Monday night questions*

Met with friends tonight. One of us is getting married and wanted to meet up to distribute invites. The conversation started very benign. We wondered where batchmates were and teased one another about the ominous cloud called the 30s. Then we turned to the classic and perennially disturbing question: Are you where you wanted to be, 15 years after high school?

The answer was unanimous and somber: No.

No, for me, because I didn't really know what I wanted to be when I was 15. I only knew what I didn't want to be (a lawyer).

I realized what my calling was when I entered grad school. Before then, I only had a vague idea of what I wanted to happen, not for myself but for the world, or at least my country. Yup, it was that grand.

It still is. But now...where am I now? (This was getting to be a tough discussion for a Monday night at Starbucks.)

The answer is, I don't know. Not really. I do know that I have many unfilled dreams. Goals that are still unmet. Sometimes I feel a sense of panic thinking about them. I want to do so many things, and I have little patience and an increasingly short attention span. I have phases that run as quick as one week; other times I develop an obsession that goes on for months, and then fizzles out when something else commands my attention. Like right now, I'm bored with this topic and want to move on.

Flighty, inattentive, irresponsible, childish, indecisive, unfocused, fickle-minded, capricious, unstable. That's what I am. I'm still trying to find where that got me after 15 years.

*written July 9, 2012

Wounded at Sea

I wasn't ready to publish this then. I don't know if I'm ready now, but here goes.

***

25 Feb 2012.

My dog has died. My beloved dalmatian, with those hauntingly beautiful, searching eyes. Sometimes blue, sometimes white with a glint of red. Whatever the color, she looks at you the same: like a human trapped in a dog's body.

I cry from Manila to Dumaguete, knowing full well that her death is my doing. I call the vet before she is put to sleep. I try to say sorry: for not coming home as often as I used to, for not minding that she slept in the terrace instead of in the living room; for allowing the little dogs to bully her; for not standing up for her, for not being there when she needed me most.

In the days leading up to her death I avoided looking at her, for fear that she would see the guilt in my eyes. Now I wish I had looked, in the hope that she could forgive me.

I end the call because I could not get any of the words out. I text my mother so she could tell Frap that I love her. Then she is gone.
***

Water splashes about and sprays everyone in the pump boat. I welcome the onslaught, happy that I could no longer tell the difference between the sea and my tears.

I look at the horizon and the expansive blue, and, for a second, feel peace within me. Truly, I am a child of the sea. This is my home.

I promise to remember this moment, to make it a memory. One about the celebration of life, in its grandeur and simplicity. This moment is for Frap.

***
Waves crash violently on the banca, and Mark bellows. Why are you screaming? I ask. The waves are very strong, he says. Well, that's life, I tell him.

That's life.

Life is given. Life is taken away. Right now I am the mercy of the sea. The only thing that separates me from certain death is this 3 meter banca and a flimsy orange vest. I could die anytime.

Somehow this gives me assurance, however false, that things will be okay. That my world is as it should be, that there is no room for doubt. With Frap, with everything.

We reach the marine sanctuary, or whatever is left of it. Typhoon Sendong swept away everything. Everything -- corals, fish, all of life. All that's left are sediments brought in by strong currents. 20 years worth of community work, hundreds of volunteers including guests that kindly helped out over the years, all of the love and care--gone.

Life is given. Life is taken away.

There is a tremendous feeling of loss. Like your heart has been yanked and thrown away, and the void that's left behind is immeasurable. There is nothing in that space but pain, longing, regret.

The waves are getting bigger and the boat moves in silent rhythm with the sea. I submit to this perfection with humility, gratitude, and awe. When everything is in constant motion, unsure, there is nothing left to feel but this.

I can't see the destination yet, but I know everything will be okay.
***
We meet Liberty, owner of Liberty's Lodge, barangay captain, and pioneer of the community-based marine conservation effort on the island. She has just met with the Silliman University, which jointly supervises the conservation effort. How will you recover or rebuild the lost sanctuary? I ask.

The university advises us to just let it be, she says, until things return to normal.

How long will that take?

40 years.

***
Time heals all wounds. I look back at all the wounds of my past, and I'm not so sure. But I have no choice but plod on, crawl or swim neck deep if I must.

Then try to rebuild.

I don't know when - when Time finally permits - but maybe the next time Liberty and I see each other, we will both be healed.