Rained Out

The relentless rains of the past months finally took its toll on my cashew tree. While there were no storm signals up over Sorsogon, we have been bombarded with heavy rains and strong winds since the first day of December. And now what passes for my side garden is a mess.

The cashew tree is but the latest in the long line of "natural" casualties. The aratiles tree that shaded the front gate was felled by a sudden storm three summers ago. The avocado, the santol, a host of mango and pili trees, the lonely gumihan that could have told a thousand stories if it could speak ... all these are gone now. Once-upon-a-time markers in this cycle of construction and destruction.

Some other tree will grow in the cashew's place. Already, there are signs of new growth. Weeds are crowding my backyard as well. The rains have made them thrive, and now they are happily choking what is left of the vegetable patch, creeping up and over cracks and crevices. When the weather clears, the gardener-on-call will have his hands full.



I have learned to live with the rains, of course. They may have set back some of the plans I had for life and for the garden. They may have messed up my calendar, and made me want to do nothing but curl up in bed all day, but they are essentials for growth. For rebirth and for renewal. Besides, when summer's scorching heat strikes, I know that I will be wishing for this kind of cool.

Post-Holiday Blues

The last of the guests had been seen off, and the madness that spilled over to the living room is now a manageable mess. The street is back to being quietly normal, the dogs are no longer jumpy and the fridge is groaning with calories and cholesterol. I will deal with the leftovers tomorrow. Tonight I will allow myself to wallow in post-holiday blues.

I guess this is the downside to being--and staying--home: people are always saying goodbye. There are early-morning goodbyes, when cars that used to crowd the curb disappear into the mist after one last blowing of the horn. They won't return until the next long holiday; sometimes not even then.

There are hasty goodbyes said at terminals, amid last calls for boarding and the excitement of arriving passengers. Whatever catching up is crammed in the hour-long drive to the airport. For my daughter and her cousins, the catching up will have to be done much later, when they are old enough not to squabble over toys, over the attention of the grandparents, over invasion of private spaces. When they are old enough to understand the concept of family.

The house is all quiet now. It will be so until somebody comes home again. I longed for this kind of quiet when the next-door neighbor belted out "Tragedy" from the videoke machine at 2 a.m. a lifetime ago. I wished for quiet when there was a houseful of whining and wailing toddlers. When firecrackers set off the baying of four dogs and the annoying whimper of six puppies.

It will be another long stretch before family and friends visit what they used to call home. It won't be long before I settle into the new year. Life will be back to normal tomorrow, and I won't have time for the blues.

Tonight, though, I wish it isn't this quiet. Oh well...

The Fool in Me

Something to kick-start this lazy Monday morning:

"I must learn to love the fool in me--the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries. It alone protects me against that utterly self-controlled masterful tyrant whom I also harbor and who would rob me of human aliveness, humility and dignity but for my fool." Theodore L. Rubin, MD (lifted from Oprah)

P.S. Busy, busy, busy, but will be back to semi-regular blogging and blog-hopping (hopefully) soon.

"Untimely" Deaths

From my best friend Maricar, I got the news that our college classmate, Dolly, died of cervical cancer. She was at the peak of her career as business correspondent for an international agency. She was 41.

A few years ago, another classmate, Cherie, died of leukemia. She was in her late twenties.

I have seen other "untimely" deaths as well. (Or are deaths ever "timely?") Tata, our art director; Yo, our account manager; Ronald, a dear, dear friend of the hubby; Charisse, a friend's ten-year-old daughter.

I should be used to this. But I am not. And I don't think I'll ever be. Each new loss is just as jarring, triggering a lot of whys, what ifs and how comes. Each new loss is a sobering reminder of our own mortality.

But this I also know: there is a reason and a season for everything. The pain of losing dear friends and family is cushioned somewhat by the knowledge that their mission here is done. They lived happy, meaningful lives. They touched others. They made a difference. And now, they're free to take on other roads, other journeys.

In the end, it is not the years etched on the tombstone that matters. It is the hyphen in between. The tiny mark that ultimately defines how well life was lived.