH ay PACU (Post- Anesthesia Care Unit)
Doktor: "Mrs., tapos na po ang operasyong ng anak ninyo, punta na po kayo sa PACU.
Mrs 3: "Eh Doc, saan po sa Paco? Sa may simbahan po ba o sa may palengke?

Doktor: "Mrs. ano po ba ang sinabi ng dating doktor kung ano daw ang sakit ng inyong anak?"
Mrs 4: "Eh Doc sabi po niya Tragedy of Fallot.
Doktor: "Ah baka po Tetralogy of Fallot (Isang congenital Heart Disease ang Tetralogy of Fallot)

Biglang nagtatarang ang isang nanay at sumigaw.
Mrs. 5: "Scissors! Scissors! Nag-sciscissors ang anak ko, Doc!"
Doktor: "Nurse, diazepam please, nag-seizure ang pasyente!

Doktor: "Mrs. ano daw po ba ang sakit ng anak ninyo?"
Mrs. 6: May ketong daw po.

In-examine ng doktor ang balat ng pasyente. Wala siyang makitang senyales ng ketong. Tumawag pa siya ng isang dermatologist para mag-examine nang husto. Wala talaga.
Doktor: "Mrs. sigurado po ba kayong ketong ang sakit ng bata?"

Mrs 6: "Eh iyon po ang sabi ng doktor niya dati. Mataas daw po ang ketong sa ihi dahil may diabetes."
Doktor: "Ah ketone po yon! (Ang positive ketone sa ihi ay senyales ng kumplikasyon ng diabetes.)

Doktor: (Sa buntis na mrs. na nagle-labor) "Mrs. pumutok na po ba ang panubigan mo?"
Mrs 7: "Eh Doc, wala naman po akong narinig na pagsabog. " (Hanep!)

ACTUAL SENTENCES FOUND IN PATIENT'S MEDICAL CHARTS

1. Patient has chest pain if she lies on her left side for over a year.

2. On the second day the knee was better, and on the third day it disappeared.

3. She has no rigors or shaking chills, but her husband states she was very hot in bed last night.

4. The patient is tearful and crying constantly. She also appears to be depressed.

5. The patient has been depressed since she began seeing me in 1993.

6. Discharge status: Alive but without permission.

7. The patient refused autopsy.

8. The patient has no previous history of suicides.

9. She is numb from her toes down.

10. While in ER, she was examined, X-rated and sent home.

11. The skin was moist and dry.

12. Occasional, constant, infrequent headaches.

13. Patient was alert and unresponsive.

14. Rectal examination revealed a normal size thyroid.

15. She stated that she had been constipated for most of her life, until she got a divorce.

16. The lab test indicated abnormal lover function.

17. The patient was to have a bowel resection. However, he took a job as a stockbroker instead.

18. Skin: somewhat pale but present.

19. Patient has two teenage children, but no other abnormalities.

Maya Angelou quotes

2006-09-27T15:06:00.000+08:00

"I've learned that no matter what happens, or how bad it seems today, life does go on, and it will be better tomorrow."

"I've learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he/she handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights."

"I've learned that regardless of your relationship with your parents, you'll miss them when they're gone from your life."

"I've learned that making a 'living' is not the same thing as 'making a life'."

"I've learned that life sometimes gives you a second chance."

"I've learned that you shouldn't go through life with a catcher's mitt on both hands; you need to be able to throw some things back."

"I've learned that whenever I decide something with an open heart, I usually make the right decision."

"I've learned that even when I have pains, I don't have to be one."

"I've learned that every day you should reach out and touch someone. People love a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back."

"I've learned that I still have a lot to learn."

"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."

LOVE YOUR JOB, BUT NEVER FALL IN LOVE WITH YOUR COMPANY

2006-09-27T14:51:00.000+08:00

An interesting speech delivered by Mr. Narayana Murthy, a CEO of a premier IT company in India during an employee session with another IT company in India . He is incidentally one of the top 50 influential people in Asia according the latest Asiaweek publication. He is also the new IT advisor to the Thai Prime Minister.

LOVE YOUR JOB, BUT NEVER FALL IN LOVE WITH YOUR COMPANY BECAUSE YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN COMPANY STOPS LOVING YOU
Narayana Murthy

I know people who work 12 hours a day, six days a week, or more. Some people do so because of a work emergency where the long hours are only temporary. Other people I know have put in these hours for years. I don't know if they are working all these hours, but I do know they are in the office this long. Others put in long office hours because they are addicted to the workplace.

Whatever the reason for putting in overtime, working long hours over the long term is harmful to the person and to the organization. There are things manager can do to change this for everyone's benefit. Being in the office long hours, over long period of times, makes way for potential errors. My colleagues who are in the office long hours frequently make mistakes caused by fatigue. Correcting these mistakes requires their time as well as the time and energy of others. I have seen people work Tuesday through Friday to correct mistakes made after 5PM on Monday.

Another problem is that people who are in the office long hours are not pleasant company. They often complain about other people (who aren't working as hard); they are irritable, or cranky or even angry. Other people avoid them. Such behavior poses problems, where work goes much better when people work together instead of avoiding one another. As Managers, there are things we can do to help people leave the office.

First and foremost is to set the example and go home ourselves. I work with a manager who chides people for working long hours. His words quickly lose their meaning when he sends these chiding group emails with a time-stamp of 2am. Sunday.

Second is to encourage people to put some balance in their lives. For instance, here is a guideline I find helpful:-

Wake up, eat a good breakfast and go to work.
Work hard and smart for eight or nine hours.
Go home
Read the books/comics, watch a funny movie, dig in the dirt, play with your kids, etc
Eat well and sleep well

This [is] called recreating. Doing Steps 1,3, 4 and 5 enable 2. Working regular hours and recreating daily are simple concepts. They are hard for some of us because [they] require 'personal change'.

They are possible since we all have the power to choose to do them. In considering the issue of overtime, I am reminded of my oldest son. When he was a toddler, if people were visiting the apartment, he would not fall asleep no matter how long the visit, and no matter what time of day it was. He would fight off sleep until the visitors left, It was as if he was afraid that he would miss something. Once our visitor's left, he would go to sleep, By this time, however, he was over tired and would scream half the night with nightmares. He, my wife and I, all paid the price for his fear of missing out.

Perhaps, some people put in such long hours because they don't want to miss anything when they leave the office. The trouble with this is that events will never stop happening. That is life. Things happen 24 hours a day. Allowing for little rest is not ultimately practical. So, take a nap. Things will happen while you're asleep, but you will have the energy to catch up with you wake.

Hence, "LOVE YOUR JOB BUT NEVER FALL IN LOVE WITH YOUR COMPANY".

Faith is our refuge in caring for the older generation

2006-07-20T17:55:00.000+08:00

by Jose B. Pilar

For this issue of the family.com, I would like to share with you, dear readers, a story about my friends Benjie and Chit. In their earlier years, they were a couple whom you might call young and upwardly mobile , a yuppie couple who were making good, just like many others who became successful in business and contributed to the advancement in society. Being a yuppie was one of the buzzwords of todays generation referring to the baby boomers of the Sixties and Seventies. And now, both Benjie and Chit are in a new phase of their lives, for they have now become senior citizens, both being in their 60s.

As far as I can remember, Benjie and Chit have been living comfortably in a nice house in the suburbs, with a community of good neighbors who have become their close friends. Their place is located close to the amenities, and not far from their places of work. This is their family abode, where their 4 kids were born, and where their family grew to maturity and learned what life is all about. Indeed, they have the blessings of a family life that is so sweet, so fulfilling, and so full of joy and love and satisfaction.

But these days, the house once filled with youthful and playful voices and laughter has become now peaceful and quiet. The young sons and daughters have grown tall and mature. They have since married and have gone on to live their own lives. Benjie and Chit are once again a couple, albeit elderly, and now alone in a large family home, now an empty house. The young kids have moved on to create their own homes and families.

Soon, there will be a baby, a grand child, one or two, or three. And the lucky grandparents will look to the future with wonderment. Isnt life a never-ending cycle? Truly, babies are great and wonderful. They are Gods gifts to us, to the world. They renew our spirit. They renew us.

One day, Benjie got sick and had to be rushed to the hospital. Thank God for kin and close friends and neighbors who came immediately to help! Thank God for doctors and nurses who are friends in the community! Thank God for prayers and expressions of healing prayers!

It was okay at first. They have had a health maintenance card from way back. But then complications came, and the insurance cover was no longer enough. The prospect of a long illness was in the horizon. Who would take care of Mama and Papa, now that they are getting old, and have become sickly?

Yes, infirmities will come upon the elderly sooner or later. And for Benjie and Chit, that time is now. Time to collect on what has been prepared for retirement and long term care, if any. And reality must be faced. Hard decisions, if needed, have to be made. But for sure, life will no longer be the same.

Bens story happens to many Filipino families, and could happen to you or me. Often, the love and care that is needed, particularly in the long term, comes from loving family members. Our Filipino culture is well known around the globe for familial love and devotion to our close kin and that closeness is some kind of an insurance for care and attention when the time comes. Filipino tradition call to the extended family as the fallback for elderly care, unlike in the Western countries where care-giving has been institutionalized.

Often, long term care is so demanding upon a familys resources of time, energy, and financial means, and so, when there are not enough provisions for long term support, the situation becomes a test of the familys will to make hard decisions.

Perhaps personally helping one another in life-changing situations is not as simple as we like to think. No. Among other things, families have to face a change of lifestyle; decisions are needed about housing and home care. We are met with the thought of whether to move on to another, perhaps, more convenient place, and to decide who will be responsible for a certain time, Decisions upon the future disposition of the family home and properties come into the picture. Is the family prepared for this? Who will be willing to take on the caretaker responsibility? Who will be willing to sacrifice ones time and opportunities to give loving care for Mama and Papa?

In times of need, we like to turn to the Lord for understanding, for guidance and for help. This is our Faith, molded over the centuries of our Catholic Christian upbringing. The Church and its king, Jesus Christ, is the Filipinos special sanctuary. By his Faith, he is ready and available to extend his love to a beloved elder who is in need.

Great sacrifices are made possible by strong faith in God who extends His grace and mercy to all who believes in Him. The strong spirituality of the ordinary Filipino is his saving grace. It is the major factor in his decision to do good. In special situations of healing and prayer, the Filipino who believes places all his trust in the unseen hand of God, praying that He reaches out to him, to protect him from harmful anxiety in their lives . A strong faith is the Pinoys healing and saving strength. Faith will make him abide by Gods goodness; Faith will make him humble, forgiving and patient. Faith makes one succeed as a person, and as a member of the family and of the nation.

An Interview of Dylan Wilks

2006-07-20T17:37:00.000+08:00

by Bo Sanchez

Dylan Wilk was born to a poor family. But at the young age of 20, he started a computer games company that made him a millionaire. Soon, Dylan operated in nine countries and ran his own TV channel. Then at the age of 25, Dylan sold his company for multi-million British pounds. He became the ninth richest person in the Great Britain under the age of 30.

But one night, while lying in bed, he was distressed by a nagging question that wouldn't let him sleep.

"God, why am I rich?"

He asked if there was a reason for his immense wealth. Ironically, he also felt terribly empty inside. This, despite his ability to have any kind of pleasure he wanted. He had just bought himself a brand-new Ferrari and took one holiday after another. But he was discovering that pleasure was like fire... it constantly needed more fuel to keep it going.

And he realized he would never be happy in the path he was taking.

One day, a Filipina friend visited him. She said she felt guilty going there because her plane fare could have built two homes for the poor. That made Dylan pause. How can you build two houses for that measly amount? He decided to investigate.

In January 2003, he visited the Philippines. And for three hours, Gawad Kalinga (GK) Director Tony Meloto brought Dylan to different GK villages for the poor. With his own eyes, he saw something that would change his life forever...

Bo: What did you see on that day?

Dylan: I saw hope. More than newly built houses, I saw transformed lives. We were entering rather dangerous slums, breeding ground for thieves and kidnappers... yet in the middle of that was an oasis...the Gawad Kalinga village. I saw people smiling, men working, children laughing... I've seen many other projects in South East Asia and across the world. And I've never seen anything like GK. This was different. This really worked!

Bo: So what did you do after your trip?

Dylan: I went back to England. I saw my BMW parked in the garage and realized I could build 80 homes with it... and affect the lives of 600 people. I saw the faces of the children I could help. I called up Tony Meloto and told him I was thinking of donating $100,000 to Gawad Kalinga and asked him if that was okay...

Bo: What did Tony say?

Dylan: He said, "No, I don't want your money."

Bo: Only Tony can say something like that. (Laughs.)

Dylan: He said if I was really serious in working for the poor, I should go back to the Philippines. So two months later, I sold my BMW and flew back to Manila. And in June of that year, I made a decision to stay in the Philippines and work for GK for seven more years.

Bo: Wow.

Dylan: I've decided to invest in the poor of the Philippines. Not in stocks or bonds. If I can help in uplifting the poor of this country, I can say that I spent my life well.

Bo: I presume your family wasn't too crazy about that decision.

Dylan: No! They thought I was brainwashed by a religious cult! (Laughs.) So my mother came and spied on me. But she was soon convinced of the beautiful work we were doing and went back home and told my sister about it. And my sister said, "Oh no, they brainwashed you too!" (Laughs.)But today, all of them support what I do.

Bo: You've made a decision to give up your wealth for the Filipino poor.

Dylan: I don't see it as a sacrifice. When you give charity out of pity, you feel pain parting with your money. But when you give charity because you love, you don't feel that pain. You only feel the joy of giving to someone you love. That's what I feel.

Bo: I hear you built an entire village for GK in Bulacan.

Dylan: I don't see it as my village. I just provided the materials. Architects, engineers, volunteers gave their labor. Together, we built 63 houses for the poor.

Bo: Amazing. What else do you do?

Dylan: I go around the world telling everyone that Filipinos are heroic. Because I work with them every day... the volunteers of GK.

Bo: What do you see in the Filipino that we take for granted?

Dylan: You're hardworking. You're always laughing, always eating, always singing. Even in your problems. You're loyal. And honest. Sure, there are exceptions, but generally, that's been my experience. And you have the bayanihan spirit. The pyramids of Egypt are beautiful but they were built by slavery. GK villages are more beautiful because they're made through the bayanihan spirit of the Filipino. It's especially this bayanihan and love of family and
community that makes the Filipino more valuable than gold. If you take a golden nugget and kick it on the floor for 400 years, afterwards you won't be able to see much gold, just mud. This was what happened to the Filipino... for 400 years you were slaves and then you suffered under dictatorship and corruption. This is where the crab mentality came from; I don't think it's a natural Filipino quality because every day I see the gold under the surface of ordinary Filipinos. If we wipe away the mud by bringing hope and being brothers to one another in bayanihan, the gold will shine through and the world will see it.

Bo: Let me get personal here. I hear that you don't only love the Filipinos, but you've fallen for a particular Filipina.

Dylan: (Smiles.) Two months ago, I married Anna Meloto, the eldest daughter of Tony Meloto. She grew up with the GK work, so we're totally one in our mission. And yes, I'll be having Filipino children. The best way I can secure a future for my kids is to continue to help raise this country from poverty. Instead of building high walls in an exclusive subdivision to protect us from thieves and kidnappers, I will go to the breeding ground of thieves and kidnappers and help transform their lives.

Bo: Thank you for this interview. You don't know how much you inspired me.

Dylan: Thank you for being our partner in GK. I read KERYGMA every month and I'm happy to see GK stories in every issue.

Bo: It's our immense privilege to tell the world about it and ask others to join the miracle.

Dylan: To me, GK isn't just Gawad Kalinga. It is a part of "God's Kingdom" in this world. Thank you.

audacity

2006-06-25T18:37:00.000+08:00

"...She grabbed the brush out of his hand, went for the blue, and within a minute had the sky on the canvas. The spell had been broken."

- what Lady Orpen did when she saw her neighbor, Winston Churchill, frozen before his canvas

"We must not be too ambitious. We cannot aspire to masterpieces. We may content ourselves with a joy ride in a paint box. And, for this, Audacity is the ticket."

- Churchill, Painting as a Pastime

Become individuals

2006-06-25T18:27:00.000+08:00

Below is the full text of the Valedictory speech of April Lacson, Magna Cum Laude, UA&P batch 2006 who graduated this month from a five year course, graduating already with a masters degree. The sonnet is not included in Ms. Lacson's speech but another UA&P graduate quoted it as it reminded her of one of Shakespeare's sonnets.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

-Sonnet 116, William Shakespeare

Ladies and Gentlemen, Honored Guests, Fellow Students:

I am not graduating today and neither are you. My graduation came the day

I was told that I could finally bind my thesis after 51 revisions. There were no cheers or claps that day. There were no witnesses. Only a quiet sense of fulfillment and a voice within me that said it was done and I had done it. That was my graduation. When was yours?

It could be the day you took your last exam, the moment you typed that final period in a term paper or the day you saw a "P" beside your student number in the compre results. Whatever or whenever it was, that was your graduation. Not this. And not today.

During graduation practice we were told that this was a show. And, it is. For today, all the pomp and ceremony only serves to show that the world has finally recognized what you knew and earned long ago. Today, we receive one of the most expensive pieces of paper we will ever buy. Valuable not only because we've spent almost half a million on tuition fees, books, and allowance, but more importantly, because we've given four or five years of our lives to get it. Years we will never get back.

Now, having finished one goal, what comes next?

If you've been keeping apace with the news then you'd know that in the last few days, 5800 people were killed in an earthquake in Indonesia while another 20 lives were lost in the civil unrest in East Timor . But just as graduation is a part of school, death is a part of life. The real tragedy is not that they died but that it took their dying to give their lives significance. So I ask again: having finished one goal, what comes next? Will you allow your life to end the same way? Will you be contented to spend the rest of your life in mediocre existence? In living death?

I don't mean to dampen your spirits. In any case, I don't think that's possible - at least not today. But when your head is in the clouds, it's best to make sure that your feet are still firmly planted on earth.

Today marks the end of more than 10 years of formal education. Today, we reach the crossroads. We are as barks in the water. Ships which, having left one port, are in the middle of the ocean. Destination: uncertain. We are the captains and the crew awaits. Where do you want to go?

In the midst of your drunken raves, shopping sprees or bar hopping binges, have you stopped to ask yourself: why am I here? Or, while in the middle of cracking a joke between colleagues, paused to wonder if there is more to life?

Textbook answers won't do. Nor would replies mimicked from celebrities or quoted from your peers. You must answer. Not your family or your friends. YOU. Because however much society might nag and wail, life is personal and it is best lived according to your choices and your values.

So, if you haven't yet, ask yourself now. There are no wrong answers except one: settling, when you allow your life to be less than what you have imagined or wished it to be. When, having reached one goal, you stop, contented. When, in any endeavor, you hold back, and stand aside satisfied.

The history of mankind is the history of individuals. Just as we forget the armies, but treasure the generals that lead them, society forgets those who follow and remembers those who dare to shape the world according to their own vision

Do you wonder why the Philippines is struggling or why, after millions of dollars in aid and development efforts we remain steeped in poverty? It's because we lack individuals. Not people, individuals. Because too many of our fellow citizens have thrown away their capacity for independent thought. Because too many have abandoned their creative potential in exchange for a pretense at existence. Because we have become a country of superficial imitators.

Have you ever quoted an author without understanding what he meant? Ever parroted an answer to get the grade? Ever watched a show, bought a dress, or joined a club not because you liked it but because everyone else has seen, admired or joined? Then you're as guilty as the bum on the street who refuses to work, and just as culpable for our country's indigence. Perhaps even more so, especially since we have the means and the education to have known better.

Well, today, I challenge you. To become individuals. To get our brains back and start pursuing a goal that's entirely our own. I challenge you to start standing on your own feet and on your own judgment. I know it's scary. And if anything goes wrong, we've no one to blame but ourselves. But I think being wrong a thousand times is worth more than living your life based on someone else's values. Millions are already doing that. They're everywhere. They're people who think one way but act another. They're kids who like fine arts but take up nursing because it's easier to earn that way. They're soldiers who die in battle without knowing why the battle was fought. It's time we started distinguishing ourselves from them.

No one profits from your being ordinary. Dare to imagine. To think BIG. Then, dare to make it come true. Let us push the limits of what is possible, but most of all, let's seek to give our lives purpose. Having fun and enjoying life does not necessarily mean pursuing the stupid, the popular, or the meaningless. Don't look for a job. Look for your calling. Don't find a hobby. Look for a passion. And if you want to study again, forget the diploma, get an education.

Through the years, philosophers have said that man was born with an innate desire to find the causes of things. Well, if you must search for meaning, then why not now and with your life?

Today, we are set adrift in an ocean of possibilities. Do you follow the stars or will you allow the ocean to make the choice for you. It's your life and the clock's ticking. Your move.

Thank you.

BE PROUD TO BE A FILIPINO

2006-06-18T22:48:00.000+08:00

by Barth Suretsky, an American

My decision to move to Manila was not a precipitous one. I used to work in New York as an outside agent for PAL, and have been coming to the Philippines since August, 1982. I was so impressed with the country, and with the interesting people I met, some of which have become very close friends to this day, that I asked for and was granted a year's sabbatical from my teaching job in order to live in the Philippines. I arrived here on August 21, 1983, several hours after Ninoy Aquino was shot, and remained here until June of 1984. During that year I visited many parts of the country, from as far north as Laoag to as far south as Zamboanga, and including Palawan. I became deeply immersed in the history and culture of the archipelago, and an avid collector of tribal antiquities from both northern Luzon, and Mindanao.

In subsequent years I visited the Philippines in 1985, 1987, and 1991, before deciding to move here permanently in 1998. I love this country, but not uncritically, and that is the purpose of this article. First, however, I will say that I would not consider living anywhere else in Asia, no matter how attractive certain aspects of other neighboring countries may be. To begin with, and this is most important, with all its faults, the Philippines is still a democracy, more so than any other nation in Southeast Asia. Despite gross corruption, the legal system generally works, and if ever confronted with having to employ it, I would feel much more safe trusting the courts here than in any other place in the surrounding area. The press here is unquestionably the most unfettered and freewheeling in Asia, and I do not believe that is hyperbole in any way! And if any one thing can be used as a yardstick to measure the extent of the democratic process in any given country in the world, it is the extent to which the press is free.

But the Philippines is a flawed democracy nevertheless, and the flaws are deeply rooted in the Philippine psyche. I will elaborate... The basic problem seems to me, after many years of observation, to be a national inferiority complex, a disturbing lack of pride in being Filipino.

Toward the end of April I spent eight days in Vietnam, visiting Hanoi, Hue, and Ho Chi Minh City. I am certainly no expert on Vietnam, but what I saw could not be denied: I saw a country ravaged as no other country has been in this century by thirty years of continuous and incredibly barbaric warfare. When the Vietnam War ended in April, 1975, the country was totally devastated. Yet in the past twenty-five years the nation has healed and rebuilt itself almost miraculously! The countryside has been replanted and reforested. Hanoi and HCMC have been beautifully restored. The opera house in Hanoi is a splended restoration of the original, modeled after the Opera in Paris, and the gorgeous Second Empire theater, on the main square of HCMC is as it was when built by the French a century ago. The streets are tree-lined, clean, and conducive for strolling. Cafes in the French style proliferate on the wide boulevards of HCMC. I am not praising the government of Vietnam, which still has a long way to travel on the road to democracy, but I do praise, and praise unstintingly, the pride of the Vietnamese people. It is due to this pride in being Vietnamese that has enabled its citizenry to undertake the miracle of restoration that I have described above. When I returned to Manila I became so depressed that I was actually physically ill for days thereafter. Why? Well, let's go back to a period when the Philippines resembled the Vietnam of 1975. It was 1945, the end of World War II, and Manila, as well as many other cities, lay in ruins. (As a matter of fact, it may not be generally known, but Manila was the second most destroyed city in the entire war; only Warsaw was more demolished!)

But to compare Manila in 1970, twenty-five years after the end of the war, with HCMC, twenty-five years after the end of its war, is a sad exercise indeed. Far from restoring the city to its former glory, by 1970 Manila was well on its way to being the most tawdry city in Southeast Asia. And since that time the situation has deteriorated alarmingly. We have a city full of street people, beggars, and squatters. We have a city that floods sections whenever there is a rainstorm, and that loses electricity with every clap of thunder. We have a city full of potholes, and on these unrepaired roads we have a traffic situation second to none in the world for sheer unmanageability. We have rude drivers, taxis that routinely refuse to take passengers because of "many trappic!" The roads are also cursed with pollution-spewing buses in disreputable states of repair, and that ultimate anachronism, the jeepney! We have an educational system that allows children to attend schools without desks or books to accomodate them. Teachers, even college professors, are paid salaries so disgracefully low that it's a wonder that anyone would want to go into the teaching profession in the first place. We have a war in Mindanao that nobody seems to have a clue how to settle. The only policy to deal with the war seems to be to react to what happens daily, with no long range plan whatever. I could go on and on, but it is an endeavor so filled with futility that it hurts me to go on. It hurts me because, in spite of everything, I love the Philippines.

Maybe it will sound simplistic, but to go back to what I said above, it is my unshakable belief that the fundamental thing wrong with this country is a lack of pride in being Filipino. A friend once remarked to me, laconically: "All Filipinos want to be something else. The poor ones want to be American, and the rich ones all want to be Spaniards. Nobody wants to be Filipino." That statement would appear to be a rather simplistic one, and perhaps it is. However, I know one Filipino who refuses to enter a theater until the national anthem has stopped being played because he doesn't want to honor his own country, and I know another one who thinks that history stopped dead in 1898 when the Spaniards departed! While it is certainly true that these represent extreme examples of national denial, the truth is not a pretty picture. Filipinos tend to worship, almost slavishly, everything foreign. If it comes from Italy or France it has to be better than anything made here. If the idea is American or German it has to be superior to anything that Filipinos can think up for themselves. Foreigners are looked up to and idolized. Foreigners can go anywhere without question. In my own personal experience I remember attending recently an affair at a major museum here. I had forgotten to bring my invitation. But while Filipinos entering the museum were checked for invitations, I was simply waived through. This sort of thing happens so often here that it just accepted routine. All of these things, the illogical respect given to foreigners simply because they are not Filipinos, the distrust and even disrespect shown to any homegrown merchandise, the neglect of anything Philippine, the rudeness of taxi drivers, the ill-manners shown by many Filipinos are all symptomatic of a lack of self-love, of respect for and love of the country in which they were born, and worst of all, a static mind-set in regard to finding ways to improve the situation.

Most Filipinos, when confronted with evidence of governmental corruption, political chicanery, or gross exploitation on the part of the business community, simply shrug their shoulders, mutter "bahala na," and let it go at that. It is an oversimplification to say this, but it is not without a grain of truth to say that Filipinos feel downtrodden because they allow themselves to feel downtrodden. No pride. One of the most egregious examples of this lack of pride, this uncaring attitude to their own past or past culture, is the wretched state of surviving architectural landmarks in Manila and elsewhere. During the American period many beautiful and imposing buildings were built, in what we now call the "art deco" style (although, incidentally, that was not a contemporary term; it was coined only in the 1960s). These were beautiful edifices, mostly erected during, or just before, the Commonwealth period. Three, which are still standing, are the Jai Alai Building, the Metropolitan Theater, and the Rizal Stadium. Fortunately, due to the truly noble efforts of my friend John Silva, the Jai Alai Building will now be saved. But unless something is done to the most beautiful and original of these three masterpieces of pre-war Philippine architecture, the Metropolitan Theater, it will disintegrate. The Rizal Stadium is in equally wretched shape. When the wreckers' ball destroyed Frank Lloyd Wright's Imperial Hotel in Tokyo, and New York City's most magnificent building, Pennsylvania Station, both in 1963, Ada Louise Huxtable, then the architectural critic of The New York Times, wrote: "A disposable culture loses the right to call itself a civilization at all!" How right she was! (Fortunately, the destruction of Pennsylvania Station proved to be the sacrificial catalyst that resulted in the creation of New York's Landmark Commission. Would that such a commission be created for Manila...)

Are there historical reasons for this lack of national pride? We can say that until the arrival of the Spaniards there was no sense of a unified archipelago constituted as one country. True. We can also say that the high cultures of other nations in the region seemed, unfortunately, to have bypassed the Philippines; there are no Angkors, no Ayuttayas, no Borobudurs. True. Centuries of contact with the high cultures" of the Khmers and the Chinese had, except for the proliferation of Song dynasty pottery found throughout the archipelago, no noticeable effect. True. But all that aside, what was here? To begin with, the ancient rice terraces, now threatened with disintegration, incidentally, was an incredible feat of engineering for so-called "primitive" people. As a matter of fact, when I first saw them in 1984, I was almost as awe-stricken as I was when I first laid eyes on the astonishing Inca city of Machu Picchu, high in the Peruvian Andes. The degree of artistry exhibited by the various tribes of the cordillera of Luzon is testimony to a remarkable culture, second to none in the Southeast Asian region. As for Mindanao, at the other end of the archipelago, an equally high degree of artistry has been manifest for centuries in woodcarving, weaving and metalwork.

However, the most shocking aspect of this lack of national pride, even identity, endemic in the average Filipino, is the appalling ignorance of the history of the archipelago since unified by Spain and named Filipinas. The remarkable stories concerning the Galleon de Manila, the courageous repulsion of Dutch and British invaders from the 16th through the 18th centuries, even the origins of the Independence movement of the late 19th century, are hardly known by the average Filipino in any meaningful way. And thanks to fifty years of American brainwashing, it is few and far between the number of Filipinos who really know - or even care - about the duplicity employed by the Americans and Spaniards to sell out and make meaningless the very independent state that Aguinaldo declared on June 12, 1898. A people without a sense of history is a people doomed to be unaware of their own identity. It is sad to say, but true, that the vast majority of Filipinos fall category. Without a sense of who you are how can you possibly take any pride in who you are?

These are not oversimplifications. On the contrary, these are the root problems of the Philippine inferiority complex referred to above. Until the Filipino takes pride in being Filipino these ills of the soul will never be cured. If what I have written here can help, even in the smallest way, to make the Filipino aware of just who he is, who he was, and who he can be, I will be one happy expat indeed!

memory

2006-05-30T01:52:00.000+08:00

"We remember things as no computer can--in our muscles and reflexes: how to swim, play an instrument, use a tool."

--Theodore Roszak

6 Steps to Enjoying Your True Wealth

2006-04-18T13:22:00.000+08:00

How to Be More Emotionally Present to Your Family No Matter How Busy You Are
By Bo Sanchez

We were going to Hong Kong that day.
I was going to preach for three days but had two extra days to be with my family.
Picture us at the airport: My wife carrying our baby in her arms, my eldest son bouncing about like a rabbit and announcing to the whole world, Im going to Hong Kong Disneyland! And the poor skinny father? Straining to push eight massive bags on a wobbly cart with a stubborn right wheel. (Ive noticed that these eranged carts supernaturally end up with me wherever I go.)
That was when we heard the crying.
Correction. Not crying. But spine-chilling, lung-busting screaming.
Two kids were holding onto their mother. They were separated by four-foot tall steel bars. But to those distraught children, those steel bars represented two years of being without their mother the contract of a domestic helper in Hong Kong.
Four small arms clutching, grabbing, not letting go.
The whole world heard their pleading scream, Mommy, please dont go! Please dont go!
Ill never forget the mothers pained, tortured face as though a knife was ripping through her body.
My wife cried openly.
I wept inside and held onto my kids more closely.
That was two days ago.
Yesterday, the story continued

Those Small Arms Continue to Reach Out

Yesterday was Sunday.
And I walked around Central.
If you dont know Hong Kong, Central is where thousands upon thousands of Filipina Domestic Helpers congregate. They sit on sidewalks. They sit on overpasses. They sit by storefronts.
I walked passed one woman who was reading a handwritten letter.
The handwriting was obviously a childs penmanship.
I walked passed another listening to a little cassette player not to listen to music but to a voice of a kid telling stories.
But what broke my heart was the news given to me by Shirley, the head of one organization that tries to help them get financial education. I was shocked by what she said. Brother Bo, out of our 700 members who are married, 80% are already separated from their husbands.
Families arent designed for prolonged separation.
Theyre not just made for that.
Were supposed to spend time together.

6 Steps to Spending More Time with Your Family No Matter How Busy You Are

Bo, why are you telling me this? Im not in Hong Kong. Im living with my family under one roof.
Listen. Yes, youre not in Hong Kong.
But if you dont have time for your family and your heart is not focused on them you might as well be in another country.
You could be physically present but are you emotionally present as well?
Let me share with you five important steps you could take to become more emotionally present with them

Step #1: Be Close.
Im still in Hong Kong as I write this piece.
Its five in the morning as I type this article in bed.
And my little family is literally around me because were all sleeping on one bed. Yes, weve become one mass jumble of intertwined humanity our limbs, legs and arms crisscrossing each other.
And thats when I realize gosh, I dont know how blessed I am.
Why?
Here I am with my family. I feel their skin. I smell their scents. Were so close, I feel their breath.
And yet Im surrounded by 148,000 domestic helpers here in Hong Kong that have been away from their families for months, for years, for decades. And for those whove separated forever.
Let me say it again: We dont know how blessed we are.
We complain that our families are nutty.
But we dont understanding how blessed we are to have them close enough to experience their nuttiness.
We complain about our petty quarrels, our cold wars, our dysfunctionality.
But whose family isnt dysfunctional?
Ive talked to some people here in Hong Kong who would give anything to be with their families again even for just one day of nuttiness.
The first step is to be more emotionally present to your family is to actually be physically present to them. Be close!
You need to know how precious your family is and treat them that way.
You need to see them as your true wealth that nothing is more precious than your relationships.

Step #2: Be Deliberate.
Because you need to protect this treasure or they get stolen from you.
No matter how busy I am, I schedule a weekly romantic date with my spouse.
Yes, I actually write it down in my appointment book and treat it like a meeting with the President of the Philippines. These weekly nights are blocked off for the entire year. Nothing can touch it, except some dire emergency. Why? Because if my marriage fails, everything else stands to fail as well: My ministry, my businesses, my soul So it is an emergency that I bring her out every week.
I also schedule a weekly date with my kids.
I believe parents need to do these one-on-one dates with each of their kids. Unless of course youve got 18 children and may need to bring them out by twos or threes.
Sometimes my son and I just walk around the village and talk.
It doesnt have to be big. But swapping stories and opening our hearts to one another on a consistent basis is already very big to them. It means they
matter to you that you value them and youll see their self-esteem grow.

Step #3: Be Expressive.
I tell my wife I love you seven times a day.
I hug my kids countless of times a day.
At night, I tell my kids, Im so proud youre my son. Im so proud Im your Daddy. Youre a genius. Youre a loving boy. Youre an incredibly gifted young man
This is true. I have met 40-year olds who long to hear these words from their parents Im proud of you, and feel an empty space like a gaping wound in their souls because their parents have never told them this.
Dont do that to your kids.
And before I forget: Praise your kids seven times a day.
And praise your spouse seven times a day.
Im not kidding. It will revolutionize your marriage.
If I say, Criticize your spouse seven times a day, I bet youd say, Kaunti naman. I do that already. But thats the problem. We dont realize that when we criticize our spouses, we actually destroy our marriage bit by bit not just our spouses.
But when you praise and honor your spouse you build up your marriage.
It can be very simple stuff:
Ang sarap ng luto mo ngayon, Hon.
I thank God He gave you to me.
Youre so hardworking.
I love it when I see you play with the kids.
You know how to make me happy.
Ganda mo ngayon.
Keep on doing this and youll see changes in your life and your marriage you thought were not possible.
Let me say it again: Praise your spouse and your children seven times a day.

Step #4: Be Deep.
Your weekly dates shouldnt just be watching movies, eating out and going home.
Talk deep.
Talk about your feelings.
Enter into each others worlds. Dive into each others dreams, hurts, desires, worries, hopes and burdens.
When you open yourself up to your spouse or your child, there are more chances for the other person to open up to you.

Step #5: Be Simple
Yesterday afternoon, I preached to 700 people in Hong Kong.
I usually give my talks for 45 minutes. Thats been my trademark.
But yesterday, I gave a solid two-hour talk. Vein-popping, heart-pounding, passion-driven talk because I had a burden in my heart.
Because I preached on Financial Literacy.
I challenged them, Raise your financial I.Q.!
I scolded them, When you left the Philippines, you told your kids, Anak, two years of separation lang to. After two years, Mommy will have saved enough and will go home and well be together again. But after two years, you go home and you havent saved. Because you repainted the house. Because theres a new TV set in the living room and a new gas range in the kitchen. Because the kids have new designer rubber shoes.
I taught them how to live simply and ruthlessly save 20% of their income.
Because unless they do this, they will be forever trapped in Hong Kong.
Look at your life.
Are you living simply?
Are you saving 20% of your income?

Step #6: Be Financially Intelligent
I also taught them where to invest.
I told them, Its not enough to just save. You need to know where to put your money. Because savings accounts at 1% and time deposits at 5% wont do. Inflation which is at 7% will simply eat them up.
So I taught them about mutual funds and other investment vehicles, including the ability to sell something and get into business.
Heres the truth: The more you know about money, the less time you need to make money. So the more time you have for your family.
Actually, a time should come when you dont need to make money. Instead, you let money make money. And that requires financial intelligence.
Read. Attend seminars. Look for mentors.

Go Home.
After giving my talk, I took a deep breath and told my audience in Hong Kong,
When you follow these principles and have saved enough please go home. Please go home to your children.
I made a lot of people cry that day.
Im telling you the same thing.
Oh yes, you may be living with your family in one house, but its possible that your heart is so far away from your spouse and kids and they are far away from you as well. You need to let your heart go home.
Go home my friend.
Your heart belongs there.

Is an expensive Ateneo education worth it?

2006-04-10T15:11:00.000+08:00

DEMAND AND SUPPLY By Boo Chanco
The Philippine Star 03/31/2006
http://www.philstar.com/philstar/NEWS200603310711.htm

A week ago, I had mixed feelings about the graduation ceremony I attended at the Ateneo. I was a typical parent, happy and proud that my youngest child is through with college. I was also happy that it was the last such ceremony I had to attend in the oppressive high humidity heat of the Ateneo High School gym. I thought, given what we have paid the Jesuits in college tuition, they should have realized that parents have suffered enough and could have rewarded us by holding the ceremony in air conditioned comfort somewhere.

In fairness to the Jesuits, they did try to shorten the affair. When my son graduated six years ago, the Jesuits gave us a preview of what purgatory could be for forgotten souls. They had just one ceremony for all the college graduates and it took forever. Last Friday, they only had half of the graduating class… only the business, engineering and science majors. Still, I am sure everyone, graduates and parents, only had one thing in mind: Getting out of there.

That is why I didn't appreciate the over long address of this year's valedictorian. I realize that it is his day and if he wanted to speak all afternoon to early evening, that's his prerogative. In fact, when my son graduated, I had tears in my eyes when I joined the rousing standing ovation at the end of a most inspiring valedictory address of that year's top graduate: a blind mathematics major who had her secondary education in a public high school and got an Ateneo education on a full scholarship.

This year's valedictorian is a Development Studies major (don't ask me what that is) whose address sounded like a typical Atenean trying to "make bola" in their usual cute but predictable way. I suspect he would take on a career as a politician, end up as a member of Congress (or parliament) and feel right at home trying to sound important but saying nothing. That address was a missed opportunity. I was expecting someone who is supposed to be the best of the best, to say something that's thought provoking in the context of our troubled times.

It so happened I attended Sunday Mass that week at Ateneo's Church of the Gesu and the officiating priest, no less than Father Bienvenido Nebres, Ateneo president, said something that stuck to my mind the whole week. Father Nebres said they took a survey of their graduates to ask them what their thoughts are on the eve of their graduation.

In one word, success… personal success. That's expected. We are all dreaming of success, all our lives. They were asked to define success and most equated it with amassing power and wealth for their family's benefit. That's expected too, in today's success-driven society. Those are my thoughts too, for my own children.

But wait a minute… I thought the Jesuits are the best indoctrinators in history. Why are they now failing to get their graduates to think in terms of being "a man for others?" It is too early for these young people to be so into the ways of the world. When I was their age, I thought I could change the world. I know better now, but that's another story.

I just thought how refreshing it could have been if the address of Ateneo's top college graduate took up that survey Father Nebres talked about in his Sunday homily and gave us cynical men of the world some original thoughts on what it is to be young and privileged in a country teeming with poverty and immorality in high public (and private) offices.

He could have taken a survey of Ateneans in high places and made his conclusion of how close to the "man for others" ideal they have managed. Having obtained a legendary Jesuit education with top honors, he should have endeavored to titillate the mind, ruffled some feathers, not just deliver pages and pages of nice sounding platitudes as a typical Rotarian speaker would in the presence of Joc Joc Bolante. Or, devoid of such high expectations from a summa cum laude with a minor in philosophy, he could have kept his address short so we could all escape the oppressive heat in that gym a lot earlier.

A member of Ateneo's faculty with speaking lines that afternoon, was not any better. His introduction to the guest speaker, Manny Pangilinan, was longer than MVP's speech. The worse part is, the intro was printed in the program. It was as if, the Dean of the Gokongwei School of Business assumed he was before an audience of illiterates who didn't have the capacity to read Manny's impressive credentials.

Mercifully, MVP was inspirational and to the point. I just hope the rich kids he was addressing, including mine, managed to empathize with his rags to riches story… I don't think Manny would have been taken in as a barkada by the Ateneans waiting to receive their diplomas that afternoon. MVP simply wasn't the typical Atenean…not then… not today. Not too many Ateneans had to worry about jeepney fare home, as Manny said he did. Their main daily worry at Ateneo these days is getting a parking slot on campus.

With a lot of time on my hands that afternoon in Ateneo's purgatory, I amused myself by thinking of things like, what is really the value of an expensive Ateneo education? With two Ateneo graduates in my family, I should have a good idea. My son, an honor graduate, found it useless as a credential to get an interesting entry level job in the US, which was why he had to go to graduate school quickly. But he once told me, it was valuable in how it taught him to think… to think rationally. That, to me, is worth the tuition fee.

Then again, two of my daughter's friends found jobs as stewardesses in an Asian airline. I am not sure you need an Ateneo education to demonstrate how to use the life vest and serve meals in an airplane. But the starting salary, at over P80,000 a month, is nothing to sneeze at, specially for a young, single, fresh graduate. It certainly beats a local call center job. And the adventure could be a good post graduate education in life as well. It is just that I am bothered by the mismatch in the allocation of a scarce economic resource, a good education is such, in our third world country. Couldn't we just have a two year finishing school to produce stewardesses for export?

The way I see it, the concept of Ateneo's educational philosophy — combining the technical and the philosophical, the arts and the sciences and training the young mind how to think rationally– makes it valuable. It is the monoculture of upper class kids that bother me. That's why I can't help wondering if UP, my alma mater, would have provided a better education if only because it provided a more real world environment.

But in answer to my question, the cost of an Ateneo education is worth it… but only if the graduate recognizes its intrinsic value and does something about it in his life.

love even in the afterlife

2006-03-21T21:42:00.000+08:00

An inspiring reminder of love found and fulfilled in modern-day Manila, written by Emily Abrera, Chairman Emeritus of McCann Philippines, who lost her husband Caloy to a freak accident some time ago.

* * *

Part 1: Article for Mr. & Ms.
25 May 2005

Saturdays are tough for me.

Although they continue to represent what I treasure most --- the break from the workweek and time at home with family --- Saturdays have been a spiritual hurdle for me since a year ago, when my life partner met a fatal accident and in the blink of an eye, our world was altered forever.

It sounds presumptuous to say "our world" or "forever", but the thing is, I know without a doubt that for both of us, life has taken on a dramatically different and expanded meaning.

Anyway, Eggy happened to call me two Saturdays ago, to chat about her ideas for her magazine relaunch. Then a week later she calls again, this time to ask that I write this story and I agree, thinking, "Yes, it is time."

And so not surprisingly, SATURDAY is back, smack in the center of my thoughts all week.

It is market day for many of us in the village. As Caloy and I used to do, I still rise early to walk the two blocks to the FTI Aani market just outside the back entrance to United Hills, where we live.

Nothing has changed. At the market are not only fresh produce, cut flowers, plants, handicrafts and regional specialties, but a steady stream of friends and sukis, all of whom radiate that happy-lazy kind of Saturday energy. The exchange of smiles, mimed greetings and bits of conversation are all part of what I imagine are ancient rituals that attend to the preparation of food, and they subtly weave together, making the weekend market a catchbasin of simple, undiscriminating grace and so I go faithfully to restore and replenish my spirit; to "carry on", as one often urges those who have experienced the loss of a loved one.

Reflecting on it now, I realize that Saturdays are when we have long breakfasts, the kind that become brunch and sometimes even linger into lunch, depending on which friends drop by, or how late our grandchildren have stayed up the night before.

On Saturdays the house is happy, bright with flowers that Caloy used to expertly arrange (only one of many things he enjoyed and did beautifully). Although I am far less skilled at it, I like fixing flowers and hence have taken over that task; it is good meditation.

On Saturdays, after the flurry of putting away the finds of the day, we would often postpone other chores; do nothing more than just sit in the living room, marvel at the perfect proportions of our home, listen to the streams of sound and quiet that mark our living space, feel the blessedness of our life together.

Even now, as I write this, a Saturday moment is recreated like a hologram: I am seated across from my husband; our feet are up on the center chair, sole touching sole, and not a word needs to be spoken; we have everything we could possible ask for.

I suppose that's why he went on a Saturday, after we'd done the marketing, after the long breakfast, after the flowers had been fixed, after he'd dropped me off for a short meeting, after we had kissed goodbye, after all the precious everyday things we'd done a thousand times before. Caloy is the most thoughtful and loving person I have ever known, and it's not farfetched to believe that if he had any influence in picking the day of his accident, he would have picked a Saturday.

We had spent the Easter holiday together with our children and grandchildren and my brother's family, happily, at Mount Makiling, where we'd gone for the last three years. He had taken the opportunity to shoot footage, do a couple of interviews that would go into the production of a short documentary about how people and mountains can live together. Easter Sunday we were back home, and I asked Caloy to be the one to write our greetings to the kids, in Easter cards I had bought for the occasion. Later that day, Paolo and Suzi broke to us the good news that they were expecting their second child, and it was perfect Easter news.

The rest of the week was full for both of us. On April 17, Saturday, we had a couple of commitments that needed attending to in the morning, and Caloy offered to bring me to mine.

I received the first call less than an hour after we'd parted, and was at first told that I should go home immediately, that Caloy had had an accident, something to do with a train. I began to pray that it was not true. Thankfully I was among kind people at that meeting and right away a car was provided. A close friend came along, and I was thankful that she was there, and that I had a hand to hold. From the moment the call came, my body had turned cold and I had started to chill.

As I contacted my daughter and told her to head home, I tried to keep calm, tried to breathe in and out slowly. Suddenly, just like that, I knew in my heart with certainty that he had died. I could feel him near me, and I talked to Caloy continuously as we approached the familiar East Service Road, asking him to stay by me and help me be strong through the next few hours for the kids. I did not ask why, I only asked that God help us both to accept whatever this unexpected tragedy was.

In the ten or fifteen minutes that it took to reach the garden where Caloy's truck was parked peacefully as though nothing had happened, our life together flashed before me. It was as if Caloy was telling me to remember that I had so much to fall back on; there was so much love in that life and that nothing had changed, he had simply moved to the next phase a little ahead of me.

I do not know how I lived through that day but I did. Many friends were there in those first few most difficult hours, as we waited in a bahay-kubo in the midst of a garden, waiting for the ambulance service. Our helpers had covered Caloy's body with his favorite blanket and made a shelter over it from the noonday sun, and they hovered around him, guarding his body, and weeping the whole while.

I asked my son-in-law to bring me Caloy's wedding ring and I slipped it on, next to mine. I felt suspended, as though I could see everything that was happening from a distance, all the shocked and grief-stricken faces of people who loved us. I felt an overwhelming desire to comfort them, to reach out and embrace each one, to assure them that we were alright, that things would be alright.

The time seemed to stretch out; nothing seemed to bother me anymore. I seemed to be both outside the event and also right inside it. I can remember countless details, decisions I had to make, calls to family, and all throughout it, friends offering this and that and making available everything we needed. Messages poured in; I dutifully read them. I marveled at our surroundings; if one had to die in an accident, what better place than in the midst of lush greenery? And the sheer kindness of having that little bamboo shelter was not lost on me. How very like Caloy!

Later, friends confessed that I was so calm it frightened them and they worried that perhaps I was in denial of what had just transpired. I wasn't; in fact I was so keenly aware of all that was going on, but I was experiencing it from some place that was shielded from the storm, a sanctuary. I was with Caloy; his steady hand held mine; he was present, fully with me, and it allowed me to draw from the timelessness of our love and our life and for that first day, it was enough to keep me composed.

Our son Paolo and his family flew back immediately from Cebu, where they had gone, just the day before, for a holiday. We made arrangements for cremation, and around midnight, finally brought Caloy's ashes home. After a brief visit to the chapel nearby, our friends took leave; Paolo and wife Suzi went next door to their home to get some rest; Joanna, husband Marty and family camped in our bedroom to keep me company. Julio, our second oldest grandson, asked to sleep beside me, in his Nonesy's place. (Nones, or Nonesy, is what the grandchildren call Caloy. Altlhough we are officially Nonno and Nonna, Italian for grandpa and grandma, our grandchildren have taken liberties with our titles and evolved pet names for us.) I placed his urn, a favorite stoneware jar, on my bedside table, but exhausted as I was, I found it impossible to sleep for the remainder of that night.

By five, the sky began to lighten and I got ready to bring the urn to the chapel. Throughout the day, visitors came to pay their respects. Sometime in the early afternoon, a young woman arrived who introduced herself as M., someone who had worked with my husband some years before. I liked her instantly. When she asked if I was willing to listen to a message from Caloy through a clairvoyant friend, I naturally said yes. She seemed relieved, and explained that she was unsure how I would respond to her suggestion, but since Caloy had died so suddenly, she thought that he may want to send a message to me. Her friend could "channel" such a message.

A few moments later, she relayed what she had apparently received by text from her friend. "Tell Emily I love her and the kids. I'm sorry I didn't hear the train; she should process the papers soon." It was the second line that told me it was indeed Caloy who was coming through. He would say something like that.

I asked if her friend was a medium and was told no, but that she could channel. M. offered to arrange a visit with her friend.

Later that evening, I met K. I had no idea what to expect, but felt this was meant to happen. Slipping away from the chapel, I found K. waiting at our home with M., who had kindly returned to introduce us. Whereas M. had struck me as a quiet introspective person, K.'s first impression on me was almost the opposite: here was a cheerful, outgoing personality with an open, almost child-like curiosity.

K. remarked that from the moment she had contacted him to ask if he had a message for me, Caloy had been urging her to come meet me. "You will like Emily; please see her; go to our house. I want to talk to her."

I took them upstairs to our bedroom where we could have more privacy; M. offered to take notes. Except for reading a news article that afternoon about Caloy's accident, K. did not know much about him, nor about any of us, his family. To the best of my recollection, and with the help of M.'s notes, here is how part of the session went. She began, almost as soon as we were seated, by describing what she "saw."

K : I see him. He is sort of wide-eyed; I think he's still somewhat in shock. He's wearing a pair of earth-colored shorts, sort of up to here (she motioned to her knees), with large pockets low on the two sides, and a white collared shirtâ¦ a golf shirt but it's big, and loose. He has nothing on his feet. Oh! he was wearing sandals, he says, but they came off in the accident.

She was accurate on every count. I could not help it; I wept as I spoke to Caloy.

Me: I love you. Are you alright? Please do not worry about me; I just need to know how you are. Where are you?

K : He says he loves you, "I'm in some sort of waiting place. It's very bright, and colorful. I can see angels around here." His parents are there; they met him, and his brother's there, too.

Me : Did you pass through the light?

K : Not yet, he says. He has been told that he will, but only after the initial shock has subsided for both you and him. But where he is now is comforting. Very bright. He has been asking why he had to die so young; he was told that his life was already fulfilled.

Me : How do you feel?

K : He is alright, he says. He wants to tell you what happened. He did not sleep well on Friday night; he kept dreaming. There were so many scenes in his dreams that he couldn't remember them all. It was happening very fast. He dreamt of water several times; at one point he felt like he was drowning.

He thought he was overwhelmed by everything that he still needed to do for his work. He is saying, "I was trying to figure out what it meant, but I couldn't quite get it. I knew there was a message that was eluding me."

Me: That's why you were so quiet yesterday?

K : Yes, he had a lot on his mind. On the way home, he stopped by that garden to buy some plants. He says he walked out to the side of the railroad tracks. He was crouched down, and there were two palmeras to his left. He doesn't think the train driver saw him. He was so intent on selecting the plants he wanted and arranging them that he says he was oblivious to everything else.

"I stood up and took a half step back to see the effect and I guess that's when the train hit me. I did not even feel the impact. One moment I was looking at the plants, the next moment I looked down, and saw my body and I realized that I had died!"

He is sorry that he went so suddenly, there are still so many things he wants to do.

Me : It doesn't matter, Love. I accept God's will. I am grateful to be talking to you now. I need to tell you how much I love and respect youâ¦ you know that, don't you?

K : He says, "I don't just love you. I adore you."

This made me weep even more.

K : He will always be near you. He says, "I will kiss you on the forehead each morning like always. When you cry, I shall kiss your tears away. Remember, death has no meaning for us; we were married for eternal life. You are my eternal wife."

(Caloy and I were married in a civil ceremony but never in church. I never wanted to say 'till death do us part.')

Me : You gave me so much happiness. I learned so much from you; I could not have wished for a better husband.

K : He thanks you for your life together. He asks that you continue the work he left.
He says he will not stop doing what he can, and that in fact, he can do so much more from where he is now than when he was on earth. You will still work together in this way.

We continued the conversation for a few more minutes, then K. stopped suddenly and asked me whether Caloy wore pajamas. I had to say no, and wondered why she had asked.

She said that she could now see him in what appeared to be long white pants and a long-sleeved white shirt with no collar. The shirt was long, almost to his knees. With a start, I realized that she was describing him in his cotton kurta!

Caloy had adopted cotton kurtas as his regulation pambahay since our first visit to India many years before. As soon as he got home, he would shower and change into his kurta, and settle into his favorite chair downstairs with a book or a magazine.

K. told me that he seemed now much more relaxed and that she could see him smiling. She closed her eyes for a second and said, "Wait, there's something more. He is also wearing what looks like a white malong? It has a dark red border on the edgeâ¦"

Of course I recognized the malong. It was his prayer shawl; we had identical ones, gifted to us during a retreat we had attended in Mount Abu in India. He never traveled anywhere without his, and he used it each morning in meditation on the sofa in our room. I was amazed and cried out with joy. I knew what that meant: Caloy was feeling less disoriented, and more at home on the other side.

TO BE CONTINUED

Part 2: Mr. & Ms Article
June 30, 2005

A few moments later, I was smiling through my tears, thankful that this opportunity to communicate with Caloy had presented itself. (that's merely a turn of phrase; I don't really believe anything just presents itself. Rather, a Higher Power puts these graces at our disposal when we need them most.) It was barely 30 hours since he had died, and I had been given a direct line to Caloy! M. and K. were like a pair of angels sent to comfort me and ensure that I would not slip into despair over such a tragic turn of events.

Me : Love, you can't imagine how many people have come to pay their respects. I do not know them all; I recognize some faces but can't remember their names!

You're the one who's good with this sort of thing.

Caloy has a talent for "working a crowd". I, on the other hand, have always felt lost and claustrophobic in large groups, preferring more intimate conversations with individuals whom I'd like to get to know better.

K. : He says now that he isn't around, you will have to be nicer, to everyone; he is laughing. I think he is teasing you.

Me : Did you see the flowers? We have run out of space for them. They've spilled out into the park and the street.

K. : He has a nice laugh. Caloy says, "I'll bet you didn't realize I was so sikat, no?"

And in this way, some of the burden of sadness was lifted that Sunday evening. He asked that I look after the company he had left behind. He promised that he would continue working with me for the success of the channel that had just been launched. Friends would help me, he said.

Me : I always thought I would be the first to go, because I cannot imagine a life without you. I always prayed that I be taken ahead.

K. : He says, "That was not possible. If God had granted your wish, I would have died anyway the following day. What then would happen to our children, and our dreams? There are still things you have to accomplish. You will write a book, you know." Caloy says that you must tell others (especially our close friends) about this experience, and about how it is possible to make a marriage last, about how love can keep growing.

Me : Can I talk to you again?

K. : "Yes of course. Just look around the house; you will see signs of my love everywhere. I know you must be very tired. Tonight you will sleep, because now we have spoken."

We talked for a few more minutes and then I returned to the chapel for that evening's mass. It is hard to describe how I felt. Relieved and comforted, and excited to share what I had just experienced with the rest of our family. I felt as if I had just come from a lover's tryst, and could still feel Caloy's embrace. M.'s notes were in my pocket as a reminder, but I could remember almost every word of our conversation. We had talked for about 45 minutes.

M. and K. promised to come over again after the final mass on Tuesday, which was to be celebrated by Father James Reuter who had offered to do so. I was touched and grateful. Later, after I had shared what had transpired, the children and I gave thanks for the happiness of our years together as a family, for the joy of having had Caloy in our lives, and for the strength it had given us. And that night, just seconds after I had stretched out in bed, I was asleep.

I was up with the sunrise, feeling peaceful and rested. I showered and got ready to bring the urn to the chapel. While dressing, I felt a sudden strange sensation: as though I was weightless and my body had lifted a few inches from the floor. It lasted only for a fraction of a second, and I could not help but think it had something to do with Caloy. (On Tuesday, K. told me that a few hours after our talk, Caloy had gone from the waiting place and towards the Light. Our conversation had been good for both of us.)

That afternoon, the head of Forestry at Mount Makiling came to condole with us and to bring two saplings which he said Caloy had requested the week before when we were up there for Easter break. He'd been shocked to hear the news of Caloy's passing when he had called earlier to tell us that he would deliver the plants.

The two flowering trees that had caught Caloy's fancy were the Amherstia, also known as the Queen of Trees, and the Siracca, also referred to as the King of Trees. Originally from Indonesia, one has yellow-orange flowers and the other red. The Forestry Chief said Caloy had inquired how far from each other they had to be planted in order that their branches might touch when they were fully grown, and this made me think that Caloy had probably planned to surprise me with the trees (this was exactly the sort of gift he would come up with from time to time). I imagined he wanted to plant them at the entrance to the farmhouse we wanted to build in Candelaria, Quezon. But that wasn't all. Before he left, the Forestry Chief said, "Oh, by the way, Mrs Abrera, Siracca means 'tree of no sorrows,' because it flowers all year round."

On Tuesday afternoon, friends joined us for the final blessing at the church. It was a warm day; yellow sunlight bathed the flowers, the altar, and all who had come to celebrate Caloy's life. Again, I could sense him standing beside me, his presence almost palpable.

Later, I was told that many people were under the impression that Father Reuter was probably the priest who had married usâ¦for in his homily that afternoon, he spoke as though he'd known us a long time, and our work as well. The way Father Reuter chose to address the gathering that day was truly uncanny; he described Caloy and his advocacy with great familiarity, and his words soothed our spirits. Strangely enough, I felt like we were being married in church finally, after all those years.

After the mass, I went to thank Father Reuter. I tried to express to him how moved I was by his being there and by what he had said, only to find that the tears had begun streaming down my cheeks again and I could do nothing to stop my weeping. He then did a strange thing: without uttering a single word, he looked straight into my eyes for the longest timeâ¦ then he reached up slowly, held my face in his two hands, and slowly and lovingly planted a kiss on my forehead, and on each of my eyelids. I remembered what Caloy said to me when we talked, and I knew it was him, reaching across from the Other Side, making good his promise through this wonderful man of God.

We stayed there for the rest of that afternoon in remembrance of Caloy, with friends and family who delivered beautiful and funny stories about him. As the day came to a close, friends we had known since our college days walked home with us. I had prepared pasta and salad for them, which was what I thought Caloy would have wanted.

True to their word, M. and K. made time to be with us that evening. The couples that had become our barkada through decades of friendship gathered at home, their usual chatter only slightly subdued. One dear friend who was supposed to leave that afternoon for the U..S. had missed his flight (something that had never happened to him before) and came straight over, sure that Caloy wanted him to be there.

Although I thought it might be too distracting to get through to Caloy under those circumstances, K. seemed to have no trouble connecting. This time, I recorded the exchange.

K. relayed that Caloy was happy that all our friends were there, and he wanted us to know that he, too, was present. She said he was looking well; younger now than when she last saw him, with a fuller head of hair and a darker beard.

K : Caloy says, "It's hard to explain, but I am not in some far away place. I'm actually here. I'm everywhere I used to be; it's just that I'm on a different plane, that's all."

Me : What's it like where you are, Love? And how are you feeling now?

K. : He says it's very beautiful, especially the gardens. He says, "I am bigger than I thought I was! And I can be in more than one place at one time. I have learned so much since I got here, it's so amazing. I'm just trying to get used to the fact that there's no floor under my feet."

Our friends asked all sorts of questions, about celebrities, saints; had he come across St. Peter yet? He responded respectfully.

K. : Yes, Caloy says he has seen some of them. But it's not in the way they are depicted, although he says St. Michael is so big; he is really a warrior; that's sort of his job.

There were so many more things he shared that evening. Among the most precious to me were the following:

"No one is turned away; everyone continues life on this plane. The choice is up to the individual. After reading so much and theorizing about it all when I was still there, it turns out that the answer to life's biggest question is so simple! It's LOVE. Yes, I know it sounds like a cliche, but it's true. That's all we need to have and to give. It's so incredibly simple!"

I could almost picture him snapping his fingers, shaking his head and laughing. And knowing how much Caloy loved to read and learn new things, I could just imagine his excitement and eagerness to grow, to master the new aspects of his existence on the other side. He even tried to describe to me what kind of sounds he could hear, and how he perceived all other living things.

The evening did not end without his taking time to greet two of the quietest people who were there, women friends of ours, whom he reassured that he was fine, and had not suffered any pain when the accident happened.

The whole time this was happening, I was listening intently and also trying to discern the accuracy of what was being relayed. After all, a "channel" receives impressions, and tries to relay these as faithfully as possible but can only do so with words and concepts familiar to her own experience. As M. and K. stood up to leave, I was wondering how I might be able to ascertain what had just come through that night. At the door, K. turned to me and said, "You may want to consult another channel or medium to check out what Caloy has shared, and that's okay. You should do that."

I smiled. Nothing could surprise me anymore after all that had happened in the last four days. But I did not know any other mediums; K. herself had practically been delivered to my doorstep by an unseen power. We promised to stay in touch.

The following week, I decided to go visit my office to restore a sense of normalcy to my life. The first person I met at the elevator was one of our creative directors who, out of the blue, offered to put me in touch with her cousin, who, she said, was therapist and a clairvoyant, and might be able to help me adjust. I did not even have to look; here was the "other medium" I was probably meant to see. I agreed, which is how I happened to meet Jinky Amores.

Although she was busy preparing for a trip to the U.S. the next day, Jinky was kind enough to give me an appointment. This time, I asked our daughter Joanna and our son Paolo to come along. We waited in the waning afternoon in a beautiful Zen garden, beside which Jinky held office, not quite sure what we would do or even exactly why we were there. I only knew that it was where we were supposed to be.

She arrived a little late, apologizing for the Bulacan traffic that had caused her delay. She is a diminutive woman, of a brisk and sober demeanor, and it was obvious that she had had a very busy day. I suddenly felt embarrassed that we were imposing on her but she smiled and invited us into the room, which was softly lit and welcoming.

I introduced myself and the kids, told her briefly about Caloy's accident and requested that she try to reach him if she could. She explained that since it was only 11 days since his departure, she was not sure that we could communicate with him. Although she would try, she cautioned us not to expect too much, as he could still be adjusting to his new circumstances, and not yet ready to connect to the earth life he had left just recently.

After explaining the process, and a short prayer, she requested for him to come through. He immediately responded, to her surprise, and agreed. As I spoke to Caloy, she wrote his responses in her notebook. Every few minutes, she would pause and read out her notes to me. It was a short session, but what she wrote down was so accurate that I did not doubt it was indeed Caloy I had talked to. Not only did he address me in the way he always did, but the humor and his usual gentle banter were all thereâ¦and once again we were deeply comforted and reassured. If K.'s channelling needed corroboration, this most certainly did it.

I proposed to see Jinky again when she returned from her trip and she agreed. Many weeks passed, though, before we met again.

In the meantime, on numerous occasions, Caloy was sending us messages: in dreams, through friends, in strange and unexpected signs and always when I was conversing with him in my mind. For instance, when we brought the trees to the farm to be planted, I was in our son's car, wondering to myself if Caloy was making the trip with us on that day. I looked up to see a line of election posters for some local candidate whose first name was Caloy. Everything on the poster was black and white, except for name "Caloy", which was in yellow, and hence easily visible.

It was too much of a coincidence, but my skeptical mind remained unconvinced. I started to relate the situation to Paolo, when across the street came another long line of streamers, this time with the word "Nones" in red, the family name of some other candidate. We had to burst out laughing, for that is what the grandchildren call Caloy. ("Nones" is their pet name for their Nonno.) Right then, my celphone received a text message from a friend, suggesting that I read Gilda Cordero Fernando's article about serendipity which was in that Sunday's paper. As soon as we got home, I did look it up and it was so apropos what had transpired that morning. There were so many more instances like these.

When I did see Jinky again, she, too, had something to tell me. On the fifth day after she arrived in the U.S., she had this dream:

She is walking along a road in the countryside, and she meets a tall man in white, carrying a big basket . She does not know this man, but she offers to help. He tells her it's not really heavy and they talk awhile as he shows her the basket's contents. They seem to be small bundles of potpourri, but are made of colorful flowers and gold coins beautifully wrapped and be-ribboned.

He tells her that he made them all himself, selecting flowers from the garden, and that they are for his friends. As he names each one, he lets her smell the combination of fragrances in each bouquet. There are so many of these little potpourri packages.

Then he selects a bouquet larger than all the rest, saying, "Ahâ¦ but this one is special. I made this one for the love of my life." He holds it out to her and she sees that there is a large white flower in the center, and she recognizes the scent, "That's a magnolia, isn't it?" He smiles and asks if she will do him the favor of telling his love that he made her this bouquet, and Jinky says she will. He thanks her and takes his leave.

As they continue along their separate ways, she calls out to him, "Wait! You forgot to tell me her name!" He takes the bouquet, turns it over and shows her its underside, where, written on a ribbon is the name "Emily".

The man smiles and says, "You won't forget?" She replies, "No, I won't. I promise."

When she awoke from her sleep, she could remember the details of the dream clearly, but could not recall anyone by the name of Emily whom she knew. And so she soon forgot the episode.

Several days later, she went to a house where she does outreach work, serving as a medium to help parents with cerebral-palsy children converse with each other telepathically. As she entered the house, a bulletin board had been set up in the foyer with the names of the parents and children who were there that day. The names were written in colourful cut-outs, but there was one that caught her eye; it had the name "Emily" written on it.

It looked familiar but she couldn't think of why; even after she met the mother whose name it was, she still drew a blank. Later, bridging messages between the woman and her daughter, the child told Jinky that there was another "Emily" who was not her mother and that she could see lots of flowers with the name.

This time, Jinky remembered the dream she'd had. And later, she also remembered that she'd had a session with someone just before she left for the U.S .; she called home to ask what my first name was, and finally pieced it together.

"And so Emily, I am now fulfilling my promise to Caloy, to tell you that he had made for you this beautiful magnolia bouquet," Jinky said with a smile.
We were silent for a few minutes. How is it possible to not love this man, in this life and throughout the next?

I have recounted only some of the events of the first three months after Caloy moved on. There are many more storiesâ¦ and they still keep happening.

Life is a continuously evolving, wondrous journey. There will be many joyful as well as sad events, moments that seem to make no sense, trials that test us to the core, but the value of each of those turning points is in how we respond to them, rather than in the situations themselves. This much I have learned, that if I can keep my heart and mind open, train myself to listen and see beyond the surface, then more will be revealed, and the greater the opportunity to serve others.

Eternity begins in this life, whether we can see that far or not yet. In truth, life is too long for us to not make our sojourn in this first phase as beautiful and uplifting as possible. And as Caloy reminds us, love will carry us there each time.

sugod!

2006-03-13T01:41:00.000+08:00

"Wishing to go where you don't belong is the condition of most people in the world."

- Paul Theroux

DON'T EAT TOO MUCH RICE

2006-03-09T12:35:00.000+08:00

For someone who dreams of putting up a rice restaurant someday, this piece came with such a heavy message :(( boooo! Will investigate.

**********************

The human body was never meant to consume rice! You see, our genes have hardly changed in more than 30,000 years. However, our food choices and lifestyle have changed dramatically. The caveman would hardly recognize our food or way of life.

Caveman food was never cooked as fire was not yet tamed. Thus, he ate only those foods that you can eat without treatment with or by fire. He ate fruits, vegetables, fish (sushi anyone?), eggs, nuts and meat. Yes, even meat. You can even eat meat raw if you were starving in the forest. You have the necessary enzymes to digest meat.

However, rice, like wheat and corn, cannot be eaten raw. It must be cooked. Even if you were starving in the desert, you cannot eat rice in the raw form. This is because we do not have the system of enzymes to ! break rice down. You were never meant to eat rice. To make matters worse, you not only eat rice, but also make it the bulk of your food.

In some parts of Asia , rice forms up to 85% of the plate. Even if you take rice, keep it to a minimum. Remember, it is only for your tongue - not your body. Actually, rice and other grains like wheat and corn are actually worse than sugar. There are many reasons:

Rice becomes sugar - lots of it
This is a fact that no nutritionist can deny: rice is chemically no different from sugar. One bowl of cooked rice is the caloric equal of 10 teaspoons of sugar. This does not matter whether it is white, brown or herbal rice. Brown rice is richer in fibre, some B vitamins and minerals but it is still the caloric equal of ! 10 teaspoons of sugar. To get the same 10 teaspoons of sugar, you need to consume lots of kangkong - 10 bowls of it.

Rice is digested to become sugar.
Rice cannot be digested before it is thoroughly cooked. However, when thoroughly cooked, it becomes sugar and spikes circulating blood sugar within half an hour - almost as quickly as it would if you took a sugar candy. Rice is very low in the "rainbow of anti-oxidants"

This complete anti-oxidant rainbow is necessary for the effective and safe utilisation of sugar. Fruits come with a sugar called fructose. However, they are not empty calories as the fruit is packed with a whole host of other nutrients that help its proper assimilation and digestion.

Rice has no fibre. The fibre of the kangkong fills you up long before your
blood sugar spikes. This is because the fibre bulks and fills up your stomach. Since white rice has no fibre, you end up eating lots of "calorie dense" food before you get filled up. Brown rice has more fibre but still the same amount of sugar.

Rice is tasteless - Sugar is sweet. There is only so much that you can eat at one sitting. How many teaspoons of sugar can you eat before you feel like throwing up? Could you imagine eating 10 teaspoons of sugar in one seating?

Rice is always the main part of the meal - While sugar may fill your dessert or sweeten your coffee, it will never be the main part of any meal. You could eat maybe two to three teaspoons of sugar at one meal. However, you could easily eat the equal value of two to three bowls (20 - 30 teaspoons) of sugar in one meal. ! I am always amused when I see someone eat sometimes five bowls of rice (equals 50 teaspoons of sugar) and then asks for tea tarik kurang manis!

There is no real "built in" mechanism for us to prevent overeating of rice
How much kangkong can you eat? How much fried chicken can you eat? How much steamed fish can you eat? Think about that! In one seating, you cannot take lots of chicken, fish or cucumber, but you can take lots of rice. Eating rice causes you to eat more salt.

As rice is tasteless, you tend to consume more salt - another villain when it comes to high blood pressure. You tend to take more curry that has salt to help flavor rice. We also tend to consume more ketchup and soy sauce which are also rich in salt.

Eating rice causes you to drink less water. The more rice you eat, the less water you will drink a! s there is no mechanism to prevent the overeating of rice. Rice, wheat and corn come hidden in our daily food. As rice is tasteless, it tends to end up in other foods that substitute rice like rice flour, noodles and bread. We tend to eat the hidden forms which still get digested into sugar. Rice, even when cooked, is difficult to digest

Can't eat raw rice? Try eating rice half cooked. Contrary to popular belief, rice is very difficult to digest. It is "heavy stuff". If you have problems with digestion, try skipping rice for a few days. You will be amazed at how the problem will just go away.

Rice prevents the absorption of several vitamins and minerals. Rice when taken in bulk will reduce the absorption of vital nutrients like zinc, iron and the B vitamins.
Are you a rice addict? Going rice-less may not be easy but you can go rice-less. Eating le! ss rice could be lot easier than you think. Here are some strategies that you can pursue in your quest to eat less rice:

Eat less rice - Cut your rice by half. Barry Sears, author of the Zone Diet, advises "eating rice like spice".

Instead, increase your fruits and vegetables.

Take more lean meats and fish.
You can even take more eggs and nuts.
Have "riceless" meals. Take no rice or wheat at say, breakfast. Go for eggs instead.

Go on "riceless" days - Go "western" once a week.
Take no rice and breads for one day every week. That can't be too difficult. Appreciate the richness of your food. Go for taste, colors and smells. Make eating a culinary delight. Enjoy your food in the original flavors.

Avoid the salt shaker or ketchup. You will automatically eat less rice.

Eat your fruit dessert before (Yes! No printing error) your meals.
The fibre rich fruits will "bulk up" in your stomach. Thus, you will eat less rice and more fruits.

more pinoy jokes

2006-03-08T15:32:00.000+08:00

Prospective Employer to Applicant: " So why did you leave your previous job?"
Applicant: " The company relocated and they did not tell me where!"
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Bisaya 1: " Gara ng kutsi, siguro kay Miyur iyan."!
Bisaya 2: " Dili bay!"
Bisaya 1: " Kay Hipi?"
Bisaya 2: " Tuntu ka man. Kay FATHER iyan. Gisulat niya sa likud o, "'SAFARI'."
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Misis: " Sir, mananawagan po sana ako sa mister ko kasi dinala niya ang limang anak namin."
Radio Host: " Ok, go ahead!"
Misis: " Honey, ibalik mo na ang mga bata, isa lang naman ang sa iyo diyan!"
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Hello! Heto na naman ako. Gulung-gulo ulit ang isip ko. May nais lang sana akong itanong sa inyo. Alam ko matutulungan niyo ako Ang BIRDS FLU ba ay past tense ng BIRDS FLY?
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Nakasakay ka sa FX, ng ikaw ay mautot. Buti na lang malakas ang tugtog. Bawat pag-utot, sabay sa tugtog. Nang ikaw ay bumaba, ang sasama ng tingin nila sa iyo, bigla mong naalala...naka Walkman ka pala!
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WIFE: Himala! aga mong umuwi ngayon.
HUSBAND: Sunod ko lang utos ng boss ko. Sabi nya "GO TO HELL", kaya ito uwi agad ako.
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Lasing (takot): may multo sa banyo natin!
Wife: ha? Bakit?
Lasing: kasi bumubukas yung ilaw pag papasok ako ng ! banyo eh.
Wife: punyeta ka! ikaw pala umiihi sa ref!
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1st night lola wore see thru dress, lolo didn't react...
2nd night lola wore t-back, lolo still deadma...
3rd night lola all naked, lolo said "anu yan suot mo, gusot-gusot!!"
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AMO: sagutin mo ang telepon inday!
INDAY: (baligtad ang hawak) hilo? hilo?
AMO: baligtarin mo!
INDAY: lohi? lohi?
AMO: telepon ang baligtarin mo!
INDAY: Puntili, puntili
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Juan: bday ng asawa ko
Pedro: ano regalo mo?
Juan: tinanong ko kung ano gusto niya.
P: ano naman sinabi?
J: Kahit ano basta may DIAMOND.
P: ano binigay mo?
J: Baraha.
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Pedro: Galing ako sa doktor, nakabili na ko ng hearing aid. Grabe! ang linaw na ng pandinig ko!
Juan: Talaga?! Magkano bili mo?
Pedro: Kahapon lang
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Teacher: We are descendants of Adam and Eve!
Student: That's not true! My dad sez we are descendants of an Ape!
Teacher: We are not talking about your FAMILY!
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Wife: Lab, may taning na ang buhay ko. Huling gabi ko na to, let's make love.
Husband: Heh! tumigil ka nga. maaga pa akong gigising bukas, buti ikaw hindi na.
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KRIMINAL1: "Pare, sigurado ka bang dito dadaan yung papatayin natin?"
KRIMINAL2: "Oo, nagtataka nga ako, 1 oras na tayo dito wala parin siya! Sana naman walang nangyaring masama sa kanya."

resilience

2006-02-23T09:53:00.000+08:00

More and more I have to admire resilience. Not the simplest resistance of a pillow, whose foam returns over and over to the same shape, but the sinuous tenacity of tree: finding the light newly blocked on one side, it turns in another. A blind intelligence, true. But out of such persistence arose turtles, rivers, mitochondria, figs--all this resinous, unretractable earth.

-- Jane Hirschfield, "Optimism"

Brokeback Mountain

2006-02-18T22:10:00.000+08:00

from Close Range: Wyoming Stories
by Annie Proulx

Ennis Del Mar wakes before five, wind rocking the trailer, hissing in around the aluminum door and window frames. The shirts hanging on a nail shudder slightly in the draft. He gets up, scratching the grey wedge of belly and pubic hair, shuffles to the gas burner, pours leftover coffee in a chipped enamel pan; the flame swathes it in blue. He turns on the tap and urinates in the sink, pulls on his shirt and jeans, his worn boots, stamping the heels against the floor to get them full on. The wind booms down the curved length of the trailer and under its roaring passage he can hear the scratching of fine gravel and sand. It could be bad on the highway with the horse trailer. He has to be packed and away from the place that morning.

Again the ranch is on the market and they’ve shipped out the last of the horses, paid everybody off the day before, the owner saying, “Give em to the real estate shark, I’m out a here,” dropping the keys in Ennis’s hand. He might have to stay with his married daughter until he picks up another job, yet he is suffused with a sense of pleasure because Jack Twist was in his dream.

The stale coffee is boiling up but he catches it before it goes over the side, pours it into a
stained cup and blows on the black liquid, lets a panel of the dream slide forward. If he does not force his attention on it, it might stoke the day, rewarm that old, cold time on the mountain when they owned the world and nothing seemed wrong. The wind strikes the trailer like a load of dirt coming off a dump truck, eases, dies, leaves a temporary silence.

They were raised on small, poor ranches in opposite corners of the state, Jack Twist in Lightning Flat up on the Montana border, Ennis del Mar from around Sage, near the Utah line, both high school dropout country boys with no prospects, brought up to hard work and privation, both rough-mannered, rough-spoken, inured to the stoic life. Ennis, reared by his older brother and sister after their parents drove off the only curve on Dead Horse Road leaving them twenty-four dollars in cash and a two-mortgage ranch, applied at age fourteen for a hardship license that let him make the hour-long trip from the ranch to the high school. The pickup was old, no heater, one windshield wiper and bad tires; when the transmission went there was no money to fix it.

He had wanted to be a sophomore, felt the word carried a kind of distinction, but the truck broke down short of it, pitching him directly into ranch work.

In 1963 when he met Jack Twist, Ennis was engaged to Alma Beers. Both Jack and Ennis claimed to be saving money for a small spread; in Ennis’s case that meant a tobacco can with two five-dollar bills inside. That spring, hungry for any job, each had signed up with Farm and Ranch Employment -- they came together on paper as herder and camp tender for the same sheep operation north of Signal. The summer range lay above the tree line on Forest Service land on Brokeback Mountain. It would be Jack Twist’s second summer on the mountain, Ennis’s first. Neither of them was twenty.

They shook hands in the choky little trailer office in front of a table littered with scribbled papers, a Bakelite ashtray brimming with stubs. The venetian blinds hung askew and admitted a triangle of white light, the shadow of the foreman’s hand moving into it. Joe Aguirre, wavy hair the color of cigarette ash and parted down the middle, gave them his point of view.

“Forest Service got designated campsites on the allotments. Them camps can be a couple a miles from where we pasture the sheep. Bad predator loss, nobody near lookin after em at night. What I want, camp tender in the main camp where the Forest Service says, but the HERDER” -- pointing at Jack with a chop of his hand -- “pitch a pup tent on the q.t. with the sheep, out a sight, and he’s goin a SLEEP there. Eat supper, breakfast in camp, but SLEEP WITH THE SHEEP, hundred percent, NO FIRE, don’t leave NO SIGN. Roll up that tent every mornin case Forest Service snoops around. Got the dogs, your .30-.30, sleep there. Last summer had goddamn near twenty-five percent loss. I don’t want that again. YOU,” he said to Ennis, taking in the ragged hair, the big nicked hands, the jeans torn, button-gaping shirt, “Fridays twelve noon be down at the bridge with your next week list and mules. Somebody with supplies’ll be there in a pickup.” He didn’t ask if Ennis had a watch but took a cheap round ticker on a braided cord from a box on a high shelf, wound and set it, tossed it to him as if he weren’t worth the reach. “TOMORROW MORNIN we’ll truck you up the jump-off.” Pair of deuces going nowhere.

They found a bar and drank beer through the afternoon, Jack telling Ennis about a lightning storm on the mountain the year before that killed forty-two sheep, the peculiar stink of them and the way they bloated, the need for plenty of whiskey up there. He had shot an eagle, he said, turned his head to show the tail feather in his hatband. At first glance Jack seemed fair enough with his curly hair and quick laugh, but for a small man he carried some weight in the haunch and his smile disclosed buckteeth, not pronounced enough to let him eat popcorn out of the neck of a jug, but noticeable. He was infatuated with the rodeo life and fastened his belt with a minor bull-riding buckle, but his boots were worn to the quick, holed beyond repair and he was crazy to be somewhere, anywhere else than Lightning Flat.

Ennis, high-arched nose and narrow face, was scruffy and a little cave-chested, balanced a small torso on long, caliper legs, possessed a muscular and supple body made for the horse and for fighting. His reflexes were uncommonly quick and he was farsighted enough to dislike reading anything except Hamley’s saddle catalog.

The sheep trucks and horse trailers unloaded at the trailhead and a bandy-legged Basque showed Ennis how to pack the mules, two packs and a riding load on each animal ring-lashed with double diamonds and secured with half hitches, telling him, “Don’t never order soup. Them boxes a soup are real bad to pack.” Three puppies belonging to one of the blue heelers went in a pack basket, the runt inside Jack’s coat, for he loved a little dog. Ennis picked out a big chestnut called Cigar Butt to ride, Jack a bay mare who turned out to have a low startle point. The string of spare horses included a mouse-colored grullo whose looks Ennis liked. Ennis and Jack, the dogs, horses and mules, a thousand ewes and their lambs flowed up the trail like dirty water through the timber and out above the tree line into the great flowery Meadows and the coursing, endless wind.

They got the big tent up on the Forest Service’s platform, the kitchen and grub boxes secured. Both slept in camp that first night, Jack already bitching about Joe Aguirre’s sleep-with-the-sheep-and-no-fire order, though he saddled the bay mare in the dark morning without saying much. Dawn came glassy orange, stained from below by a gelatinous band of pale green. The sooty bulk of the mountain paled slowly until it was the same color as the smoke from Ennis’s breakfast fire. The cold air sweetened, banded pebbles and crumbs of soil cast sudden pencil-long shadows and the rearing lodgepole pines below them massed in slabs of somber malachite.

During the day Ennis looked across a great gulf and sometimes saw Jack, a small dot moving across a high meadow as an insect moves across a tablecloth; Jack, in his dark camp, saw Ennis as night fire, a red spark on the huge black mass of mountain.

Jack came lagging in late one afternoon, drank his two bottles of beer cooled in a wet sack on the shady side of the tent, ate two bowls of stew, four of Ennis’s stone biscuits, a can of peaches, rolled a smoke, watched the sun drop.

“I’m commutin four hours a day,” he said morosely. “Come in for breakfast, go back to the sheep, evenin get em bedded down, come in for supper, go back to the sheep, spend half the night jumpin up and checkin for coyotes. By rights I should be spendin the night here. Aguirre got no right a make me do this.”

“You want a switch?” said Ennis. “I wouldn’t mind herdin. I wouldn’t mind sleepin out there.”

“That ain’t the point. Point is, we both should be in this camp. And that goddamn pup tent smells like cat piss or worse.”

“Wouldn’t mind bein out there.”

“Tell you what, you got a get up a dozen times in the night out there over them coyotes. Happy to switch but give you warnin I can’t cook worth a shit. Pretty good with a can opener.”

“Can’t be no worse than me, then. Sure, I wouldn’t mind a do it.”

They fended off the night for an hour with the yellow kerosene lamp and around ten Ennis rode Cigar Butt, a good night horse, through the glimmering frost back to the sheep, carrying leftover biscuits, a jar of jam and a jar of coffee with him for the next day saying he’d save a trip, stay out until supper.

“Shot a coyote just first light,” he told Jack the next evening, sloshing his face with hot water,
lathering up soap and hoping his razor had some cut left in it, while Jack peeled potatoes. “Big son of a bitch. Balls on him size a apples. I bet he’d took a few lambs. Looked like he could a eat a camel. You want some a this hot water? There’s plenty.”

“It’s all yours.”

“Well, I’m goin a warsh everthing I can reach,” he said, pulling off his boots and jeans (no drawers, no socks, Jack noticed), slopping the green washcloth around until the fire spat.

They had a high-time supper by the fire, a can of beans each, fried potatoes and a quart of whiskey on shares, sat with their backs against a log, boot soles and copper jeans rivets hot, swapping the bottle while the lavender sky emptied of color and the chill air drained down, drinking, smoking cigarettes, getting up every now and then to piss, firelight throwing a sparkle in the arched stream, tossing sticks on the fire to keep the talk going, talking horses and rodeo, roughstock events, wrecks and injuries sustained, the submarine Thresher lost two months earlier with all hands and how it must have been in the last doomed minutes, dogs each had owned and known, the draft, Jack’s home ranch where his father and mother held on, Ennis’s family place folded years ago after his folks died, the older brother in Signal and a married sister in Casper. Jack said his father had been a pretty well known bullrider years back but kept his secrets to himself, never gave Jack a word of advice, never came once to see Jack ride, though he had put him on the woolies when he was a little kid. Ennis said the kind of riding that interested him lasted longer than eight seconds and had some point to it. Money’s a good point, said Jack, and Ennis had to agree. They were respectful of each other’s opinions, each glad to have a companion where none had been expected. Ennis, riding against the wind back to the sheep in the treacherous, drunken light, thought he’d never had such a good time, felt he could paw the white out of the moon.

The summer went on and they moved the herd to new pasture, shifted the camp; the distance between the sheep and the new camp was greater and the night ride longer. Ennis rode easy, sleeping with his eyes open, but the hours he was away from the sheep stretched out and out. Jack pulled a squalling burr out of the harmonica, flattened a little from a fall off the skittish bay mare, and Ennis had a good raspy voice; a few nights they mangled their way through some songs. Ennis knew the salty words to “Strawberry Roan.” Jack tried a Carl Perkins song, bawling “what I say-ay-ay,” but he favored a sad hymn, “Water-Walking Jesus,” learned from his mother who believed in the Pentecost, that he sang at dirge slowness, setting off distant coyote yips.

“Too late to go out to them damn sheep,” said Ennis, dizzy drunk on all fours one cold hour when the moon had notched past two. The meadow stones glowed white-green and a flinty wind worked over the meadow, scraped the fire low, then ruffled it into yellow silk sashes. “Got you a extra blanket I’ll roll up out here and grab forty winks, ride out at first light.”

“Freeze your ass off when that fire dies down. Better off sleepin in the tent.”

“Doubt I’ll feel nothin.” But he staggered under canvas, pulled his boots off, snored on the ground cloth for a while, woke Jack with the clacking of his jaw.

“Jesus Christ, quit hammerin and get over here. Bedroll’s big enough,” said Jack in an irritable
sleep-clogged voice. It was big enough, warm enough, and in a little while they deepened their intimacy considerably. Ennis ran full-throttle on all roads whether fence mending or money spending, and he wanted none of it when Jack seized his left hand and brought it to his erect cock. Ennis jerked his hand away as though he’d touched fire, got to his knees, unbuckled his belt, shoved his pants down, hauled Jack onto all fours and, with the help of the clear slick and a little spit, entered him, nothing he’d done before but no instruction manual needed. They went at it in silence except for a few sharp intakes of breath and Jack’s choked “gun’s goin off,” then out, down, and asleep.

Ennis woke in red dawn with his pants around his knees, a top-grade headache, and Jack butted against him; without saying anything about it both knew how it would go for the rest of the summer, sheep be damned.

As it did go. They never talked about the sex, let it happen, at first only in the tent at night, then in the full daylight with the hot sun striking down, and at evening in the fire glow, quick, rough, laughing and snorting, no lack of noises, but saying not a goddamn word except once Ennis said, “I’m not no queer,” and Jack jumped in with “Me neither. A one-shot thing. Nobody’s business but ours.” There were only the two of them on the mountain flying in the euphoric, bitter air, looking down on the hawk’s back and the crawling lights of vehicles on the plain below, suspended above ordinary affairs and distant from tame ranch dogs barking in the dark hours. They believed themselves invisible, not knowing Joe Aguirre had watched them through his 10x42 binoculars for ten minutes one day, waiting until they’d buttoned up their jeans, waiting until Ennis rode back to the sheep, before bringing up the message that Jack’s people had sent word that his uncle Harold was in the hospital with pneumonia and expected not to make it.
Though he did, and Aguirre came up again to say so, fixing Jack with his bold stare, not bothering to dismount.

In August Ennis spent the whole night with Jack in the main camp and in a blowy hailstorm the sheep took off west and got among a herd in another allotment. There was a damn miserable time for five days, Ennis and a Chilean herder with no English trying to sort them out, the task almost impossible as the paint brands were worn and faint at this late season. Even when the numbers were right Ennis knew the sheep were mixed. In a disquieting way everything seemed mixed.

The first snow came early, on August thirteenth, piling up a foot, but was followed by a quick melt. The next week Joe Aguirre sent word to bring them down -- another, bigger storm was moving in from the Pacific -- and they packed in the game and moved off the mountain with the sheep, stones rolling at their heels, purple cloud crowding in from the west and the metal smell of coming snow pressing them on. The mountain boiled with demonic energy, glazed with flickering broken-cloud light, the wind combed the grass and drew from the damaged krummholz and slit rock a bestial drone. As they descended the slope Ennis felt he was in a slow-motion, but headlong, irreversible fall.

Joe Aguirre paid them, said little. He had looked at the milling sheep with a sour expression, said, “Some a these never went up there with you.” The count was not what he’d hoped for either. Ranch stiffs never did much of a job.

“You goin a do this next summer?” said Jack to Ennis in the street, one leg already up in his green pickup. The wind was gusting hard and cold.

“Maybe not. ” A dust plume rose and hazed the air with fine grit and he squinted against it. “Like I said, Alma and me’s gettin married in December. Try to get somethin on a ranch. You?” He looked away from Jack’s jaw, bruised blue from the hard punch Ennis had thrown him on the last day.

“If nothin better comes along. Thought some about going back up to my daddy’s place, give him a hand over the winter, then maybe head out for Texas in the spring. If the draft don’t get me.”

“Well, see you around, I guess.” The wind tumbled an empty feed bag down the street until it fetched up under his truck.

“Right,” said Jack, and they shook hands, hit each other on the shoulder, then there was forty feet of distance between them and nothing to do but drive away in opposite directions. Within a mile Ennis felt like someone was pulling his guts out hand over hand a yard at a time. He stopped at the side of the road and, in the whirling new snow, tried to puke but nothing came up. He felt about as bad as he ever had and it took a long time for the feeling to wear off.

In December Ennis married Alma Beers and had her pregnant by mid- January. He picked up a few short-lived ranch jobs, then settled in as a wrangler on the old Elwood Hi-Top place north of Lost Cabin in Washakie County. He was still working there in September when Alma Jr., as he called his daughter, was born and their bedroom was full of the smell of old blood and milk and baby shit, and the sounds were of squalling and sucking and Alma’s sleepy groans, all reassuring of fecundity and life’s continuance to one who worked with livestock.

When the Hi-Top folded they moved to a small apartment in Riverton up over a laundry. Ennis got on the highway crew, tolerating it but working weekends at the Rafter B in exchange for keeping his horses out there. The second girl was born and Alma wanted to stay in town near the clinic because the child had an asthmatic wheeze.

“Ennis, please, no more damn lonesome ranches for us,” she said, sitting on his lap, wrapping her thin, freckled arms around him. “Let’s get a place here in town?”

“I guess,” said Ennis, slipping his hand up her blouse sleeve and stirring the silky armpit hair, then easing her down, fingers moving up her ribs to the jelly breast, over the round belly and knee and up into the wet gap all the way to the north pole or the equator depending which way you thought you were sailing, working at it until she shuddered and bucked against his hand and he rolled her over, did quickly what she hated. They stayed in the little apartment which he favored because it could be left at any time.

The fourth summer since Brokeback Mountain came on and in June Ennis had a general delivery letter from Jack Twist, the first sign of life in all that time.

Friend this letter is a long time over due. Hope you get it. Heard you was in Riverton. Im coming thru on the 24th, thought Id stop and buy you a beer Drop me a line if you can, say if your there.

The return address was Childress, Texas. Ennis wrote back, you bet, gave the Riverton address.

The day was hot and clear in the morning, but by noon the clouds had pushed up out of the west rolling a little sultry air before them. Ennis, wearing his best shirt, white with wide black stripes, didn’t know what time Jack would get there and so had taken the day off, paced back and forth, looking down into a street pale with dust. Alma was saying something about taking his friend to the Knife & Fork for supper instead of cooking it was so hot, if they could get a baby-sitter, but Ennis said more likely he’d just go out with Jack and get drunk. Jack was not a restaurant type, he said, thinking of the dirty spoons sticking out of the cans of cold beans balanced on the log.

Late in the afternoon, thunder growling, that same old green pickup rolled in and he saw Jack get out of the truck, beat-up Resistol tilted back. A hot jolt scalded Ennis and he was out on the landing pulling the door closed behind him. Jack took the stairs two and two. They seized each other by the shoulders, hugged mightily, squeezing the breath out of each other, saying, son of a bitch, son of a bitch, then, and easily as the right key turns the lock tumblers, their mouths came together, and hard, Jack’s big teeth bringing blood, his hat falling to the floor, stubble rasping, wet saliva welling, and the door opening and Alma looking out for a few seconds at Ennis’s straining shoulders and shutting the door again and still they clinched, pressing chest and groin and thigh and leg together, treading on each other’s toes until they pulled apart to breathe and Ennis, not big on endearments, said what he said to his horses and daughters, little darlin.

The door opened again a few inches and Alma stood in the narrow light.

What could he say? “Alma, this is Jack Twist, Jack, my wife Alma.” His chest was heaving. He could smell Jack -- the intensely familiar odor of cigarettes, musky sweat and a faint sweetness like grass, and with it the rushing cold of the mountain. “Alma,” he said, “Jack and me ain’t seen each other in four years.” As if it were a reason. He was glad the light was dim on the landing but did not turn away from her.

“Sure enough,” said Alma in a low voice. She had seen what she had seen. Behind her in the room lightning lit the window like a white sheet waving and the baby cried.

“You got a kid?” said Jack. His shaking hand grazed Ennis’s hand, electrical current snapped between them.

“Two little girls,” Ennis said. “Alma Jr. and Francine. Love them to pieces.” Alma’s mouth
twitched.

“I got a boy,” said Jack. “Eight months old. Tell you what, I married a cute little old Texas girl down in Childress -- Lureen.” From the vibration of the floorboard on which they both stood Ennis could feel how hard Jack was shaking.

“Alma,” he said. “Jack and me is goin out and get a drink. Might not get back tonight, we get drinkin and talkin.”

“Sure enough,” Alma said, taking a dollar bill from her pocket. Ennis guessed she was going to ask him to get her a pack of cigarettes, bring him back sooner.

“Please to meet you,” said Jack, trembling like a run-out horse.

“Ennis -- “ said Alma in her misery voice, but that didn’t slow him down on the stairs and he called back, “Alma, you want smokes there’s some in the pocket a my blue shirt in the bedroom.”

They went off in Jack’s truck, bought a bottle of whiskey and within twenty minutes were in the Motel Siesta jouncing a bed. A few handfuls of hail rattled against the window followed by rain and slippery wind banging the unsecured door of the next room then and through the night.

The room stank of semen and smoke and sweat and whiskey, of old carpet and sour hay, saddle leather, shit and cheap soap. Ennis lay spread-eagled, spent and wet, breathing deep, still half tumescent, Jack blowing forceful cigarette clouds like whale spouts, and Jack said, “Christ, it got a be all that time a yours a horseback makes it so goddamn good. We got to talk about this. Swear to god I didn’t know we was goin a get into this again -- yeah, I did. Why I’m here. I fuckin knew it. Redlined all the way, couldn’t get here fast enough.”

“I didn’t know where in the hell you was,” said Ennis. “Four years. I about give up on you. I figured you was sore about that punch.”

“Friend,” said Jack, “I was in Texas rodeoin. How I met Lureen. Look over on that chair.”

On the back of the soiled orange chair he saw the shine of a buckle. “Bullridin?”

“Yeah. I made three fuckin thousand dollars that year. Fuckin starved. Had to borrow everthing but a toothbrush from other guys. Drove grooves across Texas. Half the time under that cunt truck fixin it. Anyway, I didn’t never think about losin. Lureen? There’s some serious money there. Her old man’s got it. Got this farm machinery business. Course he don’t let her have none a the money, and he hates my fuckin guts, so it’s a hard go now but one a these days –“

“Well, you’re goin a go where you look. Army didn’t get you?” The thunder sounded far to the east, moving from them in its red wreaths of light.

“They can’t get no use out a me. Got some crushed vertebrates. And a stress fracture, the arm bone here, you know how bullridin you’re always leverin it off your thigh? -- she gives a little ever time you do it. Even if you tape it good you break it a little goddamn bit at a time. Tell you what, hurts like a bitch afterwards. Had a busted leg. Busted in three places. Come off the bull and it was a big bull with a lot a drop, he got rid a me in about three flat and he come after me and he was sure faster. Lucky enough. Friend a mine got his oil checked with a horn dipstick and that was all she wrote. Bunch a other things, fuckin busted ribs, sprains and pains, torn ligaments. See, it ain’t like it was in my daddy’s time. It’s guys with money go to college, trained athletes. You got a have some money to rodeo now. Lureen’s old man wouldn’t give me a dime if I dropped it, except one way. And I know enough about the game now so I see that I ain’t never goin a be on the bubble. Other reasons. I’m gettin out while I still can walk.”

Ennis pulled Jack’s hand to his mouth, took a hit from the cigarette, exhaled. “Sure as hell seem in one piece to me. You know, I was sittin up here all that time tryin to figure out if I was -- ? I know I ain’t. I mean here we both got wives and kids, right? I like doin it with women, yeah, but Jesus H., ain’t nothin like this. I never had no thoughts a doin it with another guy except I sure wrang it out a hundred times thinkin about you. You do it with other guys? Jack?”

“Shit no,” said Jack, who had been riding more than bulls, not rolling his own. “You know that. Old Brokeback got us good and it sure ain’t over. We got a work out what the fuck we’re goin a do now.”

“That summer,” said Ennis. “When we split up after we got paid out I had gut cramps so bad I pulled over and tried to puke, thought I ate somethin bad at that place in Dubois. Took me about a year a figure out it was that I shouldn’t a let you out a my sights. Too late then by a long, long while.”

“Friend,” said Jack. “We got us a fuckin situation here. Got a figure out what to do.”

“I doubt there’s nothin now we can do,” said Ennis. “What I’m sayin, Jack, I built a life up in them years. Love my little girls. Alma? It ain’t her fault. You got your baby and wife, that place in Texas. You and me can’t hardly be decent together if what happened back there” -- he jerked his head in the direction of the apartment -- “grabs on us like that. We do that in the wrong place we’ll be dead. There’s no reins on this one. It scares the piss out a me.”

“Got to tell you, friend, maybe somebody seen us that summer. I was back there the next June, thinking about goin back -- I didn’t, lit out for Texas instead -- and Joe Aguirre’s in the office and he says to me, he says, ‘You boys found a way to make the time pass up there, didn’t you,’ and I give him a look but when I went out I seen he had a big-ass pair a binoculars hangin off his rearview.” He neglected to add that the foreman had leaned back in his squeaky wooden tilt chair, said, Twist, you guys wasn’t gettin paid to leave the dogs baby-sit the sheep while you stemmed the rose, and declined to rehire him. He went on, “Yeah, that little punch a yours surprised me. I never figured you to throw a dirty punch.”

“I come up under my brother K.E., three years older’n me, slugged me silly ever day. Dad got tired a me come bawlin in the house and when I was about six he set me down and says, Ennis, you got a problem and you got a fix it or it’s gonna be with you until you’re ninety and K.E.’s ninety-three. Well, I says, he’s bigger’n me. Dad says, you got a take him unawares, don’t say nothin to him, make him feel some pain, get out fast and keep doin it until he takes the message. Nothin like hurtin somebody to make him hear good. So I did. I got him in the outhouse, jumped him on the stairs, come over to his pillow in the night while he was sleepin and pasted him damn good. Took about two days. Never had trouble with K.E. since. The lesson was, don’t say nothin and get it over with quick.” A telephone rang in the next room, rang on and on, stopped abruptly in mid-peal.

“You won’t catch me again,” said Jack. “Listen. I’m thinkin, tell you what, if you and me had a little ranch together, little cow and calf operation, your horses, it’d be some sweet life. Like I said, I’m gettin out a rodeo. I ain’t no broke-dick rider but I don’t got the bucks a ride out this slump I’m in and I don’t got the bones a keep gettin wrecked. I got it figured, got this plan, Ennis, how we can do it, you and me. Lureen’s old man, you bet he’d give me a bunch if I’d get lost. Already more or less said it -- “

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. It ain’t goin a be that way. We can’t. I’m stuck with what I got, caught in my own loop. Can’t get out of it. Jack, I don’t want a be like them guys you see around sometimes. And I don’t want a be dead. There was these two old guys ranched together down home , Earl and Rich -- Dad would pass a remark when he seen them. They was a joke even though they was pretty tough old birds. I was what, nine years old and they found Earl dead in a irrigation ditch. They’d took a tire iron to him, spurred him up, drug him around by his dick until it pulled off, just bloody pulp. What the tire iron done looked like pieces a burned tomatoes all over him, nose tore down from skiddin on gravel.”

“You seen that?”

“Dad made sure I seen it. Took me to see it. Me and K.E. Dad laughed about it. Hell, for all I know he done the job. If he was alive and was to put his head in that door right now you bet he’d go get his tire iron. Two guys livin together? No. All I can see is we get together once in a while way the hell out in the back a nowhere -- “

“How much is once in a while?” said Jack. “Once in a while ever four fuckin years?”

“No,” said Ennis, forbearing to ask whose fault that was. “I goddamn hate it that you’re goin a drive away in the mornin and I’m goin back to work. But if you can’t fix it you got a stand it,” he said. “Shit. I been lookin at people on the street. This happen a other people? What the hell do they do?”

“It don’t happen in Wyomin and if it does I don’t know what they do, maybe go to Denver,” said Jack, sitting up, turning away from him, “and I don’t give a flyin fuck. Son of a bitch, Ennis, take a couple days off. Right now. Get us out a here. Throw your stuff in the back a my truck and let’s get up in the mountains. Couple a days. Call Alma up and tell her you’re goin. Come on, Ennis, you just shot my airplane out a the sky -- give me somethin a go on . This ain’t no little thing that’s happenin here.”

The hollow ringing began again in the next room, and as if he were answering it, Ennis picked up the phone on the bedside table, dialed his own number.

A slow corrosion worked between Ennis and Alma, no real trouble, just widening water. She was working at a grocery store clerk job, saw she’d always have to work to keep ahead of the bills on what Ennis made. Alma asked Ennis to use rubbers because she dreaded another pregnancy. He said no to that, said he would be happy to leave her alone if she didn’t want any more of his kids. Under her breath she said, “I’d have em if you’d support em.” And under that, thought, anyway, what you like to do don’t make too many babies.

Her resentment opened out a little every year: the embrace she had glimpsed, Ennis’s fishing trips once or twice a year with Jack Twist and never a vacation with her and the girls, his disinclination to step out and have any fun, his yearning for low paid, long-houred ranch work, his propensity to roll to the wall and sleep as soon as he hit the bed, his failure to look for a decent permanent job with the county or the power company, put her in a long, slow dive and when Alma Jr. was nine and Francine seven she said, what am I doin hangin around with him, divorced Ennis and married the Riverton grocer.

Ennis went back to ranch work, hired on here and there, not getting much ahead but glad enough to be around stock again, free to drop things, quit if he had to, and go into the mountains at short notice. He had no serious hard feelings, just a vague sense of getting shortchanged, and showed it was all right by taking Thanksgiving dinner with Alma and her grocer and the kids, sitting between his girls and talking horses to them, telling jokes, trying not to be a sad daddy. After the pie Alma got him off in the kitchen, scraped the plates and said she worried about him and he ought to get married again. He saw she was pregnant, about four, five months, he guessed.

“Once burned,” he said, leaning against the counter, feeling too big for the room.

“You still go fishin with that Jack Twist?”

“Some.” He thought she’d take the pattern off the plate with the scraping.

“You know,” she said, and from her tone he knew something was coming, “I used to wonder how come you never brought any trouts home. Always said you caught plenty. So one time I got your creel case open the night before you went on one a your little trips -- price tag still on it after five years -- and I tied a note on the end of the line. It said, hello Ennis, bring some fish home, love, Alma. And then you come back and said you’d caught a bunch a browns and ate them up. Remember? I looked in the case when I got a chance and there was my note still tied there and that line hadn’t touched water in its life.” As though the word “water” had called out its domestic cousin she twisted the faucet, sluiced the plates.

“That don’t mean nothin.”

“Don’t lie, don’t try to fool me, Ennis. I know what it means. Jack Twist? Jack Nasty. You and him -- “

She’d overstepped his line. He seized her wrist; tears sprang and rolled, a dish clattered.

“Shut up,” he said. “Mind your own business. You don’t know nothin about it.”

“I’m goin a yell for Bill.”

“You fuckin go right ahead. Go on and fuckin yell. I’ll make him eat the fuckin floor and you too.” He gave another wrench that left her with a burning bracelet, shoved his hat on backwards and slammed out. He went to the Black and Blue Eagle bar that night, got drunk, had a short dirty fight and left. He didn’t try to see his girls for a long time, figuring they would look him up when they got the sense and years to move out from Alma.

They were no longer young men with all of it before them. Jack had filled out through the shoulders and hams, Ennis stayed as lean as a clothes-pole, stepped around in worn boots, jeans and shirts summer and winter, added a canvas coat in cold weather. A benign growth appeared on his eyelid and gave it a drooping appearance, a broken nose healed crooked.

Years on years they worked their way through the high meadows and mountain drainages, horse-packing into the Big Horns, Medicine Bows, south end of the Gallatins, Absarokas, Granites, Owl Creeks, the Bridger-Teton Range, the Freezeouts and the Shirleys, Ferrises and the Rattlesnakes, Salt River Range, into the Wind Rivers over and again, the Sierra Madres, Gros Ventres, the Washakies, Laramies, but never returning to Brokeback.

Down in Texas Jack’s father-in-law died and Lureen, who inherited the farm equipment business, showed a skill for management and hard deals. Jack found himself with a vague managerial title, traveling to stock and agricultural machinery shows. He had some money now and found ways to spend it on his buying trips. A little Texas accent flavored his sentences, “cow” twisted into “kyow” and “wife” coming out as “waf.” He’d had his front teeth filed down and capped, said he’d felt no pain, and to finish the job grew a heavy mustache.

In May of 1983 they spent a few cold days at a series of little icebound, no- name high lakes, then worked across into the Hail Strew River drainage.

Going up, the day was fine but the trail deep-drifted and slopping wet at the margins. They left it to wind through a slashy cut, leading the horses through brittle branchwood, Jack, the same eagle feather in his old hat, lifting his head in the heated noon to take the air scented with resinous lodgepole, the dry needle duff and hot rock, bitter juniper crushed beneath the horses’ hooves. Ennis, weather-eyed, looked west for the heated cumulus that might come up on such a day but the boneless blue was so deep, said Jack, that he might drown looking up.

Around three they swung through a narrow pass to a southeast slope where the strong spring sun had had a chance to work, dropped down to the trail again which lay snowless below them. They could hear the river muttering and making a distant train sound a long way off. Twenty minutes on they surprised a black bear on the bank above them rolling a log over for grubs and Jack’s horse shied and reared, Jack saying “Wo! Wo!” and Ennis’s bay dancing and snorting but holding. Jack reached for the .30-.06 but there was no need; the startled bear galloped into the trees with the lumpish gait that made it seem it was falling apart.

The tea-colored river ran fast with snowmelt, a scarf of bubbles at every high rock, pools and setbacks streaming. The ochre-branched willows swayed stiffly, pollened catkins like yellow thumbprints. The horses drank and Jack dismounted, scooped icy water up in his hand, crystalline drops falling from his fingers, his mouth and chin glistening with wet.

“Get beaver fever doin that,” said Ennis, then, “Good enough place,” looking at the level bench above the river, two or three fire-rings from old hunting camps. A sloping meadow rose behind the bench, protected by a stand of lodgepole. There was plenty of dry wood. They set up camp without saying much, picketed the horses in the meadow. Jack broke the seal on a bottle of whiskey, took a long, hot swallow, exhaled forcefully, said, “That’s one a the two things I need right now,” capped and tossed it to Ennis.

On the third morning there were the clouds Ennis had expected, a grey racer out of the west, a bar of darkness driving wind before it and small flakes. It faded after an hour into tender spring snow that heaped wet and heavy. By nightfall it turned colder. Jack and Ennis passed a joint back and forth, the fire burning late, Jack restless and bitching about the cold, poking the flames with a stick, twisting the dial of the transistor radio until the batteries died.

Ennis said he’d been putting the blocks to a woman who worked part-time at the Wolf Ears bar in Signal where he was working now for Stoutamire’s cow and calf outfit, but it wasn’t going anywhere and she had some problems he didn’t want. Jack said he’d had a thing going with the wife of a rancher down the road in Childress and for the last few months he’d slank around expecting to get shot by Lureen or the husband, one. Ennis laughed a little and said he probably deserved it. Jack said he was doing all right but he missed Ennis bad enough sometimes to make him whip babies.

The horses nickered in the darkness beyond the fire’s circle of light. Ennis put his arm around Jack, pulled him close, said he saw his girls about once a month, Alma Jr. a shy seventeen-year-old with his beanpole length, Francine a little live wire. Jack slid his cold hand between Ennis’s legs, said he was worried about his boy who was, no doubt about it, dyslexic or something, couldn’t get anything right, fifteen years old and couldn’t hardly read, he could see it though goddamn Lureen wouldn’t admit to it and pretended the kid was o.k., refused to get any bitchin kind a help about it. He didn’t know what the fuck the answer was. Lureen had the money and called the shots.

“I used a want a boy for a kid,” said Ennis, undoing buttons, “but just got little girls.”

“I didn’t want none a either kind,” said Jack. “But fuck-all has worked the way I wanted. Nothin never come to my hand the right way.” Without getting up he threw deadwood on the fire, the sparks flying up with their truths and lies, a few hot points of fire landing on their hands and faces, not for the first time, and they rolled down into the dirt. One thing never changed: the brilliant charge of their infrequent couplings was darkened by the sense of time flying, never enough time, never enough.

A day or two later in the trailhead parking lot, horses loaded into the trailer, Ennis was ready to
head back to Signal, Jack up to Lightning Flat to see the old man. Ennis leaned into Jack’s window, said what he’d been putting off the whole week, that likely he couldn’t get away again until November after they’d shipped stock and before winter feeding started.

“November. What in hell happened a August? Tell you what, we said August, nine, ten days. Christ, Ennis! Whyn’t you tell me this before? You had a fuckin week to say some little word about it. And why’s it we’re always in the friggin cold weather? We ought a do somethin. We ought a go south. We ought a go to Mexico one day.”

“Mexico? Jack, you know me. All the travelin I ever done is goin around the coffeepot lookin for the handle. And I’ll be runnin the baler all August, that’s what’s the matter with August. Lighten up, Jack. We can hunt in November, kill a nice elk. Try if I can get Don Wroe’s cabin again. We had a good time that year.”

“You know, friend, this is a goddamn bitch of a unsatisfactory situation. You used a come away easy. It’s like seein the pope now.”

“Jack, I got a work. Them earlier days I used a quit the jobs. You got a wife with money, a good job. You forget how it is bein broke all the time. You ever hear a child support? I been payin out for years and got more to go. Let me tell you, I can’t quit this one. And I can’t get the time off. It was tough gettin this time -- some a them late heifers is still calvin. You don’t leave then. You don’t. Stoutamire is a hell-raiser and he raised hell about me takin the week. I don’t blame him. He probly ain’t got a night’s sleep since I left. The trade-off was August. You got a better idea?”

“I did once.” The tone was bitter and accusatory.

Ennis said nothing, straightened up slowly, rubbed at his forehead; a horse stamped inside the trailer. He walked to his truck, put his hand on the trailer, said something that only the horses could hear, turned and walked back at a deliberate pace.

“You been a Mexico, Jack?” Mexico was the place. He’d heard. He was cutting fence now, trespassing in the shoot-em zone.

“Hell yes, I been. Where’s the fuckin problem?” Braced for it all these years and here it came, late and unexpected.

“I got a say this to you one time, Jack, and I ain’t foolin. What I don’t know,” said Ennis, “all them things I don’t know could get you killed if I should come to know them.”

“Try this one,” said Jack, “and I’ll say it just one time. Tell you what, we could a had a good life
together, a fuckin real good life. You wouldn’t do it, Ennis, so what we got now is Brokeback Mountain. Everthing built on that. It’s all we got, boy, fuckin all, so I hope you know that if you don’t never know the rest. Count the damn few times we been together in twenty years. Measure the fuckin short leash you keep me on, then ask me about Mexico and then tell me you’ll kill me for needin it and not hardly never gettin it. You got no fuckin idea how bad it gets. I’m not you. I can’t make it on a couple a high-altitude fucks once or twice a year. You’re too much for me, Ennis, you son of a whoreson bitch. I wish I knew how to quit you.”

Like vast clouds of steam from thermal springs in winter the years of things unsaid and now unsayable-- admissions, declarations, shames, guilts, fears -- rose around them. Ennis stood as if heart-shot, face grey and deep-lined, grimacing, eyes screwed shut, fists clenched, legs caving, hit the ground on his knees.

“Jesus,” said Jack. “Ennis?” But before he was out of the truck, trying to guess if it was heart attack or the overflow of an incendiary rage, Ennis was back on his feet and somehow, as a coat hanger is straightened to open a locked car and then bent again to its original shape, they torqued things almost to where they had been, for what they’d said was no news. Nothing ended, nothing begun, nothing resolved.

What Jack remembered and craved in a way he could neither help nor understand was the time that distant summer on Brokeback when Ennis had come up behind him and pulled him close, the silent embrace satisfying some shared and sexless hunger.

They had stood that way for a long time in front of the fire, its burning tossing ruddy chunks of light, the shadow of their bodies a single column against the rock. The minutes ticked by from the round watch in Ennis’s pocket, from the sticks in the fire settling into coals. Stars bit through the wavy heat layers above the fire. Ennis’s breath came slow and quiet, he hummed, rocked a little in the sparklight and Jack leaned against the steady heartbeat, the vibrations of the humming like faint electricity and, standing, he fell into sleep that was not sleep but something else drowsy and tranced until Ennis, dredging up a rusty but still useable phrase from the childhood time before his mother died, said, “Time to hit the hay, cowboy. I got a go. Come on, you’re sleepin on your feet like a horse,” and gave Jack a shake, a push, and went off in the darkness. Jack heard his spurs tremble as he mounted, the words “see you tomorrow,” and the horse’s shuddering snort, grind of hoof on stone.

Later, that dozy embrace solidified in his memory as the single moment of artless, charmed happiness in their separate and difficult lives. Nothing marred it, even the knowledge that Ennis would not then embrace him face to face because he did not want to see nor feel that it was Jack he held. And maybe, he thought, they’d never got much farther than that. Let be, let be.

Ennis didn’t know about the accident for months until his postcard to Jack saying that November still looked like the first chance came back stamped DECEASED. He called Jack’s number in Childress, something he had done only once before when Alma divorced him and Jack had misunderstood the reason for the call, had driven twelve hundred miles north for nothing. This would be all right, Jack would answer, had to answer. But he did not. It was Lureen and she said who? who is this? and when he told her again she said in a level voice yes, Jack was pumping up a flat on the truck out on a back road when the tire blew up. The bead was damaged somehow and the force of the explosion slammed the rim into his face, broke his nose and jaw and knocked him unconscious on his back. By the time someone came along he had drowned in his own blood.

No, he thought, they got him with the tire iron.

“Jack used to mention you,” she said. “You’re the fishing buddy or the hunting buddy, I know that. Would have let you know,” she said, “but I wasn’t sure about your name and address. Jack kept most a his friends’ addresses in his head. It was a terrible thing. He was only thirty-nine years old.”

The huge sadness of the northern plains rolled down on him. He didn’t know which way it was, the tire iron or a real accident, blood choking down Jack’s throat and nobody to turn him over. Under the wind drone he heard steel slamming off bone, the hollow chatter of a settling tire rim.

“He buried down there?” He wanted to curse her for letting Jack die on the dirt road.

The little Texas voice came slip-sliding down the wire. “We put a stone up. He use to say he wanted to be cremated, ashes scattered on Brokeback Mountain. I didn’t know where that was. So he was cremated, like he wanted, and like I say, half his ashes was interred here, and the rest I sent up to his folks. I thought Brokeback Mountain was around where he grew up. But knowing Jack, it might be some pretend place where the bluebirds sing and there’s a whiskey spring.”

“We herded sheep on Brokeback one summer,” said Ennis. He could hardly speak.

“Well, he said it was his place. I thought he meant to get drunk. Drink whiskey up there. He drank a lot.”

“His folks still up in Lightnin Flat?”

“Oh yeah. They’ll be there until they die. I never met them. They didn’t come down for the funeral. You get in touch with them. I suppose they’d appreciate it if his wishes was carried out.”

No doubt about it, she was polite but the little voice was cold as snow.

The road to Lightning Flat went through desolate country past a dozen abandoned ranches distributed over the plain at eight- and ten-mile intervals, houses sitting blank-eyed in the weeds, corral fences down. The mailbox read John C. Twist. The ranch was a meagre little place, leafy spurge taking over. The stock was too far distant for him to see their condition, only that they were black baldies. A porch stretched across the front of the tiny brown stucco house, four rooms, two down, two up.

Ennis sat at the kitchen table with Jack’s father. Jack’s mother, stout and careful in her movements as though recovering from an operation, said, “Want some coffee, don’t you? Piece a cherry cake?”

“Thank you, ma’am, I’ll take a cup a coffee but I can’t eat no cake just now.”

The old man sat silent, his hands folded on the plastic tablecloth, staring at Ennis with an angry,
knowing expression. Ennis recognized in him a not uncommon type with the hard need to be the stud duck in the pond. He couldn’t see much of Jack in either one of them, took a breath.

“I feel awful bad about Jack. Can’t begin to say how bad I feel. I knew him a long time. I come by to tell you that if you want me to take his ashes up there on Brokeback like his wife says he wanted I’d be proud to.”

There was a silence. Ennis cleared his throat but said nothing more.

The old man said, “Tell you what, I know where Brokeback Mountain is. He thought he was too goddamn special to be buried in the family plot.”

Jack’s mother ignored this, said, “He used a come home every year, even after he was married and down in Texas, and help his daddy on the ranch for a week fix the gates and mow and all. I kept his room like it was when he was a boy and I think he appreciated that. You are welcome to go up in his room if you want.”

The old man spoke angrily. “I can’t get no help out here. Jack used a say, ‘Ennis del Mar,’ he used a say, ‘I’m goin a bring him up here one a these days and we’ll lick this damn ranch into shape.’ He had some half-baked idea the two a you was goin a move up here, build a log cabin and help me run this ranch and bring it up. Then, this spring he’s got another one’s goin a come up here with him and build a place and help run the ranch, some ranch neighbor a his from down in Texas. He’s goin a split up with his wife and come back here. So he says. But like most a Jack’s ideas it never come to pass.”

So now he knew it had been the tire iron. He stood up, said, you bet he’d like to see Jack’s room, recalled one of Jack’s stories about this old man. Jack was dick-clipped and the old man was not; it bothered the son who had discovered the anatomical disconformity during a hard scene. He had been about three or four, he said, always late getting to the toilet, struggling with buttons, the seat, the height of the thing and often as not left the surroundings sprinkled down. The old man blew up about it and this one time worked into a crazy rage. “Christ, he licked the stuffin out a me, knocked me down on the bathroom floor, whipped me with his belt. I thought he was killin me. Then he says, ‘You want a know what it’s like with piss all over the place? I’ll learn you,’ and he pulls it out and lets go all over me, soaked me, then he throws a towel at me and makes me mop up the floor, take my clothes off and warsh them in the bathtub, warsh out the towel, I’m bawlin and blubberin. But while he was hosin me down I seen he had some extra material that I was missin. I seen they’d cut me different like you’d crop a ear or scorch a brand. No way to get it right with him after that.”

The bedroom, at the top of a steep stair that had its own climbing rhythm, was tiny and hot, afternoon sun pounding through the west window, hitting the narrow boy’s bed against the wall, an ink-stained desk and wooden chair, a b.b. gun in a hand-whittled rack over the bed. The window looked down on the gravel road stretching south and it occurred to him that for his growing- up years that was the only road Jack knew. An ancient magazine photograph of some dark-haired movie star was taped to the wall beside the bed, the skin tone gone magenta. He could hear Jack’s mother downstairs running water, filling the kettle and setting it back on the stove, asking the old man a muffled question. The closet was a shallow cavity with a wooden rod braced across, a faded cretonne curtain on a string closing it off from the rest of the room. In the closet hung two pairs of jeans crease-ironed and folded neatly over wire hangers, on the floor a pair of worn packer boots he thought he remembered. At the north end of the closet a tiny jog in the wall made a slight hiding place and here, stiff with long suspension from a nail, hung a shirt. He lifted it off the nail. Jack’s old shirt from Brokeback days. The dried blood on the sleeve was his own blood, a gushing nosebleed on the last afternoon on the mountain when Jack, in their contortionistic grappling and wrestling, had slammed Ennis’s nose hard with his knee. He had staunched the blood which was everywhere, all over both of them, with his shirtsleeve, but the staunching hadn’t held because Ennis had suddenly swung from the deck and laid the ministering angel out in the wild columbine, wings folded.

The shirt seemed heavy until he saw there was another shirt inside it, the sleeves carefully worked down inside Jack’s sleeves. It was his own plaid shirt, lost, he’d thought, long ago in some damn laundry, his dirty shirt, the pocket ripped, buttons missing, stolen by Jack and hidden here inside Jack’s own shirt, the pair like two skins, one inside the other, two in one. He pressed his face into the fabric and breathed in slowly through his mouth and nose, hoping for the faintest smoke and mountain sage and salty sweet stink of Jack but there was no real scent, only the memory of it, the imagined power of Brokeback Mountain of which nothing was left but what he held in his hands.

In the end the stud duck refused to let Jack’s ashes go. “Tell you what, we got a family plot and he’s goin in it.” Jack’s mother stood at the table coring apples with a sharp, serrated instrument. “You come again,” she said.

Bumping down the washboard road Ennis passed the country cemetery fenced with sagging sheep wire, a tiny fenced square on the welling prairie, a few graves bright with plastic flowers, and didn’t want to know Jack was going in there, to be buried on the grieving plain.

A few weeks later on the Saturday he threw all Stoutamire’s dirty horse blankets into the back of
his pickup and took them down to the Quik Stop Car Wash to turn the high-pressure spray on them. When the wet clean blankets were stowed in the truck bed he stepped into Higgins’s gift shop and busied himself with the postcard rack.

“Ennis, what are you lookin for rootin through them postcards?” said Linda Higgins, throwing a sopping brown coffee filter into the garbage can.

“Scene a Brokeback Mountain.”

“Over in Fremont County?”

“No, north a here.”

“I didn’t order none a them. Let me get the order list. They got it I can get you a hundred. I got a order some more cards anyway.”

“One’s enough,” said Ennis.

When it came -- thirty cents -- he pinned it up in his trailer, brass-headed tack in each corner. Below it he drove a nail and on the nail he hung the wire hanger and the two old shirts suspended from it. He stepped back and looked at the ensemble through a few stinging tears.

“Jack, I swear -- “ he said, though Jack had never asked him to swear anything and was himself not the swearing kind.

Around that time Jack began to appear in his dreams, Jack as he had first seen him, curly-headed and smiling and bucktoothed, talking about getting up off his pockets and into the control zone, but the can of beans with the spoon handle jutting out and balanced on the log was there as well, in a cartoon shape and lurid colors that gave the dreams a flavor of comic obscenity. The spoon handle was the kind that could be used as a tire iron. And he would wake sometimes in grief, sometimes with the old sense of joy and release; the pillow sometimes wet, sometimes the sheets.

There was some open space between what he knew and what he tried to believe, but nothing could be done about it, and if you can’t fix it you’ve got to stand it.

THE END