Creative exercise no. 1

Emotional weather report

I saw you enter the park before you saw me. A few minutes before you walked in, I was engrossed in people watching – a lady writing notes on her leather notebook stood up from the bench in front of me, couples walking past with their hands entwined smiling at each other and an elderly walking a golden retriever. I sat on the grass writing on my journal – reflecting on the loneliness of someone watching people in romantic relationships – how it feels, the hunger that accompanies it and the yearning for an old and familiar connection.

You held a cup of coffee in your hand. It was in the afternoon so it’s probably a decaf americano. A woman walks alongside you and I could hear your enthusiastic voice from afar – interested and curious to start the conversation – or continue the conversation.  I don’t know which one is which.

Fight or flight response dictates that when faced with a stressful or triggering event, we either run away or when this is not possible, we fight. I sat there paralysed, thoughts racing and heart beating faster. Flight my mind screams. I bowed my head hoping you won’t see me and I thought I could just watch from afar as you walk away the same way you needed to from our relationship few months ago. I caught your gaze and our eyes locked. Too late to run now. You must’ve excused yourself from your talk with the woman because you came over to me to say “Hey”.   

All I could muster was a “Hey” back and my mouth dries as my mind processed seeing you again after a long time. My brain uses tunnel vision that I do not remember the next thing you say to me other than in the next few seconds you’d be walking away, and I’d be leaving the park in a hurry.   My weather app says it’s 19 degrees and sunny with only 2% chance of rain. Fck that. My feelings forecast says otherwise.

***

“Du er vanvittig” are the three words you should never tell my mom when you meet her, you’d tell me one day.

“What does that mean?”

“You are crazy”. I burst out in laughter thinking of all the silly words you taught me – slowly building a vocabulary I wasn’t sure I have a use for.

I started calling you Mahal as a term of endearment which means love in my native language. My heart would skip a beat whenever it comes out of your mouth. Amusingly, it also means expensive. Later, I would realise that love does come with a cost.

***

Modern love runs by the canal would be the perfect title to describe how we met. It was an atypical day in September at least for me because I was kayaking along Portobello for the first time. My friend decided it would be a good idea to bring me – it was after all, my year of saying yes to everything or at least to new experiences.  My steering had been dreadful that I kept on getting stuck on the plants or bumping with other kayaks – my friend happily paddled away to the next bridge. You were running in an all-black outfit – a long sleeve top you would then describe to me as a ski base layer and an adidas track pants so comfy I’d threaten to steal it a year later. You stopped dead in your tracks – made a small talk. “Paddling in a 2-seater kayak would be easier! “, you beamed in enthusiasm. I thought you were trying to tell me that my friend and I should have gone together. It didn’t dawn on me then you were asking me out on a date. The week after, you’d teach me how to paddle – proving that my paddling technique the first time we met was indeed alternative.

***

On Christmas that year, you would indulge in my fondness for letter writing by sending me a card by post – Du er so sød, the front of it read.  It was those little things that made me smile a lot because as small as it would look like to other people, it was something that mattered to me.

***

The lamp shines brightly on my side of the bed, the curtains closed, – you would look me in the eye, and you’d smile. We’d lie side by side, sometimes with me reading a book or with you catching up with your sports news.

“Hold around me”, you say.

 I obliged. The squeeze is tight. I watch you till you close your eyes. I plant a kiss on your forehead and then I turn off the light.

***

There are scenes written in fragments – a mix of happy and sad ones– of another Christmas day, a list of firsts together, counties and countries visited, the good and the bad influence, the things you said you would do but didn’t, the things I promised I would do but didn’t. The non-existent fights.

Sometimes, I try to remember the good memories with the hope that it will get me past this ordeal.

***

“Maybe this is the reality check you needed?He has moved on and you should too”, my friend tells me matter-of-factly as I relay my emotional weather report.

The week after, I opened Cheryl Strayed’s book and as if talking to me, it read:

“Nobody will protect you from your suffering. You can’t cry it away or eat it away or starve it away or walk it away or punch it away or even therapy it away. It’s just there, and you have to survive it. You have to endure it. You have to live through it and love it and move on and be better for it and run as far as you can in the direction of your best and happiest dreams across the bridge that was built by your own desire to heal.” – Tiny Beautfiul Things

Dear friend,

How are you? Lately, the overarching theme of my writing had been about pain in many forms – the physical one – one that wakes you up at night, makes you stare at the walls of your room and prompts you to take that ibuprofen that’s been sitting on your desk for a few days. The gnawing pain that comes when you open your mouth to yawn, to eat, or even laugh. Pop. Click. I made a joke that it’s been a jawrney. My friend tells me she cannot take my jaw pain seriously because I keep making fun of it. Many tears had been shed, I might as well do something else with it.

There’s the other form – one that stems from grief – old and new. I’ve been trying to write about them albeit with a huge difficulty. Lately, I sat on a table full of strangers and I strip myself of the emotions brought about by this force. Never had I feel naked by writing my thoughts down. But memory is a funny thing – isn’t it? Did this happen? Or is this just how I remembered it? I listened to their feedback and tried to focus on the intricacies of the work rather than the emotion. Disassociation came up. If I step back as I watch life happen, will that help me process it? Or do I just immerse myself in the story, set the tone and maybe let my reader do the work? And let my unspoken emotions speak?

We spoke about our experiences in fragments – how they can be powerful and wonderful. For a moment, I had a notion of writing about joy, gratitude, and possibly growth. I did not want to sit with this pain .But I couldn’t get myself to write about the glimmers either. For now, I’ll file it under work in progress, I guess. Wait, I’ll stop rambling. My cup of tea is starting to get cold.

Lukewarm regards,

Reda

Rx

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Floating lessons

I have a feeling that sadness previously thought of my life as an Airbnb – a temporary dwelling, it’s stay is intermittent – a couple of days, triggered by a time of the month, a challenging day , a family issue, an existential crisis, a loss. But in the the past weeks, I believe that thinking has shifted because sadness has stopped by my doorstep and stayed – as an uninvited guest. Among other things, it followed me wherever I go – at work when everybody stops talking ,when somebody asks how are you, at the empty seat in front of me in the cafe, in the train, in the deafening silence when I’m deep in my thoughts, and my, it doesn’t respect privacy- it stayed in my bed. An appalling behaviour, I thought. It does not talk, it creeps in and carries an invisible but seemingly bountiful amount of salt. I have an open wound you see and sadness sprinkles the salt – until I scream and cry in pain.

Initially, I tried to escape – even thought of moving across countries, but sadness is great with finding people – an uncanny ability. Seemingly, it subscribes to Ernest Hemingway, when he said “Going to another country doesn’t make any difference. I’ve tried all that. You can’t get away from yourself by moving from one place to another”.

Most days, I would find myself drowning in sadness. Then I try to walk, run, but the problem was, I did not know how to swim. It was a metaphor but I signed up for swimming lessons anyway. While I wish I could tell you that I did a triathlon shortly after, that wasn’t the case. This week, I celebrate learning how to float – both lying on my back and with my face in the water. I am still learning how to to relax, to gracefully recover from my float, breathe in the water and not drink it, and to kick from my hips instead of my knees.

“Standing on your feet from your float is very important but sometimes, challenging. I’ll talk you through it. You’re better than you think you are”, my swimming instructor remarked. I took it, kept it in my pocket, and I carried it with me wherever I go. Because when you’re in survival mode, you count all the small wins – no matter how tiny they seem to be.

In the next few weeks, when sadness attempts to drown me again, I’ll try to remember what I learned in swim school: just keep floating.

Escape

April 8, 2023

It is quarter past 4 in the afternoon in Mallorca and I have just finished a 6-hour hike. This morning, I woke up to the sound of birds eager to welcome another morning – an enthusiasm that I did not share but nevertheless did not reject . I sat in the balcony of my room and marvelled at the view of the Serra de Tramuntana, the mountain range running parallel to the northwest coast of the Island. I started scribbling on my journal like a writer on a retreat trying to overcome the writer’s block , a picture of me living temporarily on quaint towns pops in my head and the idea is inviting – almost like a parallel universe in the making. However, the reality strikes and I am reminded that I found myself here because of my strong urge to escape life or my head.

But more than my need to leave or occupy an overwhelming void ( like a cavity in my tooth waiting to be filled – an issue raised as important but not urgent by my dentist ), I wanted to write about my experience today before my memory fails me. I lay on the beach, savouring the cold breeze from the sea, the sand comforts my back and my weary feet. The sun shares its beauty to the world by shining so brightly but also I realised it was doing the most beautiful thing: showing up- simply existing.

I wonder if the sun suffers imagined troubles or does it worry about other people’s perceptions. A situation I find myself most these days. My therapist says we have to address these negative thought patterns, acknowledge that I can sometimes be overly critical of myself and cultivate ways to self-love and self-worth. A question she would ask in a rhetorical manner, “But, what do you REALLY want?”. Six words and some days, it weighs heavily on my shoulders.

I concluded that maybe the sun was happy to just exist, oblivious to the opinion of other people or the rest of the solar system. I also decided that I wanted to go for a really long walk today -from Deia to Port de Soller, an answer that would just be enough as a response to her question.

As I wanted to do the hike on my own, I resorted to the wonders of technology – the digital map of which is one of my favourites. Given my limited (sometimes questionable ) navigation skills, it means, I can go anywhere with a guide to show me the way. I got lost in the middle of the trail (deviated from my original plan as I felt overconfident to navigate the foreign land) and then I panicked (slightly). But I soothed myself by just taking the next step. I kept going till my mind was clear enough to think and figure out where I got lost. This means retracing my steps and looking at the map properly and a lot of deep breathing.

I stood in front of the exquisiteness of the colossal mountains and for some reason, my pot of worries pale in comparison. Eventually, a sense of accomplishment rushed through me when I finished the hike. The walk was therapeutic and meditative putting me in a trance-like state. It challenged me to explore what’s beyond my physical limits and have the awareness that they exist for a reason. Like the sun, I just needed to be present.

I feel happy today. The worries were there but I did not allow them to take over. I took a slow pace. I tried to create a space where I am not overwhelmed and pressured. Escaping temporarily in the form of hiking, writing, or soaking in the discovery of a small town and parts of myself did not eliminate my anxieties. In the words of Suleika Jaouad, “It doesn’t take away the terror, but it changes the shape”.

I etched this in my head for as long as I can remember like a mantra until I go back to the place (real or imagined) that I was escaping from. And then I walked.

Hug Life

2018 tops my most challenging year so far (Not that there’s a competition). Loss has made itself visible,palpable in so many aspects of life to a point that drove me to exhaustion both physically and emotionally.

There’s loss of a loved one, loss of home,loss of inspiration. The months accompanying loss were the hardest. You would wake up panting from a bad dream (But you call that nightmare,my sister would interject) at half 2 in the morning. You try to go back to sleep but you can’t.

Then there’s work (Yes, grieving can somehow make it seem that time stops but adulthood makes you realize that bills don’t stop for anyone. Work is a distraction – a good distraction until you find yourself taking care of an elderly that reminds you of the person you’re grieving about. “Excuse me”,you tell your patient,only to spend  the next 5 minutes crying in the toilet. ( Yes, you have to give yourself a deadline).

It doesn’t get easier. It only leads to so much contemplating,to mini existential crises and a lot of questioning how ironically fcked up life is. Some days, you wish there is one panacea to all the heartbreaks. (Or maybe there is. Some say love.)

Then one day, you decide to run in the park. Somehow,it helps in dealing with the anxiety. For a moment,you turn your focus to something else. For a moment,the mind doesn’t wander. The mind is glued to a certain activity. You don’t forget but you pause. And that helps too.

You start wearing your heart on your sleeve -something you don’t usually do. The more you open up to people about how you feel,the lighter the weight gets. There is an influx of love, of hugs, there’s a gush of appreciation to every little kind gestures (like you’re seeing everything for the first time in a good light,how cliche my old self would say).

Loss (although in most cases,is very painful,drains every part of you and consumes the remaining cup of optimism)is beneficial too. You learn to re evaluate your life’s purpose and your priorities.(Apparently,this is a constant cycle but loss intensifies it.You guys,it is that profound).Loss can drive someone crazy but with  good support system and a lot of self awareness, it brings a lot of growth too (can’t quantify but I know,it’s a lot).

I am at a point where I can now write openly about loss while adding humor  to it,where my eyes don’t tear up constantly while doing so much thinking. ( Somehow,the good morning,good night Twitter verses of Lin Manuel Miranda help too ).

I am not there yet. But I am past that phase where I deny myself of the right to be vulnerable and that’s some progress there. You can allow yourself to feel every emotion because that’s the only way you’ll be able to face it – the first step is cognizance.

The next step is to ask yourself what to do with this awareness. The epiphany came in the form of a Bear Balloon with the message plastered all over its tummy. Two words: Hug life.

“Hug life” was the message from the Bear Balloon seen on July of this year while walking on the streets of Oslo. The note resonates today while writing. I’m slowly hugging life back. Although that sounded very dramatic, I am simply trying to wake up everyday taking each day as it comes.

Hug life. It doesn’t matter if it hugs you back with the same amount of warmth,energy or love. You only got one life to hug.

Lost in Kerry

“What are you doing here?”, a stranger came to me while I was sitting on a bench at  the Killarney House and Gardens.  I just got off the phone after talking to my best friend. I missed the original plan to board the bus at 1130 to go back to Dublin that day. “3 more hours til the next one”, I muttered to myself followed by a sigh.

“Waiting for the bus”, I told him nonchalantly.

“But you just missed it”. This time, he was pointing towards the main road.  (Exactly. That’s why I’m sitting here enjoying my peace and quiet. I retorted but only on my mind).

“This place is a gem. Isn’t it?” He was referring to Killarney. I looked at this view from where I was sitting and I found myself nodding in agreement. 

                                                              *********

This is the first time I have traveled alone to a place I’ve never been before. I wasn’t the type of person who would take a break by going places whenever I find myself being bombarded by the strains of daily living  (before, there wasn’t much time, let alone much opportunity)but somehow November had me retreating to somewhere else.

Killarney is a town in Kerry, a county in the south west of Ireland.  You can take the bus or train from Dublin which usually takes about 4 hours or more. I arrived on a dark and rainy Tuesday night.

LODGING. The hostel I booked was as cozy as it can be. The Black Sheep hostel is 5 minutes walk away from the town centre. I stayed in a 6-bedded dorm room which I  shared with 3 people for 3 nights. It is one of those hostels with hippie vibe and welcoming atmosphere. Also, the rooms and common areas were very clean. There’s a happiness corner in the communal area, some recommended adventure trips and not in  photos but a  toilet filled graffit(cue: on one corner, somebody wrote a whole poem that is, “Desiderata” by Max Ehrmann”.)

Such is life.

DAY 1: RING OF KERRY TOUR

The Ring of Kerry is the well-known scenic route that everyone insists that you should experience in case you find yourself in Ireland. They’re not wrong though, it’s unmissable. There is no physical ring if you’re ever wondering. It is referred to as such because it is a circular route around the Iveragh Peninsula that takes you to misty mountains, cliffs and rugged coastlines. The ring doesn’t lose it’s charm even in the winter season.

Also, Rain of Kerry.

The easiest way to get around is to drive a car. In the absence of one, you can always take the coach tour like I did. I purchased a tour run by Deros tours( 25 euros).   (this is not a paid advertisement) . We departed Killarney at around 1040H.

The Kerry Bog Village

The first stop is The Kerry Bog Village which showcases the living conditions in the 18th and 19th century. It’s a self guided tour (paid at 5 euros) in an open-air museum which  gives people an  insight of how the Irish lived in the famine era.

The Kerry Bog Pony is a breed of pony that originated in Ireland. The breed was in the danger of extinction during the 1980s but people were able to breed them back in numbers through DNA testing. They were mainly used for bringing turf from the bog and as means of transportation. The Kerry Bog Village is one of the places that still houses this breed today.

Various houses were found in the village ranging from a farmer’s house, a turf cutter’s dwelling, a laborer’s cottage and a thatcher’s village. Differences in classes were observed among the dwellings with thatcher’s village being the most luxurious. As they were responsible with the roofing repairs, they were in high demand.

Windows were so small in the cottages during this era for tax purposes. People paid more before for having large windows. Sunlight was a luxury.

Tools

What’s cooking?

If you love history and has strong interest in learning about cultures, this tour is definitely for you. Also, they house an Irish breed of dog called the Irish Wolfhound -they’re world’s tallest dogs and amazingly used to hunt wolves and wild boar.

The coach pulled over the side of the road overlooking the Dingle bay. It started raining again and the fog overwhelmed the window panes and the camera lenses.

We stayed inside the coach most of the time occasionally stopping by to take photos. I was told I was wrong to visit  during the off peak season. I told them, I don’t mind.

 From time to time, the driver would tell us trivia about a place we’re passing by. The last stop was a quiet town called Sneem.

River Sneem.

This penchant for colorful buildings. 

On our way back ,we were  supposed to go see the Killarney lakes but the path going that way was flooded.

We reached the town centre at around 1630H. It’s started to get dark and colder.

This may sound dull but the best part is simply sitting by the window pane appreciating the scenes from countryside. It’s quaint, quiet, refreshing and relaxing.

********

We exchanged stories for a few minutes. He said he is staying in Killarney for a week, travelling the world for 3 years selling his art on the streets. (Did i just make a rhyme?)We wished each other good luck.

I headed off to get some lunch before catching the next bus ride. Talking to strangers isn’t too bad after all.

“Cry, Heart, But Never Break”

The grey-haired lady sat on the chair telling her war stories – tales from an actual war, and some, her own life battles. Lola loves story telling. People would remember her as the jolly old lady who always has something to say, whether it’s a funny classroom story from her grade school days, or a domestic mishap from her previous employers.

I stood in front of her casket last month recalling all those stories. At the wake, people expressed their sympathies, they shared their own happy encounters with her and we sat there silently laughing while trying to control the waterworks.

I remember her for all the time she helped us finish school. She devoted all her time to her family, taking care of strangers in a foreign country and taking odd jobs after Lolo passed away. I looked at some photos and there was a photo of us:her grandchildren, receiving balikbayan box from miles away. The balikbayan box was from Lola – the box that every Filipinos recognize – the fruit of labor of every overseas Filipino worker, a symbolic representation filled with gifts to supposedly fill a void left by a relative’s absence.

I remember being a kid and in my young, naive psyche, she was the strict, obnoxious granny who scolds us when we’re playing with the neighbor. I grew up and these all changed. That’s something nice about growing up, I guess. You understand people better, where they’re coming from and you look beyond the surface instead of passing judgment so easily.

Even when after coming home from abroad due to occupational injury, Lola continued to take care of people. Her great grandchildren were the last. She just never stopped. She tried to find something to do just because she’s not used to being idle. Sometimes,the verb tense still bothers me. Why should we address people in the past tense just because they’re not here anymore? (And my rational self answers: Exactly!)

My sister sends me a message saying sometimes she feels really sad when she calls home because she can no longer say “How’s Lola?.” And so, the waterworks worsen.

I think the bottom line is : I don’t know how to deal with grief.

I do not know how to deal with grief so I try to remember happy memories. And sometimes,it helps.

I do not know how to deal with grief so I read this book called “Cry, Heart, But Never Break” by Glenn Ringtved, a children’s story wherein death comes over to a house of 4 children whose grandmother is dying. Death comes in the form of  someone wearing a black cloak. The children welcomes him but tries to stall Death’s plan by serving him coffee in the assumption that this will prevent him from taking their own grandmother. Until Death stops and  tells them it’s time. He then tells a story about two brothers named Grief and Sorrow who one day meet two sisters namely Joy and Delight. Death explains that while Joy and Delight were happy,there’s always something missing. Hence, like them, life and death can’t exist without the other. The children understands, death takes the grandmother with him and he tells the children “Cry,heart, but never break”.

I read this story over and over again and somehow, it lifts away the weight of the sadness.

I do not know how to deal with grief but like everyone else, I am trying to. I try to tidy up my room, change my sheets, fill my cup with tea, coffee, experience or work but when I ran out of things to fill, there’s that void again.

Today, I am sharing a piece about the grey-haired lady sitting on the chair who loves to tell stories. I write “Cry ,Heart, But Never Break” on the first page of my notebook and for the first time, I actually believe that the heart —this heart can cry without breaking.

this is also home now

River Liffey at night

I was greeted by a hug from my housemate 3 days ago when I arrived from a short trip back home: the Philippines. She excitedly said, “Welcome home!”, then she paused as if analyzing her statement “Not home—home but your second home”.

Classic first day mishap

11 months today in Ireland. Almost a year ago, in the summer of 2017, I lost my purse on my first day in Dublin. It contains all my identification cards, pocket money and a childhood photo of my sisters with me. I was devastated. I was starting a new life in a new city and trying to figure out this thing called “immigration”. It was a normal response to be sad but considering all the circumstances, all my feelings went straight to superlative – from the initial mild anxiety down to rage and distress.

I was ready to dislike Ireland and yet by a twist of fate, 4 days later, my purse was returned to me. My then apathetic attitude towards social media platforms was replaced by overwhelming gratitude. (Yes Facebook, I refer to you). A Brazillian lady who found my purse on the sidewalk of a medical facility, managed to get in touch me with through Facebook and returned it to me complete with all the contents.

I remember it now and the sense of relief rushes through me. It’s not too bad for a start after all.

Why Ireland?

I came from a country with an extensive history of diaspora. Almost in every part of the globe, Filipinos are found everywhere – mostly in search of better opportunities. In the nursing profession alone, most are expected to leave after acquiring a significant experience in the field. The only question is “Where?”.

I first heard of Ireland from my best friend who was then contemplating of living abroad. With positive feedback from all those who have gone before us, we decided to give the application process a try. By April last year, I was able to secure a placement in a tertiary hospital in Dublin after going to several screenings and interviews. By this time, they have briefed us about the friendly people, the natural wonders but no research and consolation, I realized, would prepare anyone for a big move.

The story so far

My first months in Dublin were fueled with enthusiasm and homesickness. It was easy to be charmed by Ireland – the old buildings, the architecture , the Georgian doors– all parts of the city bursting with history and culture. The people were very welcoming – you could get lost anywhere in the city and one Irish person would be ready to help you out to find your way. People say “Thank you” after they get off the bus – how amazing is that? Did I mention that the tap water is potable?

You get used to the “craic”, the difficult Irish names, that the definition of “grand” is “okay”, the pub culture, the music and storytelling. I like that I can take mesmerizing trips to the countryside, borrow books from the library and enjoy the open green spaces.

You soon realize that there are loopholes too : the housing crisis, the state of healthcare, cost of living. True enough, you can’t have the best of both worlds.

You won’t understand the amount of energy people exert in a conversation talking about the weather until you find yourself crazy about seeing the sunshine too. Rain-shine-eternal rain, the cycle continues, “Only in Ireland”, they would say.

There are days when I feel like this country is too laid back for me or maybe it’s just a notion of a girl coming from a developing country whose work-life-balance has been largely redefined. These days, I find comfort in the slow pace and in those moments, I think about the people back home, where do I go from here, and sometimes ,the struggle to integrate without losing a sense of cultural identity.

For now, I take pleasure in doing a job that I love and exploring what the country has to offer. To date, I have experienced my first Irish Christmas, watched a GAA match, survived snow storm Emma and never in my 26 years of existence have I drank as much cup of tea since I’ve lived in Ireland.

*****

“Thank you”, I replied to my housemate. Letting go of the embrace, somehow, I realized, this is also home –now.