Passing Through Gethsemane

Passing Through Gethsemane

 t's been a very difficult month emotionally. My beautiful Hannah just experienced her first break-up. It is agonizing for me to watch her as she takes on each day bravely, with enough resolve not to be bitter, angry or negative as she transcends those painful emotions germane to the ending of a relationship. She is barely 18 and has never before had a meaningful friendship with a boy though their dealings are, in my books, woefully insignificant. Both she and the boy are extremely focused on their schoolwork. Both are on the valedictorian track. Both are busy with their music, he being the star saxophonist in jazz band, she, the keyboardist. Both have hectic extra-curricular and church-related activities. Their so-called "relationship" is actually limited to quick late night phone calls usually commencing after a grueling load of homework and Friday or Saturday night get-togethers with a gaggle of close friends usually in someone's home where parents are present. But the emotions she feels are still deep, tender and most of all, real. Emotions are the same no matter what the age. Little children sometimes fear the dark or looking under their beds and that fear is just as real as the fear I have of snakes. And I was not about to dismiss what she was going through.

I feel her loneliness and melancholy. I feel the pain that she so exquisitely feels as she longs for that warm security of belonging to someone who matters to her. I feel the emptiness she feels not knowing what to replace that hole in her heart with when someone you love is no longer present and that hole gets wider and deeper. I feel her restlessness when the hour approaches when her cell phone is supposed to ring and she can hear his voice wishing her sweet dreams, whispering to her how beautiful she looked that day or simply his "good nights". I sense her fear, that gnawing feeling that rises as she anticipates him being with another girl who will enjoy his smell, his warmth, his voice. And being her mother, I wrestle with the feeling of helplessness because I do not have a magic wand that can take away her longing and her pain and replace them with clarity and assurance. I feel her pain. Ten times more. I feel her pain.

But I am not without my wits about me. I will give her power. I am obviously not an 18 year old. I am her mother and I have passed through this Gethsemane many times. I recognize all those feelings. I see things that she cannot see. I have not lived my live as fully as I have without collecting a menagerie of tools and nuggets of wisdom to help empower her. I will endow her with knowledge and perspective. I will teach her that she has the power to change the world around her by just rewiring the way she perceives it. I will carefully show her how simple human behaviour is...to think outside her pain...to reconnoiter her surroundings to find all the tools and devices to break the paralyzing effects of hurt and disappointment.

I have been with her throughout this experience and by her side. I listen to her talk about her feelings, the events of the day, her plans. I take her shopping, to our favorite restaurants and talk about our planned summer trips to England and Spain. We run to Neiman Marcus to get her the most exquisite prom gown we can find. She will be a revelation on that night. A most beautiful vision. I let her talk about him and I listen with interest, putting myself in her shoes. I help her strategize her days, her inevitable encounters with him at school, his own misgivings. I help her understand his concerns, why he continues to care for her, texting her every night. We wade through these confusing communiques. Then I entertain her with tales of my experiences. Sometimes they are hilarious when told in retrospect. Sometimes, they become fresh again when recollected. She asks me many questions, I offer her perspective. We talk long into the night and sometimes until early morning. My love for her is immense.

I warn her that break-ups are a necessary part of everyone's search for the best life partner--and in our case, an eternal companion. I tell her that she may have at least one or two more break-ups before she finds her true mate. And that they don't get easy. They will still be intense. But her ability to cope should be enhanced depending on her ability to glean wisdom and direction as she discovers her true self. It is not adversity that strengthens us but our ability to dig inside ourselves for that power that God himself has endowed us with to help us pass through our Gethsemanes.
Yesterday, the dam that held her tears broke and I held her close to me. I could feel her warmth and smell her sweet smell as her shoulders trembled as she cried. I told her I loved her. Over and over. My love for her is so deep and so strong. She is my daughter and the best I have to offer the world. She amazes me.

When the tears finally ended, a sweetness came upon us. It was clarity. The clouds had passed. And all of a sudden, she knew. The mist of darkness that had blinded her from seeing her strengths, her gifts and her powers dissipated. She saw herself again and she felt empowered. She had passed through her Gethsemane.

This morning, my wise and beautiful daughter regained most of her confidence and self-assurance. The pain is still fresh but her wounds are on the mend. It has been a month since the break-up occurred and she can now see around her and past the pain. It was as if the rains had stopped.

She has left Gethsemane.

THE SIGN IN THE SKY

Ten days before our wedding, my husband-to-be boarded an airplane in Honolulu to Salt Lake City, Utah. I had already spent a week in his family's home preparing for the big day and now, with only two days left, I was excited to end our time apart.

As his plane began to lift off, he noticed that his heart began to pound. He was thinking about the wedding...no, he was thinking about the marriage. In a last minute effort to find some definite sign that he was not making a mistake, he said a prayer: Lord please let this plane crash if I'm making a mistake.

After a few hours, his plane finally taxied on the runway at Salt Lake City Airport. He was relieved.

Later after a joyous reunion, we began our drive home. We were so happy.

After a good deal of visiting, he revealed to me what he had prayed for under his breath as his plane took off. I was mortified.

"You prayed for what?"

"I prayed that the plane would crash if I'm making a mistake!"

"So, you want God to take everybody's life just to give you a sign? You actually are willing to die to be proved wrong about this decision?"

He looked startled. That thought never permeated his frightened mind. He was simply focused on his fear and nothing around him mattered. He didn't have a strong enough conviction about what he was about to do to stand on its own. He was focused only on one thing: fear.

Many thoughts filled my mind. But I stopped them from flooding in my head. I stopped them all clean right then and there. Perhaps it was because I was young. Perhaps it was because I just wanted to get married. And then perhaps it was because I was afraid to face the possibility that this man didn't really love me enough to be sure. This last thought was the most frightening one of all with all its implications not just about how he felt about me but about myself. And like a steel safe, I closed that opening in my mind. Very tightly.

As if to alleviate his own guilt about this pathetic slight, he began to act sheepish.

"Well...not really. They... can all survive the crash."

"That's ridiculous!? What about their injuries, their pain, their broken bones? Did you consider that?"

"Geez...I don't know. It was just a prayer."

"Yeah but you can't be asking God that sort of thing!"

"Well...I wasn't really thinking, ok?"

"Do you think God answered your prayer then? Do you think he approves?"

"Yeah...obviously."

This was the extent of our conversation regarding that matter. I didn't know if I should feel good, angry or simply laugh. But I married the man anyway.

MY BEAUTIFUL HANNAH

She called yesterday afternoon after school because she had locked herself out of her car. I was only too happy to pick her up. She is my last one of four amazing children and I wanted to steal every moment to be with her.

Every morning, I make her a lunch bag. I take some whole grain bread, spread some goat cheese and then some pesto sauce on both sides, lay a slice of provolone cheese on one side and then pile some roast turkey breast on top of it. I then arrange a few slices of avocado, seedless English cucumbers and roma tomatoes and top that off with a crisp curly lettuce leaf. After making sure the sandwich is now a beautifully arranged tower of yummy goodness, I will carefully wrap it in foil. I usually make two trips a week to Whole Foods Store to get Honey Crisp or Ambrosia apples for her lunch but I found some beautiful organic red Bartlett pears. So yesterday, I washed a pear and lovingly dried it with a paper towel just for her. After placing the sandwich and pear in a brown bag, I decided to throw in a small bag of raw almonds. Hers would be a healthy lunch. I love preparing her lunch and relish every detail. In time, I will not have the privilege to do so.

She will be graduating in June as valedictorian in a very competitive high school. She will give a valedictory speech. Her life is ahead of her and there are wonderful experiences that she is well prepared for. I'd like to think that I gave her an abundance of tools to empower her ability to govern herself wisely. I've been with her through high school crushes, romances, a break-up. . . and oh that was fierce. But with great insight and intelligence, she has borne it all so wisely. My daughter is a sage... an ancient spirit in a beautiful vessel. And if kindness were a living, breathing entity, then it would be her.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a moment and in that moment, I can capture images of her. Sometimes she is practicing her violin and I am awed by her music. But most of the time, I see her playing her piano. She is so gifted. She is working on a jazz piece and each time I hear it, it sounds different. She is improvising. I remember when she was just learning to read notes. Now, she is playing music. I can tell from her music and touch if she is feeling happy. And I can tell when she is playing with a certain longing. Our home was always filled with music. And I take it all in desperately trying to embed every note, every chord, every touch of the keys in my heart.

The door opens and she is home. She has a special someone who gave her a ride home instead. I wonder if he knows how privileged he is to have her attention. She is exceptional in all she does. There is something innate in her that moves her to compete with herself---to extend, to reach, to excel. I don't have to bribe her or push her. She simply knows what to do.

I feel like doing something for her so I invite her to the mall to shop for an "outfit". There is no reason for it. And perhaps others will say that I spoil her. But how can I spoil her? She is unspoilable. I have a fabulous time with her. She is beautiful and whatever she tries on magically looks marvelous on her tiny frame.

I have the extra key to her car and after our mall purchases, I drive her to the high school parking lot where there is a lone car sitting in the middle of a vast student parking lot. I park my car next to her little Corolla. I watch her start the car and wait for her to drive out and then I follow her home.

The traffic light turns yellow and she slows down instead of speeding ahead. I stop behind her mindful that she is again playing with her hair as she waits for the light to turn green. I remember how thick and wild her hair was when she was born. Her face was flat and chubby. She was so adorable and calm. My baby will be graduating from high school and before the summer is over, will leave for college and I will not know what to do.

She signals to make a right turn and I do the same. I watch her maneuver the car smoothly to complete a turn and I marvel that this same child who used to tug at my skirt can go places by herself with such confidence. She is turning into our gate now and as I stop behind her while she waits for the gate to open, I wonder if she knows how many times I've driven her to and from her various destinations. I wonder if she will remember the times when she sat next to me in the car and talked about school, her projects, her friends and knock-knock jokes. I wonder if she will remember all the kisses, hugs and cuddles with her mommy.

She is now turning into our driveway as the garage door opens. I know she is listening to her ipod and that her mind is on many things--school and a certain boy. I carry a prayer in my heart that she will always remember that she has the power to change the world just by choosing how to view it. Suddenly, I remember that it wasn't so long ago that I carried her around on my hip just because I enjoyed her baby scent, the softness of her arms, the satin feel of her wild hair. Now she is a beautiful young woman fully grown and she is flesh of my flesh, forever a part of me.

She opens her car door and pulls out her backpack. I open my door and we walk towards the house now. Me and my beautiful Hannah. We are home now. And for now, all is right with the world.

THE BLACK DOG

Las Vegas, Nevada is a very arid desert and it can suck the youth out of you with no problem. Funny thing is, the few times when it does rain, we get flashfloods and throughout the 18 years that I have lived here, I've never really seen rain fall like the rain in the Philippines during the monsoon season. I laugh every time we get a "storm" warning and then the "storm" that finally falls upon us is merely what we would call "ambon" or a light drizzle in the Philippines. I remember rain that falls in sheets, the nervous eerie feeling one gets when the eye of the storm passes, the rolling thunder and lightnings that remind everyone that there is a greater power above, the sublime feeling of being so insignificant amidst a power that quite literally, changes the world around you. That is the storm that I know. That's real rain. Macho rain.

But this story is really not about rain. Although, it was raining sheets that night. For some reason, the night "felt" very black...as if blackness were a living, breathing entity that seemed to permeate the already starless, moonless, dark night. My sister and I were alone in our house with our father's young cousin, Pete, who lived with us and who was charged with watching over us. I was about 13 years old at the time when it happened. It had been raining all day but by this time, though large amounts of water were pouring, it was cascading in a strangely calm manner. It had already dominated during the day and this time, this night, relentless as the volume of water was pouring, the stillness communicated the supremacy of conquest. The rain was our conquering master.

Not a single person was on the street. All were summarily vanquished to their homes to hunker down without resistance to the majesty of the rain...and the darkness.

It was early evening and our gate was wide open. For some reason, we all felt that the gate needed to be closed so we could all feel secure. But Pete showed a strange reluctance to open our front door, walk the few paces past the driveway and then to the yard to grab one side gate, pull it to the center, walk across, pull the other side of the gate and then finally, bolt them together. It seemed all so simple. But there he was, frightened to open the front door to let himself out.

We pleaded with him to close the gate.

Finally, because he knew he had no choice, Pete took a breath, opened the front door and darted out slamming the door behind him. I held my breath. All was still and quiet.

Suddenly, the front door opened and in comes Pete with a shocked expression on his face nervously stammering about "a dog".

"What are you saying?" we asked.

"There's...there's a dog outside!"

"What dog?"

"There's a big, tall black dog outside with demon eyes!"

"Don't scare us like that, you jerk!"

I didn't know if I should succumb to fear or get angry at Pete being scared of a stupid dog. That didn't compute. And if the dog was the devil himself, I instinctively decided to deny that that was true. I got mad instead.

"What are you----a girl? So what if there's a dog outside?"

"It's a dog I've never seen before. He just stood there looking at me---straight through me. He knew who I was! He's not a dog. He's a demon disguised as a dog!"

The fear in his eyes grabbed me like static electricity. The anger I latched on to for defense melted away and in its place, sheer terror began to surge. Pete was now starting to panic. My sister and I were frozen. I began to shape some words in my mouth.

"I don't believe you!"

Perhaps because of the dire to need find some solution to alleviate our situation, denial began to take the place of my terror. It seemed logical. If I pretend that Pete's lying and convince myself that a demon-dog does not exist, all can be made well.

"I'm going to open that door!" I screamed.

I charged to the door suddenly armed with the cloak of denial. Then I turned the door knob. I slowly but deliberately opened the door to take a peek but at the last minute, decided to fling the door open. And...

I was jolted by the sight of a large, tall, black dog. He came to about my chest level but his head was raised and his crimson eyes staring at me with such malevolence that he seemed tall enough to be eye-level with me. He did not bark or growl. He just looked at me. He looked like he had the power to just pounce at me in a twinkling of an eye, crush my head and vanish. Terror began to surge again. I slammed the door. Locked the door.

A few moments later, the malevolent feeling subsided, and I nervously opened the door again. The black dog was gone. The gate was bolted shut. Rain was still falling in sheets. There would have been no place for him to get out unless he could jump the gate or the walls. The eerie feeling was gone.

I slowly closed the door.

It rained all night that night.

The next morning, the rain stopped. And the skies were clear and blue again.

STRANGE LAS VEGAS PHENOMENON

Thought I'd put this video in that I made last December. Snow in Las Vegas? That's super WEIRD.

THE RED BICYCLE

We were making the long six and a half drive back to our home at the end of a long weekend spending Thanksgiving with my husband's large family. The children were asleep or occupied the time with a book to while away a lull in conversation. I was quietly mulling over an idea that kept swimming in my head. My husband's younger brother had moved to Idaho and started a job repairing household appliances and money was tight for them. Their three-year old daughter wanted a bicycle for Christmas and my mother-in-law lamented that they did not have enough funds to cover this wish. So I was thinking about getting her the bicycle myself.

Images of different bicycles popped in my head and then Christmas morning at that household in Idaho when the pretty little girl wakes up and sees a beautiful red bike next to the tree. No, make that pink. Or maybe purple. I imagined little Ceci happy and excited. It made me happy to think about it. All I wanted to do was make her happy and feel loved. I wanted to be her doting 'aunt' even if in American culture, I am not really an aunt. In my culture, I would be real family. Perhaps if I showed generosity and thoughtfulness, it will make up for the geographical distance between her family and ours. I wanted to love her. I wanted to be the kind of 'aunt' who would always be there for her. I started to feel joy anticipating her excitement....and a possible meaningful relationship with her and her siblings. And it can start with a red bike.

My thoughts were jolted by a sudden remark from my husband who had been driving in deep thought.

"I have an idea. Let's get Ceci a nice, shiny new bike!"

I was startled. He and I were having parallel thoughts.

"I was just thinking the same thing! Now, how shall we accomplish this?"

"Well, we can just order the bike off a catalogue, pay for it and then have it shipped to Idaho."

Again, there was thoughtful silence. I began to think about logistics.

"Shall we send a card with it? Like...'Merry Christmas with love from Uncle and Auntie'"?

There was a long pause.

"I don't think we should let them know the bike came from us. I think we should send it anonymously."

"Why?"

"Well, I have a feeling they might take offense. It occurred to me that they will for sure question our motivations. They will think that we are trying to outshine their gifts."

"How are we going to do that? I mean, obviously the bike is going to come from Nevada. That's a dead give-away!"

"Not if we order it from out of state!"

There was another long pause. We were both having the same fears.

"Why can't we just give without having to worry about this?"

"You know how my family thinks. They'll just take this badly. We'd be showing off!"

I knew in my heart that he was right. We were doing very well. Perhaps better than all his siblings. We had more than we needed and we were desperate to share. But lost in our thoughts, giving became more complicated.

"What if we just send a gift certificate for a bike?"

"What's the difference? It'll still be a bike. It'll still be a present."

My mind began to spin.

"If we make sure the store doesn't place a gift receipt or any information in the box that would trace it to us, do you think they'd know it came from us?"

"Yes. They would put two and two together. And they wouldn't take it the way we want them to take it. That's the fear."

I now had a different image in my head. I could see her mother pouting and saying, "who do they think they are?" I could see that it might be more fodder for gossip and innuendo. Something fierce churned in my stomach. I knew it. It would not be a good idea. Then a sudden sadness seized me. I can never be that doting aunt. Never. Not to Ceci or her siblings. Tears began to roll down my cheeks. I felt frustrated. Subverted. Foiled. There was a long silence again.

"It was a bad idea."

"Yeah. I think we should forget it."

We talked more about our frustration...and sadness. Why does it have to be so complicated?

In the ensuing years, we would become less and less involved with their family. I learned that giving is a very complicated matter. Growing up in a more open and demonstrative family, I simply did not consider that giving could cause so much turmoil and complications. Where I grew up, giving was simply that. And even if there was a sordid motivation, the gift was appreciated anyway because giving was de rigueur.

Needless to say, by the time we arrived home that November day, the excitement about the red bike wore off and we never discussed it again.

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The Insidious Charmer

THE INSIDIOUS CHARMER

She wore a striped dress with a black cord tied around her waist when she arrived at the airport in Salt Lake City. She was nervous but joyously searched the waiting crowd for friendly faces she had never before seen. She spotted three happy faces waving at her. They recognized her from her pictures. They thought she was beautiful.

There was much excitement in the car. Her wedding was in ten days and she was giddy with happiness because his mother and his sisters, 9 and 14 instantly loved her. She felt like she was home. Home. A new home. A new life in a new country. She will combine the best parts of her culture and race with his. The term "in-law" did not seem to mesh with the words 'sister' and 'mother' to her for she saw them as her own flesh and blood now. She surrendered her heart to them and instantly loved them like they had always been meant to be her mother and sisters. She would have another mother to love...someone who would love her, watch out for her, care about her. Nothing can hurt her anymore. She was loved. And she was all too anxious to hold nothing back. She was anxious to love them right now.

Many wonderful words were exchanged. There were hugs and cuddles with her new sisters on that cozy, red rocking settee. There was happy chatter about his other brothers, the nice neighbor next door and Spike, their beloved dog who had a 'girlfriend' in every corner.

His father was at work when she arrived and she would not hear him talk much. But he was in the background. Always in the background. She accepted his minimal participation. This must be how it is in America. Fathers don't have to talk much. Or invest much.

And then came the hushed tones about that woman.

That woman was his older brother's wife. "Be careful with her," they said. "Her feelings get easily hurt. She's a little. . . different." It was a warning. She listened. Without a doubt, there was trouble there. A family squabble! How interesting! She felt a sinking feeling in her gut. Conflict. Strife. It sounded like that woman was not very well liked. Stupendous! She would be their favorite daughter-in-law! She would take their side. That woman is the enemy.

Through the decades, there would be constant whisperings, innuendos and criticisms about that woman. Sometimes tears would be shed in frustration. At times they would huddle about after dinner and whisper their disdain. Nothing that woman did was good enough. They blamed her for all real and imagined problems that existed in her marriage.

One day, her husband's younger brother brought home a girl who was loud and boisterous and very, very young... and already an expert charmer. Lying dormant in this charmer's deepest parts is an insidious manipulator. At first, everyone had a bad feeling but that didn't last long because one by one, they fell for her expertise. Then he married her.

*******************

In due time, she no longer felt loved. Something happened. Frequently, during family events she would walk in and an uncanny air would fill the room as if there had been previous conversation about her that was obviously unflattering. She could feel it. But she could not confront them. Later, there would be veiled comments. Sometimes she wouldn't catch it until she was on her way home and she would suddenly realize she had just been put down. But in a nice way. And she hurt. It hurt so bad. It got worse and worse. She no longer felt loved. Then she remembered that woman. She suddenly realized that if they can talk so badly about that woman, they can be totally capable of saying the same terrible things about her. She knew it. And she was right.

She became curious about that woman. Thankfully, she discovered that that woman was an amazing person. She found her sensitive, wise, fun-loving and thoughtful. And she lamented that her fine qualities were so woefully overlooked or unseen. She would never listen to the women prattle about her ever again.

The younger brother's wife had a much louder and funny way about her. It was all too simple. And fun. And insidious. Everyone loved her. She was charming...and calculating. She had a talent for subverting love. It was just innate in her to demand attention because there is a gaping hole that needs filling. In due time, they would love and esteem only her. She would be the only daughter-in-law who received love and praises. And she had them. She had them in more ways than one eating out of her hand. She was now the one who "protected" everybody from the other sisters-in-law. She found new and clever ways to subvert their actions or inactions. She interpreted their motives in ways that were unflattering. Sometimes, she acted indignant and protective against imagined slights and offenses. She created competition among the wives when there never was any in the first place. And she was very clever because in the process of making herself look good, all she had to do was put anyone who threatened her position down. She was good. She was very, very clever. All she had to do was create a bigger arena for whisperings, innuendos and criticisms and frequently present them in a funny, witty way. Clever.

************************

One day, she got a phone call from the younger brother's wife. She was suddenly and quite out of her character, feeling guilty. She confessed to her that she had always been jealous of her because everybody loved her in the beginning. She wanted to "put one over her" all the time. She said that one day, she stayed up all night sewing an outfit for her little son so that she could show up and "put one over her" and prove that she was a better mother. She confessed that she made fun of her, talked behind her back and consciously tried to make her look bad so that she can take all their love from her. She said that she was "born with her foot in her mouth".

She had never before heard the cliche, "put one over you". Those words rang in her ears all night.

"She wanted to put one over me!"

She thought about all the times when she felt eerily ill-at-ease during family events. She thought about all the times when his little sisters, now young women with husbands, would talk back at her and ridicule her---how sometimes, their comments had bite and sharpness.

The confession she heard that night was quickly forgotten. She knew that if she were sincere, she would call her husband's parents and siblings and confess to them what she purposely did through the years. How she destroyed relationships between family members. How her words and methods ate away and corroded once happy and joyous relationships. Where there was once harmony, there is now chaos. Where there were once good feelings, there is now a growing and nagging suspicion amongst each other. Where there was peace, there is now hurt so deep that many have chosen to stay away. But she did nothing to fix her ways. She had confessed to her--- and that was it. Nothing changed. The damage she caused and perpetrated and encouraged is now so deep and so encompassing that many choices were affected through the years...choices that were propelled by ill feelings, by hurt, by myopic perspectives, by deception, by hateful motivations. The younger brother's wife was in the center of it all. But she had their love now. And we are all broken.

More than two decades have passed. No one really knows why no one speaks to each other. Siblings choose to not invest in their relationships. Others choose to stay away because the hurt is simply too deep, too stressful and...simply too much. Over two decades have passed and no one really knows how it all happened nor how to fix the broken pieces. Perhaps it was always broken. Perhaps everyone just bought the myth that the clan was well and perfect...except for those women--- and then protected the myth.

********************

Her children are grown now and they are indeed the best of everything she had to offer. They are a perfect blend of everything good about her culture, her race, her genes as well as her husband's. There is no meaningful contact between her and her once "sisters". There would be no happy chatters, no giddy laughter, no hugs nor cuddles. Her desire to give them her heart has ebbed for her heart lay tattered, bruised, beaten. Her excitement to be a part of their lives has been replaced by a sense of betrayal. Their lives are now so deeply entrenched in each others' absence. She prefers to stay away; to avoid grappling with the knowing glances between the other women, to avoid being in conversations where clearly, the intention is to make her feel left out; to avoid events where her every move is criticized and given meanings that she would never consider. They would all miss out on her fierce love. In the beginning, all she wanted to do was love them. But she realized that they would never love her back the way she expected them to love her in the beginning. And after much time, there would be more pain and hurt than love returned.

In the beginning, she thought she was safe...that no one can hurt her. That sweet anticipation has been replaced by a jaded heart...too scarred and weary to find that happy beat reserved for family. They have become true "in-laws".

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Gossip

I used to be part of those who thought I was a blessing
Who filled my longing for a place that I was sorely missing
They said they knew me from before, e'en long before my birth
And recognized my spirit in all its eternal worth
I loved them faithfully and with much celebration
Placed my heart in their hands with nary a hesitation
Then lived I without any fear of judgment or of censure
Confident their love, like mine, was vast and held no measure

And then one day a charming person walked into our lives
Her flamboyant nature first confused us that day that she arrived
Her name is Gossip but no one knew, for happily we embraced her
For we could not see inside her heart, her beauty hid that specter

Many think that Gossip has a very ugly face
A warning now I issue here that's not always the case
A friendly smile, a sweet embrace and sometimes even tender
For that is how she can disarm and then have you surrender

She creates competition where before it never wandered
With loud and jovial conversation enrollment she expanded
Disarming everyone she touches with charm and sweet requests
Drowning your heart with importance as her frailties she'll confess
Joyful and loving intentions of any person's heart
Whose needs are borne from quiet wells of a need to be a part
Gossip's friend named Envy, invented motives never existed
Painted over with doubt and questions, all goodness now subverted

Gossip wants all to love her better than any kin
For love to her is a contest, a spot for her to win
With clandestine whisperings in tiny little doses
Just enough to tickle like a dozen thorny roses
Flattering and caressing you but leaving tiny pricks
So you never know the damage done--- that's the best of all her tricks
Little by little she wins your heart without a bit of fight
By destroying those who threaten her, whose love once shown so bright
The insidious fact is despite her smarts, she never really knows
That those whose spirits she destroyed can see her spirit boast

Months now stretch into years and now your love she owns
The damage that her words have made are still to her unknown
Blissfully oblivious of the gravity her deeds do greatly weigh
A family divided now, someday her debts she'll pay

I'm nursing back my broken heart that used to have a home
The pain I feel is deep and dark while here I write this poem
For Gossip breeds a creature dank that cannot be erased
The damage is just exquisite and shattered lives lay waste
When whisperings and family are partnered in this sport
There are no happy endings here so sadly I report
Still no one knows that she's the culprit, she boasts her charms malignant
For that is how her magic works she makes us feel indignant
And though the closeness we all knew is now just plain pretend
I pray that soon that day will come when we can all transcend
The veil that Gossip used well, "putting one over" and smiling put-downs
Retrieve our family, our lives, our joy---snatch quickly now the Gossip's crown!
Copyrighted. All rights reserved. Christie Faux, 1999.

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Missing NYC Already

We arrived home last night after a spending our last morning in New York City. The weather was cold but absolutely beautiful. I purposely walked the busy streets trying to stop time...or at least slowing it down to take in every detail that I could absorb. I love the rhythm of the city, the sounds, the smells---everything about it. We did catch a Broadway play every night although one night, I did give in to watching "The Producers". I realized, after sitting through this musical that I really didn't want to be entertained as often as I hunger for being intrigued and stimulated intellectually. And that's why I enjoy watching a well-written and well-produced play instead. The three plays we saw certainly accomplished all that---Prelude to a Kiss, Talk Radio and Journey's End. I do have to admit that some scenes and actors were not at the top of the game but most of the cast members made up for their lack. Liev Schreiber is as electrifying as ever. We had seen him in Harold Pinter's "Betrayal" which won the Tony for Best Play Revival, won Juliet Binoche a Tony for best actress and a nomination for Liev for best actor. In "Talk Radio", Liev was brutally good. I would be surprised if he doesn't nab the Tony this year. The play was written by the controversial Eric Bogosian. I came away thinking a lot while walking back to our wonderfully luxurious one-bedroom condo at the Hilton Club located on two floors of the Hilton Towers on Avenue of the Americas.

I do think that purchasing membership to the exclusive Hilton Club has been worth it. The service is fantastic and the accommodations are wonderful. We especially enjoyed the Hilton Club reception hall on the 37th floor----there's always food and drink available! And the location is just superb. The Museum of Modern Art is across the street. We are a block from 5th Avenue. Broadway is three blocks away. Rockefeller Plaza, NBC and FoxNews Studios are minutes away by foot. And walking to Central Park is just a quick jaunt. We had lunch at the famous Tavern-on-the-Green on Central Park since we wanted Hannah to experience that. It was certainly lovely and we got seated in my favorite room---the garden room---with its amazing pastel colored ceilings, grand crystal chandeliers hanging all over, luscious fresh flowers and amazing garden scenes outside the glass walls. I wouldn't call the food fantastic but the experience was wonderful. For a grand lunch, we went to Oscar's located on the ground floor of the Waldorf-Astoria. Now THAT was superb. At a mere $27 per person, their lunch buffet is the best bargain in Midtown Manhattan, in my opinion. And the service is attentive.

But for the best street food, hands down we vote for the Hallal food cart located on the 53rd street side of Hilton. Queues are long and winding but at $5 a plate you get a warm plateful of lamb or chicken, pilaf, fresh lettuce with your choice of red sauce (spicy) or white sauce (tzazikki). Marvelous! And more than enough for two meals. The food is so good that this street vendor has been featured on the NYTimes, David Letterman, FoxNews, Good Morning America and Today shows. Of course, you can't beat the honey roasted nuts being sold for $2 a bag in every street corner. That's a staple.

It's now Easter Sunday here in Nevada and I'm already feeling blue. I'm back in my environment where small minds abound and pettiness reigns supreme.

Well, back to binge-ing.

In A New York Minute

John Mahoney, Annie Parisse and Alan Tudyk in "Prelude to a Kiss"

IN A NEW YORK MINUTE

We just came back from watching The Producers at the St. James Theater on 44th Street. It was very enjoyable although I kept on imagining how infinitely better it would have been with the original leads Matthew Broderick and Nathan Lane. The concept is hilarious and some of the actors were superb.

Last night, we saw a play called Prelude to a Kiss and it was absolutely mesmerizing. I try not to miss any production from the Roundabout Theatre because they turn out some wonderful and award worthy projects. Last winter, we saw Alec Baldwin in Entertaining Mr. Sloane and loved it. Alec also played the lead in Prelude to a Kiss when it premiered off-Broadway and this time, Alan Tudyk plays the lead with Frasier's John Mahoney as the Old Man. I got really emotional towards the end. It was just SO well done. I am looking forward to seeing two more plays before we head back to the desert. I did take Hannah shopping on 5th Avenue and bought her a couple of items.

Tomorrow we will run over to Neiman Marcus to look at prom dresses and lunch at the Tavern on the Green on Central Park. There's just far too many things to see and do and we are running out of time. It doesn't help that we sleep in although tomorrow morning we have to meet with our Hilton rep to talk about our privileges as members of the NYC Hilton Club. So far it has been great. We love our one-bedroom Manhattan dive and the service has been phenomenal.

There's a little gyro cart across the street that always has a long, LONG queue that sometimes snakes around the block. Everytime we walk back from a show, there's always loads of people. So we queued up again and got us a plate of lamb, rice and lettuce with tzazikki sauce. Street food is phenomenal here in Manhattan! And cheap. I couldn't finish my plate.

Kurt talked to his sister today. And that's another subject that I would love to tackle later. But for now, quickly, one thing that came to my mind is that sometimes, people desperately believe a myth that's been presented to them because it is a better alternative to what's really out there. And if someone comes along and points out what's real and essentially snatches the myth away, the initial reaction is to smash the observer to a pulp. Sadly, smashing the poor fellow doesn't make what's false, true. Giving in to the impulse to destroy the observer is a common reaction and keeps one in the dark....avoiding the dire need to embrace what's real. . . and what counts. Yeah. Kill the messenger who brings bad press. Kill the observer who sees what you don't want to see. Smash the handyman who wants to fix the leak because we don't want to believe the water's rising. Meanwhile, in the end, we all drown. In a New York minute.

My 50 Year Old Man

I Am Now Married To A Fifty-year Old Man!

Last Friday, I threw my husband a huge surprise. It was a celebration of his 50th year on earth. I wanted it to be super special so I invited 100 of his friends and associates. Then, the biggest surprise of all, I flew ALL our children plus grandchild down from Utah. Although they were all busy with college and work---at the Brigham Young University---they all came. It was such a treat to see the shocked look on his face when he saw me carrying Lucy who is now 6 months old. At first he didn't believe his eyes and when he realized it really WAS Lucy, at the same time, he saw the rest of the children and he got all emotional and happy. It was super!


We threw him a Filipino party complete with lechon (roast whole pig), a Filipino dance troupe who came to do three native dances and karaoke! Everybody loved it.


Here's the damper: I spoke with Kurt's father on the phone and invited him to come. His response: we'll have to check our schedule. Shocked? So am I. But the biggest rub was the day after when my mother called to tell me that she and my stepfather are coming down to help Kurt celebrate and said that they wouldn't miss this for anything! The disparity between the two camps hit me sorely. My family adores Kurt. Why doesn't his family? None of his siblings called. And worst, his parents didn't even call the day of his actual birthday. NOT A WORD. One would think that a 50th birthday would be a milestone. We even sent them two roundtrip tickets to see us. A year passed, and many wonderful events as well to merit coming down but they let the tickets expire. They were full-price tickets too. I don't understand. What the hell did we do that was so bad?


It probably wouldn't bug me as much if I weren't a parent myself but I'm a mother and so I can't relate ..... And a phone call is easy to make.

Anyway, Kurt is so affected by it. He told me that he feels like an orphan. This has been going on for years so... I just accept it. But it sure is frustrating to see Kurt hurt. And then, to see him trying so hard--- to keep on plugging away at trying to maintain and invest in a relationship.


But the party was such a huge success and we all had a fabulous time.

The Bag Of Cookies (video)

The Bag of Cookies

I revamped a Powerpoint slideshow that was circulating around cyberspace and gave it a big facelift, added more animation and audio. Hope you guys like it as I enjoyed putting it together.

Life's Experiences

Life's Experiences

My 17 year old daughter, being alone in the house, left the garage door wide open until we arrived home late at night. It was a jarring sight for me because the door that opens to the house was left completely ajar and anyone could have entered the house....and there would be my daughter alone and vulnerable. She had no inkling whatsover of the potential dangers that lie in wait especially while alone. I foolishly assumed that she would be so fully aware of her surroundings arriving home in the evening knowing that she would be alone for a couple of hours. But she wasn't. She was wanton and careless. It scared me to death.

Ours is a fairly safe neighborhood. We are in a gated subdivision and our area is tucked away in a tree-lined street that is so unassuming despite the pricey, upscale homes, that it hardly calls for any attention compared to the other areas that scream "status" and social 'arrivals'. Nevertheless we've had some break-ins mainly because homeowners leave their doors open or their cars unlocked, keys on the driver's seat. Ours are petty crimes of opportunity. Relatively safe is a far cry from how I would describe it--but relatively, is quite accurate.

When I was about 13 years old, I came home one afternoon and my parents were uncustomarily home. As I entered the front door, our house was in disarray. But the worst part was when I entered my room. My closet was open, drawers opened, clothes and things strewn on my bed. My desk was covered with things. My guitar case was open revealing an empty space where my beloved Yamaha classical guitar used to lay. It was the first 'real' guitar I ever owned. A present from my father. It was expensive and I knew it was a sacrifice for them to buy it for me. But it was gone.

I went to my parents' room and it was also in horrible disarray. Clothes, boxes, bags, things....all were wantonly thrown on the bed and on the floor. Her drawers were also open. A couple of them were empty. Her jewelry boxes were opened and tipped over. All that they left were her fancy trinkets. She had stashes of cash in her drawers too. Those were gone. All her beautiful jewelry were gone. Our television sets, electronic gizmos---all gone.

And my mom began to cry.

My father was angry but surprisingly calm. We had been burglarized. Again.

The feelings that overcome a victim of a home invasion is unique. On one hand, there is no bodily harm. That's good. But then, one also feels violated. And that feeling can be frightening and disconcerting. There is also a feeling of loss. But what surprised me the most in retrospect, is the feeling that because your home was in effect 'violated', it no longer 'feels' right. Your sense of security is shattered. And you feel homeless. The feeling that you are no longer safe is overpowering that it can be paralyzing. What makes it worse is the notion that there is no other place where you can feel safe. And grounded. Luckily, time does heal wounds and in due time, that healing will allow one to again feel safe. But because of this singular experience, one begins to formulate a game plan to fortify our territories. We play out in our minds different scenarios and then decide what to do if and when those contingencies play out. We guard ourselves. We arm ourselves. In more ways than one.

Experience does that to you. The more experience we have, the more we know what's possible and how to cope. And though sometimes I wish my bad experiences didn't happen, I am grateful they did because I am vigilant. And fortified. And ready.

The Roles That We Play

THE ROLES THAT WE PLAY

When I was a teenager, a professional Filipino singer came to visit one of our youth group activities and performed a couple of jazz numbers for us. She apparently worked in a HongKong nightclub as a singer/entertainer. My father, who used to work as a studio musician/pianist, accompanied her on the piano. They were magnificent and I was so inspired by her talent. As we drove home, I declared quite confidently that I wanted to sing like her and I was determined that if I just practiced, I would have powerful pipes like hers and I can sound beautiful. That was the last time I ever dreamed that dream.

"You'll never sound like that. You have to be born with that kind of voice and talent. She has a lot of power and volume. Your voice is weak and you don't have powerful lungs. Don't even think you can ever sound like that."

That's what my father told me on the way home.

There was a time when I could reach high notes and sang with confidence. I remember those times. But this night, my confidence disappeared. I still struggle to get it back but instead, I find that I am self-conscious and feel woefuly inadequate.

**************

I learned to play the guitar when I was eleven years old. I learned fast. I got very good. I wanted to be able to play the chords to any song at any given time just using a good ear. And in any key. I became so good at it that I got to the point where I could just anticipate the next chord even if I didn't know the song. It was like magic.

One day, when I was about 14 or 15, we had some guests in our house. One of them asked me to play a song that was unfamiliar and so I asked him to sing the first couple of bars of the song so I can get my bearings. It was not an easy song so I fiddled around for a moment to find the right key. After I found the right chord progression, my father scolded me in front of everybody mostly insinuating that I was a braggart and arrogant and most of all, totally incapable of accomplishing what I was trying to do. I felt all my confidence melting away until I only felt the warmth of pure embarrassment. I had lost face. I also lost my magic. To this day, I haven't quite recaptured my magic. Every time I attempt to play songs on my guitar, no matter how much I try to forget this incident, the feeling of incompetence lurks inside my head waiting to pounce.

Through the years, my guitar playing has opened countless opportunities for me but I often feel that I am merely trying to transcend that nagging "film projector" in my head that wants to play that sad incident over and over. In due time, I would permanently hang my guitar in a dark place and never play it again with the same magic that I used to have.

I often wonder why I don't have the gumption to prove everybody wrong and triumph. But these are only two incidents. The fact is, they are not isolated. It was constant and consistent. And I have two other family members who, throughout my life, remind me that I have a role to play. And though I have changed in so many different ways and for the better, they still play their roles and I in turn play mine. And this happens over and over when we are all together. I sometimes dread being with them because no matter how much I try, the script keeps playing out. At times I force myself to play a different role and rewrite the script but I often get outplayed while the zeal that I have to keep on trying to transcend "the script" wanes. Exhaustion and hopelessness take over. And a strange disconnect.

The role that I used to play in my family is one that I wish to crush. But it is so ingrained in me---the constant and loud voice that tells me that I am incapable of finishing a task or doing anything well enough to excel. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy brought about by the role that I haplessly fell into playing complete with a script that I am supposed to recite. It's baggage.

I wish to leave it somewhere.

Being Numbah One

After my fifth harp lesson, I began to seriously consider quitting altogether. It was getting frustrating because I expected so much more of myself. Even more jarring was the prospect of having to purchase the $5,000 harp that I was using. I couldn't bring myself to spend that money on something that I know I wouldn't excel at. So I found my desire to learn to play the harp just for the sheer fun of doing so, clashing with the reality that my time and money might better be served doing something else where I can for sure be "numbah 1". Guilt started to roll down my forehead coupled with the anticipation and self-fulfilling prophecy that my parents often laid on me: that I can never finish what I set out to do.

That's when it hit me.

That's the reason why I get paralyzed when I attempt to do ANYTHING.

Filipino culture can sometimes be comical. One will often hear parents brag about their kindergarteners who "graduated" from their class as "first honor". Or graduating from elementary school as valedictorians.

Often, my relatives or family acquaintances would ask me,

"What number are you in class?"

Number? No, it's not a student number that they're interested in. What they mean to ask is:

"What is your class ranking?"

If you are a true well-bred Filipino child who did everything right, you should be able to say:

"Ma'am, I am number 1 in class!"

If you don't and can't, you are a loser. It's this all or nothing game that, unbeknownst to me, is a slow killer and promotes existing rather than living. We can't always be numbah 1 and it's ok if we're not numbah 1 and we don't have to make up for not being numbah 1 either.

Now that I've figured this out, I have to decide how high to set the bar for myself. Most of all, I have to give myself permission to "fail"----it's ok if it takes longer to learn something. It's ok if it's unlikely that I'll be able to play complicated fugues on the harp. And it's ok if I don't lose 2 pounds this week.

So I relinquish the numbah 1 spot and someone else can worry about taking and maintaining that lofty place. It's all in my head anyway. There is no such spot. Say it again...there is NO such spot.

I may even fail at attempting something I'm not good at.... but I'll fail with great gusto.

The World Of High School

THE WORLD OF HIGH SCHOOL

Much has been written and parodied about universal characters who exist in the world of high school. I went to an unusual high school where each student was carefully selected by a wild process of screening exams to discover 140 students who can guess the right answers in math and science. My initial impression was that every single one of us were geeks and nerds. Not so fast. It isn't true. I am convinced that every high school has the requisite stereotypes in place.

It's amazing though how the social hiercharchy is not limited to high school alone. High school is actually a microcosm of the world outside---the world of "grown-ups". Because the truth is, those stereotypes can continue to exist well beyond the fences of any high school.

What stereotype did I belong to? I don't really know. Drama queen perhaps? Or perennial doormat/sidekick.

So here's my take on what happens to high school stereotypes well over....no, years after high school.

Male geeks eventually land that super degree that eventually finances that swanky home in that swanky gated community. Maybe he'll even wear a trophy wife. Female geeks not just get that swanky house but also begin to look like a million dollars. And both geeks get their garbage picked up by....

The high school jock. Yeah. The one every girl wanted in high school. He still follows high school sports and acts like he can still throw a ball across the court. Except he looks like he swallowed the basketball as he struts along, beer can in hand and hair receding. He constantly searches for that lost limelight and can't seem to find it. He gripes constantly about how everything sucks. He can't understand how he found himself in this unlikely predicament because he always assumed his good looks and charm would land him the big one.

The prom queen-diva queen bee who used to keep a secret list of conquests---some real and some imagined---yeah, her. She's the one girls followed around and idolized wishing they could be her best friend. And she's the one every boy fawned over. Her life is full of "what-ifs" and constant longing. She didn't marry that dreamboy who had the pedigree, cash and social standing she always hoped she could land. She still hangs on to her crown and sceptre and is comfortable only where she is the shiniest. And she eats a lot of sour grapes---never really finding joy because she can only find comfort in a world where she is the center of it. Unfortunately, as time passes, her world becomes smaller and smaller. The biggest rub of all is confronting the fact that the gawky and unsophisticated girls who were her inferior grew up to become beautiful, successful women and she can't get past the sorry fact that her beauty is way past prime and didn't get her any of what she thinks she is entitled to.

The high school sweethearts are no longer.... and each continue to find meaning in their various relationships and eventually discovering love isn't always a high---it's actually waking up everyday deciding to be committed and forgiving.

That guy you swore was gay---well, he suddenly appears in your reunions and he's smokin' hot as hell. He's got a washboard stomach and biceps that seem to burst under his tight, rolled up sleeves. He looks like a stud. He eats only organic food and shops at Whole Foods Market. He is the picture of health. He is an entrepreneur. And he's got a life-partner.

How about that invisible guy who always loved the girl of his dreams from afar? He finally grew tall just in time to get his degree from Yale, pursue that girl and marry her. They have smart children, beautiful grandchildren and they still hold hands. He still can't believe she married him. And they still laugh when they're alone together.

And that bully. Yeah. That scary leader of the pack who relentlessly teased the little guys who didn't get their growth spurts until senior year? He's a born-again Christian who volunteers at the youth center, married a nurturer, and has a fantastic relationship with his sons and daughters.

Okay, so I'm making this up. But maybe I'm not.

The truth is, I do meet and know a few who still live their high school characters. Some still act like bullies. Some still want to live the glory days of their high school days when they were the jocks. Yet others who were never jocks want to be jocks and live their lives with the phony notion that they can still act stupid and hormonal. They're the ones who yell at their kids' coaches and some even take their testosterone-filled attitudes and whack the other little kids in the opposing team. You've read about them. There's plenty of them out there. I used to watch them at every little league game. Or every high school basketball game.

Then there are the ones who learn to survive and get past these labels. They're the ones who come out of high school smart. They live smart. They keep on evolving. They are not afraid to mix with people who know more, have more and accomplish more. They like to be elevated, enhanced and pulled up the ladder of success be it in terms of career, family life or spiritual growth. They keep on looking upwards and onward. They can experience joy vicariously through other people's successes and triumphs. And they are always ready to pull you up when you're down without judgment or recrimination. I hope I am numbered among these great bunch of people.

The Red Leather Couch

I am eagerly awaiting the birth of my red leather couch with black leather welting to frame its outline. It arrives in about 7 weeks.

But it took a lot of time and mulling about to even consider its conception.


I always thought a red couch would look spectacular in my family room. But a red leather couch that looks like it can hold its own in French country style is hard to find. I would have to build it from scratch. First, I would need to find the right couch style--the right curves, legs, arm rests, cushions, back.... then find the exact shade of red leather with the right grade, texture and feel that I see in my mind's eye, not to mention the right trims, or whether it should have a skirt, pleats, gathers, weltings or fringes... and then meld these ideas together. Then the search to find a furniture store that can do this at a price that is affordable is a monster feat in itself considering how tight I hold on to my wallet. Why did it take five years before I finally took the plunge? It's simple: I like to live for contingencies. I mean, a red couch pretty much limits itself. What if I change my mind? What if I can't find anything to match it? What if it goes out of style? Then what would I do with a red leather couch? And come on---RED? So I end up not buying a red leather couch because I am afraid of contingencies. And I end up wishing I had a red leather couch...and languishing in my lack of courage to just "bite the bullet".

Then I thought: life is short. Buy a red leather couch.

And I did it.

Methinks that often I live my life like this---always wishing and wondering about the things I want to do but don't do because I am afraid of contingencies. Sometimes it's good to just go out and dance in the rain. Or wear a bright red leather jacket before I get too old...or too fat. Or learn to play a harp before my fingers get stiff from arthritis---rather than thinking: what's the use? I'll get arthritis before I get good enough to play. Or just go ahead and knock on my old friend's door....in Kobe, Japan. Or audition for that part even if I can't sing spectacularly. Or go to Shanghai to practice my Mandarin dialogues.

So I await my red leather couch with bated breath. Maybe I have time to pull my brushes, paint and easel and paint that picture I see in my head. Maybe it'll go with the red leather couch.


But what if?

Try A Little Tenderness

It occurred to me that I must be one of those people who are overly sentimental and emotional. I find that it's a huge handicap for me because more and more, I find myself caught in uncomfortable breaches of my own doing...though haplessly.


Many times, when I am in the company of friends, I get an overwhelming feeling of tenderness and awe towards them and all I want to do is express how much I appreciate them. But then, when I do, their reaction breaks that sentiment and it startles me....and I get a huge wave of "uh-oh, you are being sentimental again and you're the only one who feels this way...." And then I get utterly discombabulated. Oftentimes, I assume that people around me feel the same way...but they don't. Or they are simply unaccustomed to feeling some tenderness that their response becomes a defensive action to mask their discomfort.


I am accustomed to saying endearments like "I sure love you a lot" or "I really appreciate your friendship" or "I am going to miss you a lot!" or "let me give you a hug." And I like to express how I feel.


Tenderness makes one so vulnerable and it can be a scary affair. Many times, we hold it back fearing that we could be misinterpreted. To my detriment, a lot of times, I get a bit fearless.


I think that the pace and the manner of the times we live in today invariably buries many wonderful expressions of tenderness. We live in an interesting time.


For instance, hand-written notes are now a thing of the past. Or a rarity.


I am a bit disappointed that my daughters will probably never get a collection of exquisitely written love letters---handwritten on beautiful paper. What a delight it was for me in my younger days to get a letter in the mail and then to carefully cut the envelope, anxiously pull out several pages of handwritten sentiments and with shaking hands, read the words written by a boy obviously beset by deep emotions. I remember one occasion when the beautiful words penetrated deep in my heart and tears began to stream down my cheeks, my hands began to shake and I felt a warm, wonderful feeling inside that I had to sit down to complete reading his letter because my knees got weak. Though I did not return the boy's sentiments, the letter did soften my heart and I felt a tenderness that I will never forget. Obviously, I still remember the boy and the moment. He made a lifelong impression. Today, texting on cellphones seem to have replaced this tender expression. "i luv u" or "wassup" just doesn't cut it for me.


The best date I ever had was when one of my beaux, with the aid of my roommates, drove to my apartment very early in the morning while still dark, pulled me out of bed and drove me to our favorite spot on the beach and then waited for the sunrise to express his tender feelings for me, sealed it with a kiss and then ended the short excursion with a little "picnic" breakfast before he drove me back so I could get ready for my first class. Now granted, I lived in Hawaii and just across the beach--- but still, it took a lot of thinking and preparation....and tenderness to come up with that idea. Yeah. Tenderness. That's the ticket.


I love it when I can hug my close friends and tell them how much I love and appreciate them. I love it when I can put my arms around them and it's understood that we feel a lot of tenderness for each other. I have a very close cadre of friends from high school and when we visit with each other, I sometimes try to slow time down and bask in the wonderful atmosphere of friendship and mutual respect. I am so proud of their accomplishments and how they have raised great kids. My friend Corsee, for example, came from a small village in a rural area of southeastern Luzon and pursued excellence throughout her life. It paid off. I think she has surpassed even her wildest expectations of herself. My friend Chat has maintained her indefatigable personality and manages to pull everyone of us together in a close and tight circle. She is the tie that binds all of us. I can go on and on but the point is, when I look at them, I always feel tender. And I always want to express it. And they let me.


Most of all, it has always been my mantra to not hold back my tender feelings towards my family. My husband and my children are the most important people in the world to me and if I can't be tender to them, then nothing else matters. Last night, my daughter telephoned me from her busy college schedule just to tell me she got asked out on a date twice that night. We had a short, "girly" conversation and I wanted to give her the world. I felt tenderness again and again until it overflowed. I love this feeling.


Tenderness is a wonderful thing. If it is suppressed, then we get calloused and hard. Expressing tenderness is a risky proposition and so it takes great courage and self-assurance to do so. The trick is, to want to express it so much that it doesn't matter how it is taken because expressing tenderness trumps our fear of being rejected...or ignored. And it takes practice. Yes, practice. Even when alone, I can close my eyes and feel deep tender feelings towards those people who mean so much to me...my dearest, closest friends, my beautiful family... that I can be moved to tears. And that happens often. Very often.


Now if I can only write with a plume better than I can jiggle my mouse...

Another Dumb Business

Looks like our law firm will be involved in pursuing another scam operation. I can't believe these people who steal money---I mean, what could they be thinking? Did they think they could get away with it?

Read about it: Click here for the link

This article was posted today in the Las Vegas Review Journal. The photo shows a letter that we posted outside the door of the establishment in a futile and last-ditch attempt to reach the owners of the "missing"business.

Distorting Good

Had an interesting conversation with my husband last night. A man who owned his own business called him for advise regarding a year-old outstanding bill owed him by a customer who also happens to be a friend. It was not a small amount either and totalled in the thousands. He will have a difficult time collecting, if ever, on this debt...and bridges may have to be burned. The overlying reason is most frustrating -- the terms of agreement are VERBAL. Nothing is written. The whole transaction was sealed with a mere handshake.

Now, in a perfect world, a handshake or simply one's word, should be a bond worthy of complete trust. But even when there is that, no two visions are alike. A contract is a tool that can aid in articulating the desired results and also provides the needed parameters to conduct business in a professional and judicious manner. It is not a question of honesty or integrity. There is no morality involved here. The objective is CLARITY for both parties. Where at least two people are involved, an agreement sealed only verbally is a broken bond waiting to happen, at the very least, and a misfortune about to combust, at the very worst. Either way, it will just be a matter of time before this method of doing business will bite where it hurts.

I don't know if it's culture or simply naivete but many people do business this way especially in small communities. People like this person are seen as "good men" who do business the "good way". But morality or goodness is not an issue here. Savvy and intelligence are obviously the items lacking in this picture. I am especially perturbed by the warped sense of "what is good" seen through the eyes of this poor man. Let me elucidate.

First of all, he states that he has never had a problem before doing business without a written contract. Well, he does now. Like I said, it was just waiting to happen. This is how everyone else perished during the flood but not Noah and his family. I am sure a lot of "it never flooded before" poured out of many mouths both during Noah's time and even in New Orleans before the dikes and levees broke. A bad business practice is simply that---bad.

Secondly, he is adverse to issuing written contracts not just because he never needed to in the past but also because he sees written contracts as a sign of distrust. He just wants to be a "good guy". What he is is a foolish businessman and this warped sense of "good" precludes that issuing written contracts is "bad" which is totally untrue. A written contract assures that BOTH parties are protected. It stipulates exactly what job needs to be done, the cost, the time of completion and whatever expectations that can be anticipated. Just because one's word is his bond doesn't mean that their expectations are exactly on the same plane...or that the other party will always be honest. In fact, honesty can be such a gray area in business transactions because each party can have their own interpretation of what was agreed upon. A written contract is legal and binding and all parties need to adhere to the terms of the contract. Even entering a Mormon temple requires a written recommend and you can't enter with just your 'word of honor'. A recommend is indeed a 'contract' that one is worthy to enter the temple and is well aware of the repercussions of their disobedience. But no one is going to question that once you have your recommend. But without it, your word is not good unless you can find the appropriate leaders to vouch for you.

Third, doing business in this reckless manner renders one vulnerable to broken friendships, loss of business, dishonest clients and associates and yes, even family feuds. This is why having a trust and a will is just utterly important and anyone who thinks that they don't need a will because they don't have any 'money' indeed either has tunnel vision or simply don't know enough to appreciate its importance. Ignorance does not excuse one from the "floods" and unforeseen catastrophes that life simply has in abundance. Let me just say that a written contract between good friends you love and especially family members you adore is even more crucial when doing business with them. It is just plain insane not to have one. Many relationships have combusted simply because there were no clear and written parameters for all parties concerned. A written contract saves relationships. I cannot even emphasize this enough.

Finally, it is irresponsible to conduct business recklessly when you have a fiduciary duty to provide for your family. This privilege should not be taken lightly and must be fulfilled wisely. My husband has a family picture prominently displayed in his office to remind him where his duty lies. It reminds him to conduct his business wisely, with integrity and with the appropriate zeal to achieve success---to stretch himself, continue improving and hopefully garner more wisdom from his experiences. It also provides him the needed push when he feels frustrated or at times, daunted by the many risks that he may need to take to grow---and the faith in a God who is always willing to help. The distortion between what is "good" and what is "wise" in this case is blaring. Good and sound principles are necessary for success in life. We must know what these good principles are and then govern our lives accordingly.