With the Light, we see beautiful;
With the Light, we see ugly, too;
With the Light, we find wisdom
to know what to embrace and what to reject.
May the Light that shines from a Babe’s heart in the manger
Shine on us and through us
All the days of our lives.
Merry Christmas!
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Dear son,
In the beginning, Adam met Eve. Then A met B, then C met D… then Y met Z.
After the Great Flood, Mariano met Trinidad (Espinosa) and Juan met Romana (Rivera); and, Federico met Francisca (David) and Cipriano met Antonia (Kalingasan). Then Bienvenido met Leonila (Espinosa) and Ruben met Natalia (David).
Then I met the lovely Nerissa.
Then came you.
I thank those who came before us starting from the Garden of Eden sans the snake because without them, there will be none of those who had names I do not know and none of those whose names I still remember.
Without them, there is no us.
Without them, there is no you, Andre Christer -whose name I will never forget.
Without them, we have no barista to make the best pull day after day.
Without them, I wouldn’t have a son who is self-motivated and has a strong determination to excel at everything he gets his hands on.
From the beginning until the end, I thank God for you, son.
Happy birthday! I love you.
I need my coffee now.
Cheers!
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If I were to time travel, 63 years ago today is the time I would go back to. My birth day.
If allowed, I’d bring my iPhone or my Nikon cam with me to take pictures of me and my twin brother, Fred, and our dear Inang holding us in her arms. Or maybe a picture of each of us in her loving embrace of her third and fourth babies.
I don’t have a photo of me as a baby, let alone with my mother. Although I was told that I was, there is nothing to remind me of how cute and cuddly I looked when I was born. Or the year after that. Or the next year. The earliest existing picture of us was on our 7th birthday -the one traditionally celebrated big time in this country. Big time for us then was having a birthday cake and candles to blow out. There were no second or third takes for pictures -the photographer would have taken an extra limb from my father if there had been any.
So yes, I’d steal some shots with my dear Inang. And maybe of my siblings, too. And of my dear Tatang. I was told my lolo was there also. So, yeah, I’d snap-snap away for more. I am taking this chance of making good memories of the past so I will make it count. And then travel back with all these pics on my phone or camera.
Back to the present, I will check my phone photos, and scan those pics taken 63 years ago. Or a few minutes ago. Take your pick. Then, no matter how bad this day may turn out, when the reality of living in this world creeps back like hot lava -I will feel better, it will surely put a smile on my face, and it will be a happy birthday for me. And I can honestly say with 100% certainty, that I remember the day I was born like it happened just a few minutes ago. Ain’t that amazing?
With or without the memories of the time, I still raise this cup to that day when Fred and I were born, 45 minutes apart -arguably two of the best things that happened to the world on that most beautiful Sunday morning:
when everything was still black and white;
when connected had a different meaning;
when selfie and photobombing weren’t even words yet;
Sixty-three long years ago. God is good all the time.
Happy birthday, Fred! I hope you hit an eagle in the next round we play. Me, I’d settle for a par game.
Cheers!
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I’m currently on a special personal mission in Japan to discover the secret to why the Japanese people are so disciplined.
Shitsuke (しつけ) or Kiritsu（きりつ）-no matter how you say or write it, this Japanese trait is so admirable, to wit:
Enough of these verbal illustrations. Time to reveal the secret. Prepare your palate. You can’t be too ready for this.
The secret to the revered Japanese discipline is this: Onigiri (おにぎり)!
Yup. That tender, triangular toothsome comfort food made from white sticky rice wrapped in dried seaweed. Delicious any time of the day. And night. And any time in between. You’ll find them in convenience stores and supermarkets. Discounted after 8pm, too. Yay!
Why, you asked?
It takes a lot of patience and discipline and good manners to eat Onigiri. There are specific instructions in order to unwrap one. Doing so is the perfect exercise for this discipline. Failing to follow them makes for a messy meal and augurs a life of discordance and misery. Though you just need to eat more to be happy.
I finally found the answer to world peace. If only the rest of this cruel world would learn. But until then, I sip this lovely cup. With Onigiri.
Kanpai (カンパイ！)
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Yesterday at the AFC Golf Club.
Going into the 17th tee box, we noticed two groups of caddies and coaches huddle around it. Aware of the sports etiquette, they silently watched as the three of us approached. Andre went first. He pushed his tee down and started his motions. His drive flew high but went a bit to the right. No reaction from the gallery.
Next up was my brother, Fred. He hit the 200 yard marker middle fairway with a perfect straight drive. The audience knew it was an incredible shot. They all applauded showing much appreciation.
Last on the tee box was me. Probably noticing my tension, Fred murmured, “Easy swing.” I took my time. This was my realistic shot at the podium, I thought. I swung easy. No gigil. The ball flew where I wanted it to go but sliced a bit and appeared to have landed at least thirty yards behind Fred’s. I waited for a reaction from the audience. None. I turned towards them, gestured with my hands to mean “Why?” and exclaimed, “No applause?”
I got a standing ovation, twice as loud as that for Fred’s. I bowed in gratitude and agreement. Everyone has a good laugh.
Have you ever experienced the intense emotions of seeing an audience react with complete silence and awe when a rock star or someone famous walks into the room? I felt nowhere near that feeling. But I was nevertheless thrilled. Like a rhinestone cowboy, I knew I was exactly where the lights were shining on me and took advantage of it.
So cheers to yesterday.
________________________________________
And speaking of light, there is one light that never faded on me -the light of my dear Inang. Today, she would have turned 96 years old. Very old. It would have been a heartbreak for me to see her unable to blow out the big candle on her birthday cake prepared by her grandchildren. Or see her struggle to lift herself up from where she sat. She’d smile, yes, and would try to raise her hands as if to dance to the beat of the birthday song. But I’d rather not.
The last time I saw her alive, she was so alive. I’d like that memory to remain instead.
Her memory. Her light. They help me keep up.
Happy birthday, Inang. Thank you for my life and your ever-shining light.
So cheers, too, to you and to today!
I
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It was a compliment, really, from a man I barely knew. Through his widow, the message came.
Though I’ve only met him twice, I sent flowers and message of sympathies to his widow who had been a good client of mine. A few days later, I got a text from her thanking me for the gesture. She added he had been sharing my story as an example to others of how I beat my heart trouble by going vegan after my angioplasty.
I made an impression! A good one at that. Yep, sweep modesty under that rug, it made my day. In fact, I still carry that good feeling all around.
I’ve given many talks and have written mediocre articles on subjects spanning from peanuts to Pluto but I can only make wild assumptions about the impact my words had on those who heard or read them. Did they give a second thought? Did they laugh at the jokes? Did they straight up dismiss and disregard?
I never expect much.
But this time, the noise of those mental questions seemed drowned by the message. The real message was that I do matter. Maybe not all the time. But sometimes.
That’s good enough for me. Thanks, buddy. God rest you.
I raise this cup to you.
Cheers!
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Even prior to knowing the rules of the game, I’ve heard this adage many, many times over: rain doesn’t fall on golf courses. Do the heavens play favorites on tigers, bears and sharks? We are putting this one to the test.
With #TyphoonPaeng still hovering above most of the metro, three of us booked ourselves a flight at the Air Force Golf Club in Clark, Pampanga. Already, it was drizzling early morning as we load our bags into the trunk of the car. We were unfazed. In the place we’re going to be, it doesn’t rain.
In the expressway, it rained. Windshield wipers had to be employed to see the road ahead. But what concern is it for us? Our destination knows no rainfall.
By the time we arrived at the club, and as expected, there was no rain. We were all smiling from one ear to the other person’s ear. These half-witted golfers believe in fairy tales. We were like little boys hopping in a toy store. This day was going to be a blast, we dreamed.
A bit of drizzle here and precipitation there in the front nine were by no means categorized as rain. So they were allowed. A meteorologist who was teeing off ahead of us agreed with this.
Our caddies brought out our umbrellas for, you know, when the sun gets too hot. Playing it safe. Yep.
The winds blew wild. There was a downpour (er, not rain). Our shirts and shorts, and shoes were all wet -dripping wet by the end of the front nine. It must have been our sweat glands working extra hard that day.
By the 14th tee, balls were rolling just a few inches off wet, wet fairways and greens. And finally, after the 15th tee, we had to call it.
What happened that day may have been one of these:
We perspired too much;
Flooding was caused by a nearby dam bursting off strong;
Santa Claus came to town.
Take your pick.
One thing mighty certain, though: it didn’t rain. Because it never rains on golf courses. I rest my golf case.
I had a little extra time to enjoy this cup that day.
Cheers!
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Let me tell you about my tiny adventure with the clinic that I visited for my steroid injections (read previous story here).
First up, they waste a lot of paper.
As soon as I stepped in, I was asked to sign in by the security guard: name, address, telephone. After waiting for a few minutes, the reception gave me a paper to fill out. This one is for the health card provider that they need to get approval from. Mind you, I already gave them the physical card that had a magnetic strip that contains details of my life including all the sorrowful triple bogeys I made. Then, since this was my first time to visit this branch, yet a new form. What happened to online connection between branches? And finally, another one for the laboratory work to measure the amount of disgust and uric acid level in my blood. Bloody hell!
Why? Am I a grumpy old man to rant about this during this cyber age? I mean, for the love of Alexa and Siri!
Second is the waiting room/reception setup. The front door leads a visitor directly to several rows of immovable chairs facing the reception area. Patients sit with their backs against the door, fronting the reception to wait for their number to be called. For supposed entertainment, a TV is mounted, not on the front where all chairs face, but on the left wall! For anyone wanting to watch, he has to twist his gaze to the left side. A Jacky Chan movie was playing during my wait but I tried avoiding it lest I add neck strain to my list of consultations.
Why? Who did they consult for their interior design? I bet it was the receptionist. She has the best view of the wall.
I was waiting for another paper to fill out but was not given: a post-visit suggestions form.
Apart from these, the health service was good because tho’ I still couldn’t wrap my steroidal fingers around these mysteries, they feel better already.
Life is still good while I drink this cup.
Cheers!
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Bothered by pain of having two middle trigger fingers, I decided to have them injected with liquid corticosteroids into the base of each. I knew that enough was enough finding myself becoming more short-handed.
When you’re in pain, there’s no second thoughts taking the easy way out. But the after effects, I did not anticipate.
It turned out to be a reckless decision driving alone to the clinic, 5½ kms away. The procedure required that I’d be locally anaesthetized at the injection points. Within the following half-hour, the upper area of my palm and all but the thumbs and pinkies were numb. I couldn’t feel half my cellphone. Texting became very difficult. Picking my nose was quite a senseless experience.
Driving with hands in nearly rigor mortis state wasn’t any less difficult. It felt like driving an EV in auto-drive mode. Believe me when I say I was steering with the unaffected lower part of the palms of the hands pressed against the wheel. It was so strange.
No small feat I arrived home unscathed navigating the most challenging rush-hour traffic in the city.
Life’s lessons can numb more than just the fingers.
This is just one for my daily journal. Maybe two:
…when these bad fingers get better, I have one less crappy golf game alibi.
…if not, I will go for the open trigger finger release surgery. A new alibi presents itself.
Coffee cheers to that!
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There is nothing like a dream to create the future. -Victor Hugo
Isn’t it amazing to create something in your mind and make it real, so real you can actually touch it?
During our recent visit to the U.S., I had the opportunity to see, be in and actually touch two of the obras maestras of Santiago Calatrava, a world-famous architect, painter, and sculptor. Looking at The Oculus (NY) and Milwaukee Art Museum, I knew I was staring at something that, at first, only resided in Calatrava’s imagination. An unseen thought bubble. And from that simple pigment, stood giant structures made of steel and concrete, designed to last for decades and sometimes, for centuries.
I felt so small. Overwhelmed and a bit envious, even. But with much respect.
In my line of work that is lighting design, I also start with that tinypigment lingering in my head like a light bulb going off. The end result is not something you can touch or hear or smell but something to look at and to feel. Set mood with. With a flick of a switch, it goes out. It disappears. It appears again. But unlike a concrete structure, it can dynamically change colors and intensity and move to a beat at the speed of light.
Different discipline, different outcome…
A chef creates food that satisfies all senses.
An author writes stories that arouse the imagination.
…but to the creator -the gratification of finally seeing his/her creation, priceless.
In my discipline, I am content with the thought that without light, you see no creation.
I see this beautiful cup of coffee creation. So good to the smell. Now I touch. And I sip.
Cheers!
©all images by the author
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By twenty laps. Beginning with little steps at a time.
Many of you who had covid like me know that after battling the disease, the next thing you have to contend with is long covid. And if you didn’t know, it’s about time you did.
Long covid are post-covid conditions which are long-term effects of the ghastly infection. Extension, so to speak, like overtime to a ball game. Some say they could last for years. I heard from some that their pre-school asthma came back to continue from where it left off. Some allergies became worse. Coughing which started as just a symptom, became frequent and extensive. Other manifestations, too. Like covid brain fog, fatigue and loss of memory. I forgot the others.
In my covid story (read here), coughing was the last to go even if I had already tested negative weeks before. I wasn’t really perturbed by it, in fact expecting it because many of those I knew who had it had the same story. What I was a bit anxious about are the other effects like asthma which I had, too, when I was a kid. And weakened lungs. I can’t let that happen. I won’t let covid defeat me.
A month after freedom -it’s what we refer to the day we got out from quarantine from the infection, I went back to running. I knew it would take extra effort to get back with my body getting used to a newfound state of lethargy. Oh, yes -procrastination, Netflix, and IG reels were the other long covid conditions I had to battle against.
My first run was only 2.5kms, half of my regular run. This was a litmus, so to speak, allowing my body to speak for itself. Getting past the mental roadblock was the first hurdle to overcome. I still remembered my name after the run which only took 10 laps around our ‘hood block.
For the next several runs, I added increments of 500m ’til I reached my usual 5k, twice a week. Slowly but surely, I got back!
__________________
Life is full of challenges. For me, I take on those I know I can conquer. For those I can’t, letting them be may even turn out for thebetter. It takes wisdom to know the difference.
Here’s to making long covid story short -Cheers!
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These two words rarely go together in a sentence or in a title like this but if you were me in a situation described here, they could inhabit your character like mud on your face.
I was in Veteran’s Memorial Driving Range practicing my swings when a man about my age and build walked past my lane tugging a golf bag. He set his clubs across the lane next to mine. Nothing unusual about that. What caught my attention was that he was smoking a cigarette! Last time I checked, smoking in sports facilities like this should not be allowed. And I hate the smell of smoke.
This range is frequented by military men and high-ranking city government officials. And that thought shut out any courage in me to tell him to go away with his lit cigarette and be cast into hell. I dread the thought of being whacked in the head with a shiny Taylormade Stealth driver. If his grip was strong, it would slice my temple. If neutral, hook my jaw. Dreadful, either way.
That was fear.
A few puffs later, another man joined him. He was greeted by the smokin’ man, “Good morning, sir. Ready for your lessons today?”
Sonnafagun! He was just an effing golf pro. A golf trainer -in my mind, lower than the pedestalled gun-wielding 5-star general I previously took him for. I could have acted differently. Bravely. Arrogantly righteous!
That was prejudice.
My good character reared its ugly head. But I was quick to realize it and as penance, I made a few steps closer to where they were and snuffed in all the smoke in the air. Then beat my breast in silent atonement. Mea culpa.
I went back to my swings. Coughing, every now and then.
Oh well. Fore!
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