Running with novel ideas

Very constantly, even in the midst of everything that's been keeping me busy, I've been thinking about my next novel. The next one and the one after that. There's the one that has been at chapter five since 2005. There's the one that's actually currently a novelistic short story that's never been published. Whenever I have a spare moment, I'm thinking about it. I'm thinking about what is going to happen in the novel, once I actually sit down to it. And then I think I really need to figure it out before I sit down to it.

And this is why I've been looking forward to my runs in the morning. It's also why I don't run with an ipod or any sort of music stimulant. I use my running to think my through my fiction. That's what I think about when I run. It's true that sometimes, the thinking slows my pace, but the running never slows the thinking. In fact, it stimulates it.

Today, I completed my first 15K run. My time wasn't great; at 2 hours and 20 minutes, you might even call it slow. But I never slowed down as to actually walk throughout the entire thing, which is a good thing.

But the best thing? I know now how my second novel, my first real novel will start, how it will progress and even how it will end.
That's more than just good. It's fantastic.

And It all came together in my mind at the pace of my running feet.

Sage advice to C from K, a sister to a brother

"Here's how it works. The best friendships are when the friends are both leaders. They decide what they are going to do together. They have their own opinions. There are friendships where there is a leader and there is a follower. Sometimes, there are many followers. And they don't care what they do as long as they follow their leader.

The trick to friendship is to be a leader."

Would that I knew this so well and so eloquently at age eleven.

What happened to March

March didn't march.

It sprinted with wings on its heels. March was a blink of an eye, and jam-packed to the seams. It was as though I took in a deep breath, and when I let it out, it was April. Chalk it up to circumstances making it necessary to learn all I could about prostate cancer and the various treatments of it, as well as the fine differences between a prostate laparoscopy and a robotic prostatectomy - are you sufficiently impressed? To top it off, the kids were on a two week Easter break that flew by sans actual mini-breaks outside of Singapore. In lieu of time outside the city state, we went and got a beagle puppy named Gameboy, an experience which is not unlike having another infant in the house - although a whole lot smellier. The highlights of March? My father's successful surgery, a three-week visit for the kids from the grandparents and one aunt, a two-day Kundalini yoga workshop with Maya Fiennes, and reading not one but two royally good novels by the historian Alison Weir. In the meantime, Easter has come and gone in a blip. Unfortunately, because all of that took place, I've been two weeks off the running, and have a 15K race to prepare for in mid-may. Help!!

What's more, it took three attempts to even put this post together, despite it starting off on April 2, the date shown here. Today is April 13. Gah....

Wahe guru, wahe guru, wahe guru, wahe jio!

Unexpected Gifts

Life is going on the way it does. Work. Kids. Projects. Family. Life. It's up and downing, and sometimes, these days anyway, it seems like there's a bit more downing than upping. But thank goodness, I keep lucking into things to feel grateful for and happy about, even in the shadows that have been cast. There are small seemingly accidental but infinitely precious gifts that have been sprinkled in good measure into my everyday. Here are just a few that are currently top of mind to my mind, in no particular order.

I am grateful and happy about...

...the children growing up a little. Some parents tend to get emotional when their children make a milestone - oh no, he's growing up, it's all going too fast. I'm not like that. And when it comes to C, any time I see even a little bit of growing up, I want to sing out loud. C is waking up easily - there are no more fights in the morning. I no longer need to wrestle him out of bed. When I come back from my walk, he's sitting at the breakfast table, ready to go. Oh we still have our moments. But for these mornings of peace and loving goodwill, I am almost tearfully grateful.

...discovering Kundalini yoga. It is refreshing and soul connecting and just a wonderful release. I highly recommend it.

...a new writing project to be shared with T. Once there were two writers who fell in love in the day to day of working together. Then, although they came together, they began doing their own separate, different things. Well, now, they have been given an exciting opportunity to collaborate together and create something that is, hopefully, worthwhile. Whatever happens, I am certain it will be good fun and only the beginning of more.

...the blossoms on the trees. Due to its climate, spring in the conventional sense does not really come to Singapore. But somewhere in the second or third week of February, a springing of a kind does take place. The trees, in seemingly mad joy, flower. On my mornings out, my heart lifts at the sight of rosy pinks and creamy whites, warm orange corollas, yellow petals and crimson blooms. They're dusted all over the tops of trees and thick beneath, along every branch, overflowing enough to cascade onto the pavement beneath my running feet. And as I pass, striding across a carpet of these brightly colored blossoms, I feel a lilt of happiness. I am distracted for more than moments from whatever it is I'm mulling over, and I am moved to thank the good Lord for the majesty and the eloquence of his poetry that needs no words.

A boy of 10

I just realized that C was born in the first hour of February 8, 10 years ago. I was an old hand at labor then. I knew what to expect. The contractions came, dull aches but surprisingly regular after dinner, around seven. I told T, we have time. We put in a movie with Julia Roberts and Susan Sarandon and Ed Harris. I took a shower and used the toilet, determined not to have to "go" in the hospital. At 11pm, I said, "Let's go." And we drove to Cardinal Santos Hospital.

At the hospital, people greeted me - remembering me from the year before. "Pamangkin ni Dr. A."
In the lamaze room, CNN was playing. I settled on the bed to watch. My Uncle and my obstetrician showed up.
"Everything ok?" he asked.

"Everything's great."

Feeling a little bit uncomfortable, I stood to walk around, all the while watching the TV. On my second stroll around the room, my water bag broke with a little click followed by a whoosh of hot fluid all over my legs. And then I felt C bearing down.

"Ok, let's get ready,'' my uncle said. "Tell me when you want to push, and I'll..."

"Tito, I want to push now!" I said, hoisting myself back on the lamaze bed.

And in practically no time, C was out in blub blub blubbidy blup...

By one am, we were back in the room and I was nursing him...and absolutely ravenous.

We ordered pizza.

Sometimes you just don't know what to say

C has always been interested in Jose Rizal. He has a Jose Rizal T-shirt. He did a report on Jose Rizal for his third grade teacher. He is constantly asking us whether we are "related" to Jose Rizal. Or whether his Lolo "knew" Jose Rizal. It must be some kind of hero worship.

Last Friday, I picked him up from Tae Kwon Do, and he says,

"Mommy, Jose Rizal was called Pepe, right?"

"Right. That was his nickname."

"Why?"

"Because Pepe is short for Jose."

"I think," My son says, "I want you to call me Pepe."

"Really? Not Chewie? Not Choochie? Not Coby Wan Kenobi?"

"No, I want to be called what Joes Rizal was called..."

[beat]

"...except..." he continues after some thought.

"Except what?"

"Except pepe means vagina in Tagalog, right?"

[beat]

"Well, kinda."

"Why did Jose Rizal want to be called vagina?"

"I don't think he did."

[beat]

"On second thought, I don't think I want to be called Pepe."

And just like that...

...S is gone.

Peacefully in her sleep. After a week of letting her best friend and her husband post four blog entries. In the end, it was not the cancer in her brain. It was not even the cancer in her liver. It was the cancer in her lungs. That made it difficult to for her to breathe. And till the last, she kept on breathing...slowly...and then more slowly. Until she could not.

I guess I expected something to happen. I know I hoped and prayed for it.

On the other hand, her blog is very well-paced, as a result. Oh I know she had more to say. She always had a lot to say. And if she was quiet for awhile, most people knew it wouldn't be for long. How I wish she had been able to say more.

Now, all I hope and pray is that as right as she believed herself to be, I pray she was wrong...and that she is now, happy and rested and healthy, eating her words, and watching over her kids the way only a mom can. I pray that in those few days when she was unable to speak, unable to blog, when it took all her strength just to take in four breaths a minute, that He was speaking to her, and holding her in gentle, accepting, reassuring embrace.

Eleven years ago

I had wanted a boy. Everyone wants a boy first off. I was no different. Add to the fact that I'm not a particularly girly-girl girl, and would not really enjoy "dressing up" a baby like a Barbie doll. But even while the little K turned somersaults within my womb, I had an inexplicable feeling of certainty that this baby was a little girl. And I loved her tremendously from her first little squirmings. And we had already agreed. We would name her after the Hepburns. Katharine for her strength, her intelligence, her unique and memorable beauty and talent. Audrey for her elegance, her kindness, and all that she is. And we already knew, we would call her Kaylee

The first contractions were too easy, I thought. Almost too easy. Just a dull ache. But there was no mistaking their regularity. She was coming, that was for sure. But she was going to take her time and do it her way. At nine thirty in the evening on the 21st of January, I said to T, "We should go to the hospital, because the contractions are coming every thirty minutes."

T looked at me. I was standing. I had my bag. I had brushed my hair and powdered my nose. I was calm. I did not look like a woman about to give birth.

"Are you in pain?"

"Not really. But the contractions come every thirty minutes. We should go."

When we got to the hospital, they said I was just 3cm dilated. And on it went, all night long. Until the very next day, till close to midday. Now that I think about it, it is just like Kaylee to take her time.

When she finally came out, little K was wailing. But T spoke to her gently, "Hi Kaylee, don't cry!"

And she stopped, and turned in the direction of her voice. It was amazing.

It hardly seems possible that today she is eleven. She is practically a young lady - smart and articulate and with a flair for the dramatic. Affectionate and sensitive and unerringly aware in an almost adult way of the things that she has to do, while still holding fast to the things she wants to do, making her plans and airing her views. She wants to be an architect. She wants to be a writer. It is amazing to me that once upon a time, not too long ago, we cuddled her and she pointed out noses and eyes and sang the last words of verses in songs. We called her Kaylee Baba, Kaylee Boom Boom and Kaylee Cakes.

Today, we call her Katharine or Kitkat or simply Kaylee.

Today I am a a big bar of dark chocolate.

Last night, I said, "How can you be eleven? You're not allowed to be eleven."

"Oh Mommy," she said.

Slipping through my fingers all the time.

Here we are

A new year.

I'm reminded of that Peanuts strip where Lucy Van Pelt says words to the effect of...
"There's something funny about this year. This year feels a little bit like last year - this is a used year! We're being ripped off!!"

This new year doesn't feel used though. In fact, it feels quite different from last year, which was fleet on its feet. This year seems like it's going at its own pace.

Which is good.

Even harder

than the packing itself is the deciding what book you are going to bring along on the trip.

Safe travels everyone, and see you in 2009.

Snippet from a conversation between two old friends at Christmas

"Why are you breathing so heavily? Are you pregnant?"

"Hahahah, you're so funny. I'm touching myself..."

"Hahahahahah..."

"I'm cooking the Christmas meal as I talk to you!"

"Oh...me I'm lying here digesting the Christmas meal."

What is it

about being on just this particular spot on the equator that makes it gray, cloudy and drizzly at Christmas?

Something to look forward to

Every Sunday, when I was growing up, my grandmother's children would bring their families back to her house on Espana Extension, the one with the green grilled gate under the large mango tree. After Sunday mass, we would flock together for at least two meals - lunch and merienda, and in the early days, even dinner. How she fed her clan including yayas and drivers is still a mind-boggling mystery to me. I like to think it was like the five loaves of bread and the three fishes, mixed in with the jugs of wedding wine. There was always, miraculously, more than enough. After lunch, the womenfolk would gather around the table for more conversation. The men would retire to the various corners of the large house for naps or chess. And the children? We cousins would run wild through the house, in the sala, in the porch, upstairs, downstairs, in the garden, in the garage, in Lola's own room even...playing hide-and-seek or ping-pong, climbing trees or exploring, talking, and just..."hanging"...before that word was even invented. Sometimes, we would put on plays. Sometimes, we would just play. And the end of the day would often take us by surprise.

"What? We're going na?"

And we would all think, sometimes even say it out loud. Where did the day go? We were having so much fun.

It's been years since those Sunday reunions, but each and every one of us looks back on those days with fond recollection.

This New Year's Eve, the clan will gather in Baguio City - we are much bigger clan now, with many of us cousins having families of our own. Still, right this very minute, we are all joyfully anticipating this two-day multiple family get-together, even though Lola is long gone, and the old house on Espana extension no longer stands where it used to. We know that for this brief time there will be laughter and reminscing amid the catching up and sharing of stories. We no longer know each other the way we used to, and will likely need some time to get our bearings. Nevertheless, all it will take is for eyes to meet and smiles to spread...and it will be like it was, ever so briefly, all over again. And from where she is, Lola will be laughing, too.

Holy holiday

Christmas is great, of course. I mean, it's the beginning of the whole story. It's got Santa Claus and gifts and Christmas trees, not to mention, my favorite these days, gingerbread and fruit salad. But I've always though Easter is where it's at - you have all that fasting and pain and hardship, and then you have feasting and merriment and joy. But I think the most underrated holiday is New Year's, even though it is clearly the holiday that can and should be the most meaningful for the individual. A new year is a new slate. The jump-off point for new plans, hopes, and resolutions. It is not an overtly religious holiday, and yet the spiritual overtones are comprehensively inherent. In many ways, I think New Year's Day is about personal commitment. It's about that silent determining in your own heart of the way you want to live, what it is you want to do, and how you are going to take things forward so your life has meaning and you are able to create joy - for the reason you are here, for yourself and for those you hold most dear.

The Christmas Lull

There is a frenzy that comes with every Christmas season - the mad malls, the crowded sidewalks and the traffic jams. People out and about, eating, drinking and making merry. But somehow, in Singapore, around the 19th or the 20th of December, the frenzy dissipates and there arrives a little lull. A spot of quiet. A subtle shift that sort of slows everything down and all of a sudden, you can focus on the cool of the morning breeze. You can find a spot to sit on the train. You can even get a table.

It's because about third (or possibly more) of the those who live here for the greater part of the year hie off to do the holidays some place else. Maybe they go home. Maybe they go away. But they don't stay in sunny Singapore. And those who are left here can enjoy a bit of peace and quiet, a bit of hush out of all the rush.

For the past three or four Christmases now, we've chosen to spend our own little family Christmas in this little lull, enjoying the ease of getting a table at our favorite brunch place or of thinner crowds in the parks, churches, and malls - even on our running trails. We make our way about the city and find it blessedly serene...and we say to each other...isn't this nice? Isn't this great? And we sleep in, and we eat well, and we rest up so we can greet the new year with energy and verve, until the third or fourth of January...when everyone returns, and it starts all over again.

More than half full

In the first hour of my birthday, I read on S' blog that her brain scans no longer show tumors. It was a splendid birthday gift...and it dictated the timbre not just of that day but of the entire week. I am happy and excited and feel very strongly that this is the beginning of her healing. This year has brought many unexpected gifts, and I am very grateful for them. I don't care to list all my blessings here; it is not necessary. I know in my heart I have more than I ever expected. Not only is my glass more than half full. It is a rather lovely glass, and I am thankful for it. That I have a glass to fill.

A meditation on faith

I guess a number of things have been bringing this to a head. First and foremost, more than just a couple of rather difficult questions issuing forth from the mouths of babes - specifically my babes. C has been on this topic on and off for a large part of 2008, asking things like, "Is Jesus really real?" , "Is God really real?" He turns 10 in February. As the Christmas season came underway, my K said, "How did Mama Mary give birth to Jesus if she didn't have sex?" These are simple, straightforward questions and worthy of simple, straightforward answers, and yet, such simplicity is nowhere to be found.

Then there was a recent dinner with a friend who out of the blue makes it known to us his doubt, even his non-belief. This, when we were always quite certain that his was as staunch a faith as any.

But perhaps most difficult to accept is the doubt from the people you love. How to confront the incredulity that tumbles out almost unbidden from those nearest and dearest whose opinion, regard and favor you value, above all else.

They ask, how is it that you can believe such and such? How is it that you can go through the charade beyond the guise of tradition, culture and ritual?

Of course, you understand what they mean. You see why they doubt. You know cognitively how they are compelled to say the things they say. You are all too aware of how your faith appears: cowering, naked, and yes, almost naive and even a little foolish. Like believing in fairy tales.

Yet you struggle to gather together the broken pieces of your belief and you just stand there because you have nothing to say. You cannot defend it with words or explanations. You have none, except the sheer, dogged pulsing spirit.

You belief is not a choice, something that you are able to control.

Your faith is a force.

Despite everything, you simply believe, because you cannot not believe.

The absence of faith - anyone's absence of faith, even your own - feels to you a bit like a void. Non-belief feels too much like self-righteousness and arrogance that after all, draws only upon the limits of a single life that is known, lived and led - their own. It is just one life that leads someone to this conclusion, one life that is a mere drop of water in a universal cascade.

But you feel and know with an inexplicably inner feeling and knowing that there is something more. You take comfort in what has existed for hundreds of years before you, and likely for hundreds of years after you are gone. Because it is there. Because of the way it offers truth and hope that speaks in your life. And your faith finds its strong yet wordless reason in the quiet of your own mind, to the beat of your own heart.

Facebook

Someone asked me recently, why aren't you blogging. I only have one answer. Facebook.

Facebook satisfies the blogging impulse and entails minimal effort. For the lone freelancer with no colleagues to socialise with and only kiddie interaction to sustain her, Facebook offers a semblance of adult company. Status reports keep you connected - not just to anyone under the sun but to actual individuals you know. Facebook has the added buzz from eavesdropping - which facebookers can do legitimately, glancing at the wall-to-wall conversations between friends of friends. The beauty of Facebook is that you don't have to be alone with your voice. There is satisfying exchange. There is interaction and your writing? Well, now, your writing can be preserved for the projects that pay.

Why blog, when you can facebook? I recommend it highly and only wish I thought of it myself. Youngest millionaire in the world, indeed. He deserves it.

Oh for Obamarama

All I can say is I am so very very glad.

My friend S

Ever since I discovered that someone I know, a woman I used to work for eight years ago for just four months, had a resurgence of the cancer she had previously battled so succesfully, I have been reading her blog religiously. She is 41. She has a husband, a daughter and a son. The children are under the age of six. And despite a mastectomy, the cancer has returned to her body - her liver, her lungs and her brain.

She is a master blogger - posting every day, Monday through Friday - despite her illness, the various combinations of medication, oxygen tank sessions and chemotherapy, not to mention the journals, recordings and scrapbooks she is preparing for her children, so they will have communication from her after she is gone.

It is possibly one of the most difficult blogs to read due and there are more than a few posts that have brought me to easy tears. S is a humanist in the traditional sense. She believes in the power and the goodness of human beings, but despite being the daughter of Christian pastor, she most emphatically, does not believe in God. God, she says is nice to have, but He is a fairy tale that human beings have created because they are simply not strong enough to accept the truth that life is just that, and when it ends, it ends, and there is nothing more.

I read this blog every day, and even post comments occasionally. I do not make the mistake, as other blog readers have done, of trying to get her to see God. I know her too well. She will not let me get away with that. I worked with the woman as my editor for four straight months, and the work part of it nearly drove me to my wits end. She was and remains incessantly intense in the putting forth of her opinions, demanding explanations in the manner of a human bulldozer. But there would be moments outside of work, when we would talk of my K and C or when we would have lunch, when she would have unexpected softness that would surprise me and win me over, if only for that moment.

I also read her blog to make sure she is alive, to read her impressions and opinions which are less bulldozing on the internet page than if verbalised face to face. I pray for S every day, for her healing and for her peace and for the continually amazing courage of the members of her family. S is one of the most courageous people I know. The fact that she can be like this despite her disease all the while believing in nothing eles but herself is amazing. It is true that death will come to all of us. But S lives with its grim reality every day, like bread and butter at breakfast. More than anyone else, she lives with its certainty and manages with grace and courage to keep it at bay with every passing day.

Yesterday, I read that she will no longer blog five days a week but reduce it to three. She says she can no longer get to it these days...and she apologises to her scores of readers. "You have all the time in the world, but I do not."