When Subtraction is Multiplication

I am technical, therefore, the title.

                      or

The title, therefore, I am technical.

But mind not the metaphysical aspect of the beginning, this is just the cause and effect of my reading Thomas A. -the dude that started it all.

I just feel the need to publish this train of thought -actually a reflection of today’s gospel reading. I am right in the middle of a project meeting waiting for my item, which is I think is stuck between the 36th and the 51st slides, to go up the discussion board. I arrived late -just when the 12th slides off the screen but early enough to catch the first of the doughnuts that got passed around.

Hmmmm, donuts!
And just like that, I am reminded of the mass early this morning:

                 Jesus then took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, 

                 he distributed them to those who were seated; so also the fish, 

                 as much as they wanted. And when they had eaten their fill, 

                 he told his disciples, "Gather up the fragments left over, 

                 that nothing may be lost." So they gathered them up and 

                 filled twelve baskets with fragments from the five barley loaves, 

                 left by those who had eaten. 

                -John 6:11-13

For me, this is a lesson about gaining abundance. That it is by sharing that one gains more. But why does it seem difficult at times to part ways with what we have? Again, Jesus showed how. He gave His whole being -everything for the service of His Father and of mankind. Then the rest came easy.

Jesus didn’t start giving Himself away to the will of the Father in Calvary, or in the Garden, or during the Last Supper. He started from day one. His life is a testimony to this.

Let’s not complicate something so simple.

You subtract, God multiplies. Give all to gain all.

Do the Math!

Oops! My slide is on...

I miss my bangs: a lenten perspective

It's one of those days when thoughts of good ol' times come. Days when an ACE comb is the most important accessory a full-headed young man must have. Yes I once had both: hair and comb. The former so full, so black, so thick growing on my head; the latter in my Levi's back pocket or tucked inside my right foot sock for easy access anytime, anywhere.

Ash Wednesdays then were far different. I had to prepare my forehead. You can't let hair bangs get in the way of the cross. Well, words to that effect.

A quick fix then would be to reach in for that comb, one brush stroke across the top of the head to the left and another across the top to the right. Then you're all set to line up. When lining up, make sure to avoid electric fans lest a second helping from the ace hardware is needed.

After getting the forehead crossed, the bangs now plays the role of a cross protector, securing it from erosion. During my early years, I thought it was sacrilegious not to keep the ashes till the next shower. Therefore the need for the guardian bangs.

Those days are gone. So are the bangs.

This morning, I sort of gave the lay minister a harder time. With so much space to work on, my now extended forehead becomes a canvas. Will it be the Chi-Rho, the Jerusalem cross or the Papal cross? Big cross, small cross? Plain cross or crucifix? (Imagine that, a crucifix sculptured in pulverized charcoal above my eyes. That's Here's Lookin' at You Kid at a different level!)

While queueing, I was arguing in my mind what to give up this lent. I am reminded of the Sabbath article I read last night that struck me deep penetrating my gut:

We sacrifice not for sacrifice's sake. The suffering  and pain that accompanies our sacrifices do not make our sacrifices holy. What makes them holy is the love that motivates them. When suffering is borne out of love, we become more like Him. -Fr. Joel Jason, (Sabbath, Shepherd's Voice Publications)

So it's not just what to give up. It's who to give them up for.
Walking towards the ash minister I got to some serious thinking:
Maybe give up shopping FOR my wife and kids;
Or daily clean the house, the cars, the laundry FOR my family and relatives and friends who visit occasionally;
Give up meat FOR the fishermen and veggie farmers on EVEN days;
Give up fish and vegetables FOR the cattlemen and hog raisers on ODD days;
Fair is fair. Everyone happy.

I know, I know. There's the context in those striking words that I am out of.

Maybe I'll put my life on hold for 40 days to ensure it could advance.
See the beauty in the boring mundane part of life.
Give up anger and say a little prayer FOR that dude that cut me off.
Give up comfort FOR someone who needs it.

Hold those thoughts. Am now just two strides away from Mr. Minister.

Then finally, a black cross on my forehead. Not too fancy. Not silently screaming if you know what I mean. It was, hmmm, a humble cross befitting the season. I actually liked it.

It didn't last long, though. With nothing to break the gravitational flow of perspiration from the top of my head, it was crossed out. But I'm not as bothered anymore. What's more important for me now is not what's on my forehead, but what's in my heart. Uh-huh!

Afterall, what's in there lasts
Long after what's on top have faded away -bangs, ashes and all.

Neo obra

Today I'm a proud owner of a Noli Del Mundo Vicedo. Who you ask? Actually, it's a What which leads to the Who. The What is an oil painting in canvas entitled Dalangin sa Hapag -loosely translated, it means Prayer at the (dining) Table -an obra maestra of The Who, Noli Vicedo who happens to be a good friend of mine from the Stone Age. And a fellow James Taylor fan.

It's the first ever purchase I made this new year 2015. It started with a post by the painter in his facebook page:

Like a rooster circling and dropping its wing to woo a hen, Vicedo shows off his wares using the digital media. And from this far end of the world wide web, it works! Gotcha! I can almost hear him say. But it wasn't this rooster's wing that got me. 

In his official website, it was this neo obra that captured my attention: 

the four human figures suggesting a family (of four);

the predominantly warm colors that the visual person in me is always drawn to; and,

the title itself that touches a part of my own spiritual journey.

Like gravity, I was pulled towards making a decision.

We exchanged messages online. La-di-dah. And deal 2015-001 is sealed.

Now I have to find a reason. Or two.

Reason 1: Our dining room/kitchen/office extension/study room. 

Would you agree with me when I say that the wall in this room needs some serious makeover? Here's a picture:

ISO 200 180mm 0EV f/13   1/15

As you can see, it's perfectly white during daytime. Here's the same wall taken at night time:

ISO 100 25mm 0EV f/8   1/60

And perfectly black at nighttime.

It's not supposed to make an imperfect room perfect. Making it perfectly imperfect is good enough for me. It should provide for an impression of distinction or maybe even of wealth -in the dining room, no less. That's what an original art is supposed to give, yes? Things will change in the way people look at our dining room from now on. Nobody will miss that part of the wall now covered by the artwork. Ah, let's talk about it. There you go, a piece to chat about!

Next, to show support to local artists. Living local artists.

In the lighting industry where I can be found twisting and shouting about, foreign consultants and designers are preferred over locals like Toespin. Not so delightful, is it! In the same light of hoping that more property developers may be enlightened to prefer and acquire our services, I also pray that local artists like Vicedo get the support of more and more Filipino art enthusiasts.  

Couldn't we shine? Rolling all my golden moments into one.

Like to shine like the sun for one more summer day.

Like to shine like a lighthouse for one last summer night,

flashing on, flashing, fading away

-James Taylor Lighthouse

Finally, it lends me an air of success, albeit fleeting -just like any new year's resolution. Some people who depend on lucky stars would rather wait for money to come in at the start of the year before spending. Me, no. Not this year. A feeling of success is what I want. Such is a mine to dig out treasure from when needed. Is this a selfish act? I'm not so sure. Am I not entitled to one? Is it a rare act? Yes, but it can't be as rare as the original Vicedo's Dalangin sa Hapag. 

Oremus...

I taught you to be

When I'm feeling blue
All I have to do
Is take a look at you
Then I'm not so blue
When you're close to me
I can feel your heart beat
I can hear you breathing
In my ear
Wouldn't you agree?
Baby, you and me
We've got a groovy kind of love

Dear Andre,

I used to sing my favorite song by Phil Collins to you and Nikkei when you were babies especially when holding you in my arms to put you to sleep. Now that you're 19 and with my back bone more brittle, I wouldn't even entertain the thought.

Many things have happened, though, following those lullaby years:

I taught you Math

      but did we ever find x?

I taught you how to swim

      no depth can overcome you now
I taught you how to play the guitar
      now you play like a maestro
Did I teach you how to sing and dance?
      No. But aren't you glad I didn't?

I taught you badminton, basketball and tennis

      you showed you're an animal in sports 

I taught you how to drive

      you're better than many I know

I taught you my skills in photography

      now it's: "Dre, how's this?"

I taught you things not because I want you to be like me

I taught you skills because it's a father's job to teach a son

You may grow up to be like me but that's not my intention

I do not want you to be like me because that's just a mediocrity

I want you to be like Jesus because that's the best you can ever be

There are many things that I may have failed to teach you
      Like doing the dishes properly and fixing things at home
      Or putting away shoes, socks and shirts and nose-blown tissues
There's more time to learn those skills
      But your destiny for success aren't grounded on them
   
Happy 19th, my son.
Enjoy the last year of your teen ride.
There's a lot more to learn.

-Daddad

Baby @17

She can kill with a smile

She can wound with her eyes

She can ruin your faith with her casual lies

And she only reveals what she wants you to see

She hides like a child

But she's always a woman to me

Maybe. But not quite. 

Though she has that smile that even with braces will melt your heart away.

No lies casual or otherwise to ruin anything.

Truth is, she's 17. My baby Nikkei turns 17 today.

Please let me take a moment to process this.

(Moment)

I am sort of meditating on what this means to me.

I'm stuck in the middle of two thoughts: one of feeling happy and proud she can make her own decisions, and another of feeling anxious and uneasy she can make her own decisions. A midlife crisis if ever there is one.
This seat of mine is getting hot to the buns even if I've just sat on it a few minutes.
Is this the time for me to change my email signature into

     Father of a 17-year old daughter ?

just so my clients will understand my sudden unusual business behavior?
     Yes, dear client. We can submit the entire design tomorrow. Cool white or warm white?
     Your name again, pls?
     Yes, 90% discount it is!   

Or maybe start saving for the big party a year from now?

Or for any of the long list of her birthday wishes I've made mental database of:

     European tour (kuya kasi, eh!); item B; item C; bantam car; beach party; item F, G, H; Macbook Air -wait, this is out of the list already. 
I can recall only so much. You must understand, Nikkei is our second child delivered by C-section. It has greatly affected my memory. 

Is there an instruction manual for dads when daughters turn 17? 

There's a good reason for me feeling like this and many fathers will agree with me. Nina Kristin is my favorite daughter. Not just because she's my only daughter but I swear, even if I had 5 more, she would still be my favorite. The one I love most. Seriously.

Wait! I remember item B: teach her how to drive. She's halfway there now. She drives me nuts already.

Do I have to learn the answer to the question, You can't tell me what to do, I'm almost 18!

But my Nina Kristin wasn't raised to be like that. Her mom and I made sure of this.

She may mumble her words that only another female teenage fan of 1D can understand;

At 5 years old, she may have literally cut the telephone line with a pair of scissors

(and tried reconnecting -unsuccessfully with a scotch tape);

At 6, she may have inserted a rubber part of a toy into her nostril knowing at the back of her mind, these are the stuff that memories are made of and so made them;

And even now, she may not know the difference between North and South because she only knows One Direction.

But she's 17 now.

More responsible.

More respectful.
Most resilient. If you take the LRT everyday to school, you will know the meaning of resilience.

She's smarter.
God-loving.

Most beautiful in my eyes.

Wait! I remember item G: a driver's license. The picture in the license will look like this:

This should save her a traffic citation.

Some things haven't changed. I will still tell her to do the dishes, now!

She's only 17 and I am not a bit worried.

I'm not allowing my fatherly emotions get the best of me. Yet.

She is frequently kind

And she's suddenly cruel

She can do as she pleases

She's nobody's fool

But she can't be convicted

She's earned her degree

And the most she will do

Is throw shadows at you

But she's always a baby to me

(-She's Always a Woman by Billy Joel)

Happy birthday, Nikkei. I have so much love for you.

Nineteen Years Ago

Doe-a-dear,

You may have forgotten, nineteen years ago today, I wrote you a poem for our first anniversary. I kept the original manuscript which was a challenge since we've changed address twice over the last 5 years.

   Address was just one of many changes that happened, you must agree. The biggest change undoubtedly is the answer to the question, How big is your family? I remember we asked each other how many kids we want. I said 4 and you said 3. Collectively that's seven. Did you ever think that God gave us what we wanted? Put in all the challenges, the demands, the worries, the stress -and oh yes, we can't leave out the joys, the smiles, the hugs, the kisses and the laughter, with Andre and Nikkei, it's been like raising 7 kids altogether. No, this is not complaining. This is my simple way of thanking God for helping us raise 7 with 2. If you do the Math, that's 49!

Back to the original manuscript -the poem. Am no poet, am no writer, either. It took some time to make words rhyme you must realize. It would have been easier if Google had been there to help out. But no, it was 3 years late. I guess it must have been something good that pushed that pen to write those words. Think no more, it's the ink. A mighty ink. And before inefficiency in filing management and time take their toll on these two tiny sheets of paper, I've decided to immortalize the poem by publishing it here.

Nineteen years ago, this was how i felt. Nineteen years hence, I still feel the same. Read on, Doe-a-dear and live on. We have a life ahead of us.

 And oh, doe-a-dear, happy anniversary. I love you. I hope you like 'em.

Buck-a-dear

20

It started with a thought of 20 followed by a call to this lady. Then, like a flash of lightning, that thought became a stone. 20 is just a number if you think of it in the ordinary realm of the daily grind: a couple of tens; or less than a day if taken in hours; or an Andrew Jackson or a Manuel L. Quezon depending on which currency you hold dear (or cheap) in your pocket; or a little less than half-cavan of rice in kg... Oh forget it! Too many comparatives already. 

My 20 wasn't any of those ordinaries. I was thinking in units of years. Wedding anniversary years! The LED RGB lights in my thought bubble were blinking mad the words: 
"20TH ANNIVERSARY!!!" 
"SPECIAL GIFT" 
"SMALL BUT EXPENSIVE" 
repeat 20x 

This present day, two-and-a-half weeks short of 20-years-ago, I've got nothing but that thought. I must make that call, goes another in my mind that was a tiny bit away from panic mode. 

Lady1

That lady -shown here -is one lady who matters in matters like this. Together with another lady and assisted by a man -both pictures also shown here, can move heaven and earth for a slice of Sans Rival. Uh-huh! 

Lady2

Man-accomplice

NOTE: lest their cover is blown, the characters in this blog are left unidentified because up to this writing, this operation is still covert in nature. 

All I wanted from lady1 was a telephone number of a friend who sells the small, dear stuff. She gave me not 1, not 2 but three contact numbers. Can't go wrong with 3 numbers, right? Wrong. All the-number-you-dial-is-incorrect-ly wrong. 

Later that day in the middle of an important meeting at Pancake House in Robinson's Galleria, I got a call from the man-accomplice. I was told that all three were in a store in Greenhills which is just a few minutes away from where I was. They were there not for the purpose of getting me something but for something else. Or someone else. Stealth, just the same. But that's another story. There in GH, they found an interesting set that's worth xxx but the seller was willing to give a 25% discount. I was asked if I wanted to go and join them there to see it. I told the man-accomplice that I can't leave the meeting. Lorem ipsum sheish kebab, ladidah cut to the chase, we all agreed that they send me a picture via Viber instead. The picture was sent. 

It looked good. But I wrangled for more discount -another 14% off the already discounted price. Cash. The seller agreed. Now the next hurdle is the payment. Lady1 didn't have enough cash in her big bag. Neither did lady2 nor man-accomplice. ATM is out of the question as the amount exceeds the daily limit. Let the wife take note of this. Ha! 

Lady2 had her checkbook in her bigger bag. Issue the check, I'll fund it, I pleaded. She did and the deal was sealed! I just hope that the triad will be able to keep their silence on this deal prior to August 6. You see, the wife is related to lady1 and lady2. Lady1 is related to man-accomplice. Man-accomplice is related to me. And they are all related to the wife. And if Facebook is to be believed, the wife is related to me. 

They're all excited. Me, too. Times 20.