Getting Out of Hand(s)

Things are stressful lately (or as always). For one, the second semester is ending. Exams are to be handed out. Later on, grades will be computed and requirements are to be accomplished for clearance signing.

In addition to that, I need to finish my thesis in time for my  defense in March so I can finally be over and done with this one hurdle in my academic life – my Master’s degree. Perhaps, by then, I can focus on the rest of my life.

Amidst all these deadlines and must-do’s, one can be overwhelmed to the point of breaking down. Fortunately, I got friends who are there to reassure me and ease my high-strung mind. Another ace on my sleeve is my doodling on paper. Lately, I have been sketching hands.

These sketches remind me of what I have learned about letting go; a lesson I keep on repeating like a mantra and hopefully it will be ingrained on me as I lead a less stringent life. (I used a semi-colon, Jack.)

The lesson appears simple but often overlooked especially when one just wants structure; that I can control my life and I am not at the mercy of fate. If chaos reigns, I only have to sort the things I can change from those that I cannot,and let  to go of those things I have no control with and hold on to those that truly matter.

A Summer Rash

Most people believe that summer begins in March or April. But my body begs to disagree. The reappearance of my prickly heat is the harbinger of  hotter days and warmer nights.

Like Christmas, summer has not been my favorite time of the year. For one, school is out so I didn’t have friends to hang out with. I don’t have neighborhood buddies back then (but come to think of it, even now. He he he). Most of the summer days, I played with my nephews and nieces and we ended up fighting.
It didn’t help that I don’t have a job during summer. Plus, this stubborn rashes just keep on visiting me.

However, in a tete`-a-tete´ with one of my students, I realized that the stigma of a particular period in life can be removed by associating them with happy memories.

In my case, I have to affirm that not all my summers were dreary and spent on a tight budget or isolation. At some point, I created precious memories that could bring a smile to my face.

With this thought, heartwarming memories started to string out of my mind just like how Dumbledore magicked his memories into the pensieve or in a vial.

An unexpected back-packing vacation, helping Jotay practice his photography, meeting other artists, shopping for swimwear with Ising and posing in that particular swimwear, sending a birthday card to my crush while meeting a new crush, crossing the sea in a small boat, and going camping under the rain are just a few.

Why did I forget these memories?

Most of the time, I concerned myself with the sad events that took place afterwards. But that is not the point of the exercise. I should look back to these memories oftentimes and savor the light feeling these bring me. Once this happens, I can now bathe myself in the warmth of the summer.

Among these memories, which stood out?

Well, not the birthday card I sent to a boy, signed as Secret Admirer but the memory of lying on the sand, listening to the surf as the water kissed the beach, and looking at the star-laden velvety black sky. It was pure itch-free bliss.

Lumang Simbahan

Mama used to tell me bedtime stories when I was a child. I learned the story of Nativity even before I went to school. One story I could not forget was that of an old haunted church in one of the coastal barrios in Luzon. If one has a copy of a book called Pamana ng Lahi, this story was found there.

Mama called this Lumang Simbahan.

There was an old church, visibly deteriorated through time. No one remembered when the last mass was said. No one frequented this place even to pray. Rumors said that moans and dragging chains were heard when the clock struck six in the evening. Light apparitions were observed at midnight. Parents kept on reminding their children not to gallivant around the churchyard.

So the church stood at the center of the barrio, shunned by the people.

But one day, two lovers entered the church. They knelt in front of the altar and prayed. Their love was forbidden for the young man was a farmer’s son and the young woman was the daughter of an haciendero.

Each bore a dagger for they plan to kill themselves and were hoping to be reunited in the afterlife. When they were about to do the deed, the young man remembered that their bodies would still be separated for they would be buried at different cemeteries, befitting their social status.

So the man dug up a grave for the both of them. And lo! He found a chest, full of gold and silver jewels and even priceless silk. The lovers stared at each other, awed by the discovered treasures. They decided to keep and use them to convince the young woman’s father that the young man is capable of giving her the lifestyle she is accustomed to.

Long story short, the father granted them permission. They were married at the old church – newly renovated paid by the young man. That was one wedding the whole barrio will never forget for the celebration lasted for a week.

Now who owned the treasures before they were discovered? Stories evolved that the chest was hidden by  pirates. To prevent the people from discovering it, they made the old church appear haunted.

I know. I can imagine how shallow such explanation could be but to a five-year-old child, that was one fairy tale, made in the Philippines.

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*haciendero – an owner of large acre of land which has been passed on from generation to generation