Judgments and Reflections

One morning after church, my wife and I were driving through a neighboring village. Cruising at a grandmother’s speed, I spotted a man tending to his front garden. “Look at that man,” I remarked to Rissa. “His legs are bowed.” A few meters down the road, my spy lens caught a woman with an asymmetrical bulge around her neck. “Must be goiter,” I told my lovely passenger the diagnosis.

Shortly after, just before the next turn, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. Adjusting its angle, I saw an aging, bald man with visible liver spots and sagging eye bags staring back at me. At that moment, I realized my own imperfections. I was a badass. Baddest!

I didn’t know what came over me as I am not typically that judgmental. Though I am in some ways, that was unforgivable. Maybe it was a misplaced defense mechanism -a revenge in the name of all the bald people in the world who are always the laughingstock in any discussion: family gatherings, online political posts, newspaper editorials, medical dissertations, and even homilies. Like if you can’t think of anything funny or there’s a lull in a conversation, there’s a fallback. Make fun of the bald guy. It always works. You can’t miss us. We are like a knight in shining…, well, without the armor.

But revenge isn’t mine. It’s the Lord’s, says the Bible in Romans 12:19.

Mea culpa, Lord. I leave judgment to You.

The next day, driving down the same street. I saw the same garden again -it was so well-manicured. It can only be done masterfully by one who had great skills. I failed to see that the other day.

I didn’t see the lady anymore before the turn, but now I recall that she was all smiles. Like there was genuine joy written on her face. That, too, I failed to notice.

So here’s to all who may not look perfect in the eyes of others, you are perfect in the eyes of those who love you.
Cheers!

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I Am The Ice-Breaker!

If I were to spruce up my resumé today, I’d put “A good conversation starter” as one of my top skills. Once entering an elevator, people were chanting, “23rd,”15th,” “11th,” and so on. I stepped in and said, “59.” The elevator lady looked at me with disgust and said, “No 59th floor here, sir!” I apologized and said, “Oh I’m sorry, I thought people were saying how old they are.”

Yesterday, it was my first time to play at the Royal Ace Golf Driving Range in the eastern part of sunny Quezon City. For some grand design miscalculations, the players have to drive the ball towards the steaming summer sun. I had to apply sunscreen to keep me from dying of skin cancer. Each ball I hit was swallowed by the sun’s glare. So I had to ask my tee girl, “Is there an option to adjust the sun’s intensity?” She only smiled. I could only read her face telling me, “No dumbo, we can’t dim that light.”

But the good conversational starter skill in me persisted, “Is the sun in the same location during the morning?” I asked, gesturing toward where the sun was setting. This time, she answered back, “No sir, it’s on the other side,” pointing innocently towards the east. Gotcha, girl!

You can count on me to break the ice with strangers or with those I’ve not seen since the Great Flood. As long as I’ve had my cup of coffee, I’m good for a corny anecdote.

Cheers!

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My New Lent Perspective

Lent season had just begun, so I thought I should shift into a more inspiring reflection.

I have a heart condition –not the usual stuff that bitter songwriters put in their sad songs. My thing is a coronary stent inserted into my artery to keep blood flowing to the heart where there used to be a partial blockage. “Partial” here means substantially partial -80% blockage. Almost seven years have passed since then. Yet occasionally, I still experience episodes of missing heartbeats and thumping palpitations. Like a broken percussion instrument or a bass guitar gone haywire.

As I live with this illness, I refuse to surrender to despair. I run, I play, I exercise. I work, too. And every time my ticker misses a beat, I proclaim boldly that my God is bigger than any illness, more powerful than any challenge life may bring, and greater than the greatest. Instead of dwelling on the problem, like worrying about who would inherit my golf clubs if I died, I fix my gaze on His boundless power and promise of healing. As an old song goes, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”

Each skipped heartbeat, each palpitation becomes a poignant reminder of God’s grace and love. In faith through prayer, I affirm His power to bring complete healing. This shift in mindset transforms fear into hope, infusing me with courage and resilience. I cling to the comforting truth that God’s grace is more than sufficient for me. In my weakness, His strength shines way brighter than my forehead.

Now, I journey on with renewed faith, trusting that with every beat of my heart, I am being restored. Hey, that sounds like good material for a love song, don’t you think?

I am using this Lenten season as a time of reflection and renewal to deepen my connection with God and reaffirm my trust in His healing power. May you, too, have a blessed season of Lent.

Cheers!

PS. I’m apprenticing to be the assistant barista in our household. Today is my 4th day. Pls be patient with the latte art.

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My Unforgettable Newscaster Audition

Ahh, the New Year -a time for new beginnings, right? No, this post isn’t about resolutions for the new year. When the time is right and if I’ve resolved to cut procrastination, I might write something about resolutions. For this issue, let’s dive into a new beginning that I once dreamed would happen during its time -being a TV newscaster.

In the annals of auditions, mine for a newscaster role holds a special place -not for its success, but for its hilarious blunders. It happened during the time when my bangs were in a precarious wavy situation -half of them had decided to wave goodbye. Letting the bang-gones be bygones, I baldly walked into the audition room, cool on the outside, just a tad nervous within.

As I sat in front of the teleprompter, a mouthful came up -not words but saliva buildup. With each sentence, I struggled with the impending swallow, hoping to maintain my composure with a forced smile. I yakkity-yakked on, reading the news with an unintended dramatic flair, trying to cross Noli de Castro and Mike Enriquez with every syllable. Added a bit of Larry King, too -the hair, you know.

Now, my OOTD. While today’s newscasters don the classic black coat and tie combo, I opted for something more suitable for a beach party. Yes, you read that right. Hawaiian shirts and breaking news -what could go wrong?

What brought me to this memorable audition? A well-meaning friend who believed my dashing looks and English-American accent would kill it. In her eyes and ears, I was destined for the Best in Newscast Award, Summer Edition. I delivered the news with gusto, imagining CNN or BBC scouts lurking in the grandstand, ready to pirate me away for international stardom.

Sadly, the call from the global news giants never came. My dreams of acquiring a posh cockney accent were bloody stricken through. My friend, the talent scout, disappeared into the thin airwaves, leaving me with half a handful of bangs, a wardrobe malfunction, and the lingering taste of unsweetened saliva.

In the grand scheme of auditions, mine might not have been a success story, but it sure is a coffee tale to tell. Lesson learned? Sometimes, it’s the unexpected moments that make life truly entertaining, especially when you look back at them. I made them happen when I could. And who knows, maybe one day I’ll be the anchor of a news show for the elderly, Hawaiian shirt and all.

“Aloha viewers, before we start with the headlines -Please. Turn. Up. Your. Volume!”

Cheers!

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I Grew Up, Grew Old

During the late 60s or early 70s, there was this Palmolive soap ad often played on TV that left an impression in my young mind. Its allure was that if you use the soap, you will look young or younger. I am referring to a neighbor’s TV here because we didn’t have a TV back then.

Instead of using the product, I avoided it because I wanted to look older. I wanted time to go faster so I can look older. Not using Palmolive should help.

And maybe, it did. I grew up. I grew old.

About half a century later, instead of relying on ads’ deceptive lures, I ask my daughter for advice on what cream to use to remedy puffy eye bags and to help return the elasticity of loose skin in my neck, hands, arms and legs, and large and small intestines. She’d oblige but deep in my epidermis, I know that none of them will work on this old rind -not Palm, not Olive, not Popeye. It’s just because. You know when you’re old, you sometimes run out of reasons for doing anything. You either forget or.

A product to travel back in time may just be the one I need. Hope it comes during my time. Wait, is that an oxymoron?

For now, I will enjoy sipping coffee, living life with wrinkles, and playing golf. With spf100 sunscreen, of course!

Cheers!

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A Mystical Carwash

After spending long hours of work in front of my computer, I went out of the home/office for some fresh air. I found my car parked under our pomelo tree covered with dust, leaves, and bird droppings. Clearly, it was a good time for a carwash. The car needed it. And I needed it for my physical and mental health.

It’s been a habit of mine to recite Psalms verses while washing the car. Mid-through the wash, the winds carried a very strong scent of sampaguita, a favorite since I was a small kid. The scent reminds me of the time my dear Inang hangs a garland around my neck after pinning a medal of honor during my elementary days. Year after year. Naks naman!

I paused as the feeling of a mystical or out-of-this-world experience excited my senses. I lifted my gaze towards the sky and murmured,

“Inang, is that you?” and,

“Lord, have You come for me already?”

But lowering my head a bit, there I saw the pomelo tree blossoming with flowers. The smoke cleared and the heavenly orchestra featuring a dozen harps stopped playing in my mind as I reached for one bunch of flowers in one of the lower branches. Dang, they do smell like sampaguitas. 

How could I have forgotten their smell? In Bataan, we had at least four pomelo trees in our yard. Maybe because they were as tall as our house that the flowers’ scents were too high to reach my olfactory elevation. Or the other fruit trees that populated our yard must have drowned their scent out.

I harvested some from this low-lying tree in our small front yard and brought them into the house. The perfume-sweet smell filled the living room.

Although deprived of a supernatural experience, the short-lived drama was enough to reset my mind from mental fatigue while the car was back to its shiny state, ready for its next spin.

Cheers!

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A New Story of the Heart

It’s been nearly six years since my angioplasty, the process of inserting a micro tube into the artery to let blood flow from the left to the right or vice-versa depending on where your heart is relative to your blocked artery.

So I visited my doctor whom I didn’t want to see for consultations. If only for coffee, anytime. He loves coffee, too. Seeing him was I thought good for the heart. Besides, I thought I’d been missing some beats now and then. Atrial fibrillation, too –a condition blah, blah, blah. Episodes where mi corazon hammered from largo (55-60bpm) to allegretto (95-100bpm) easily became more frequent than K-pop concerts. I did some math and came up with a solution. One plus one equals seeing my cardio.

In his clinic, I thought I noticed him nearly dancing to the thumping he heard as he pressed his stethoscope against my chest. He immediately grabbed his iPad and played “Beat It” by Michael Jackson on Spotify. Kidding! He grabbed his pad and wrote a referral for a Stress Echogram Bruce Protocol –a procedure blah, blah, blah. 

Echo results revealed something. Something here is defined as anything but good. And so my good doctor made another referral. This time, for an angiogram, double setup. If that something is substantial, an angioplasty will be done immediately after the angiogram. Thus, the double setup. It also means, double the worrying, and triple the hospital bills.

From when I got the referral to when I was being wheeled to the catheter lab in the hospital, family, friends, angels, and saints started praying for me. My wife and her legion of friends even joined the Camino de Santiago twice. Online, though.

I also started using a wand device that uses Tera Hertz frequency (Iteracare) in healing the body. 

I prayed specifically for a no-angioplasty, an angiogram through the radial artery (wrist, not the groin where recovery takes a lot longer), and that my HMO card will cover all expenses.

God answered all my prayers. Angiogram (radial) revealed no blockage, I didn’t pay a single centavo, and I was out of the hospital by the early evening of the same day. Never mind hospital food -they were cooked in such a way you’d want early discharge.

A few days after, I was back running. No skipping beats, no A-Fibs. God works miracles!

Cheers!

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Saving The Planet, My Way

Tell me. When was the last time you didn’t do what you were supposed to do, but still made a difference to the planet’s well-being just because?

Yesterday, I saved several liters of water. Because I didn’t take a shower. Or a bath. Or a spritz of steam under my armpits.

I’ve been so used to take one after my afternoon runs which I now do almost everyday. But yesterday, I had to leave early afternoon for a late afternoon meeting with one of my big clients. I came back home around dinner time. Dog tired and mentally-drained, missing a shower was a treat I couldn’t resist. Yeah, when you’re my age, you’d understand.

Hey, I didn’t sweat a half-a-drop yesterday. But even if I did, it would still have been ok because I am an ABCC11 gene carrier. Yep, I don’t smell. Bath or no bath. I’ve never used deodorants toda mi vida.

Which brings me to how much, then, did I contribute to air pollution yesterday? Nada. Zero.

Summary of my contribution to Mother Nature:

  Water saved.

  No air pollution.

  No noise pollution (did not honk horn in traffic).

Conclusion: There are times when being useful means doing nothing at all. That’s efficient living, ain’t it?

I am not declaring war vs. taking a shower. Yesterday just happened the way it did –peacefully. 

God bless Mother Earth.

Cheers!

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I am Crossing Off an Item on my Bucket List

Yes, I have a list. I’ve even written about it on this blog. 

This bucket list entry I am working on has something to do with what I do as a living being trying to make something out of life. I go back to the last 50 years of my existence. I’ve been this and that, and these:

A farmer. I planted and harvested rice (ate it, too), and shepherd a couple of carabaos during summer when asked by my Tatang. Did I enjoy it? Heck, no! Did the carabaos? Hard no!

I’ve been a salesman. I sold lighting fixtures and soap. I’ve even started my own multi-level marketing company. Sales shot up like a rocket but fell twice as fast. That was too good to last.

A TV actor. My God-given good looks were made to good use. I don’t even remember if I was paid for my role. This was when I still had hair.

I was a teacher. This was when I lost most of my hair.

A chauffeur (to my own family).

A web designer. Ya beach, this old dog can do this trick.

A basketball player, runner, tennis player, badminton player, a golfer. Just because I participated in tournaments in all these sports, I consider myself a player. I have trophies to prove.

I’ve been an engineer because that is what I have studied to be. With my lighting design firm, I continue to be.

A writer writing mostly nonsense. But hey, it’s writing.

An author –no, not yet. But soon, that will change. This tiny downy feather will trim my cap this year. I do not know how or exactly when this will turn out but by God’s grace, it will turn out! I won’t be that guy who ran his mouth big time and then crashed hard. Put that in your coffee mug or something. My book will happen.

I’m not crossing off the entry yet. Just my fingers, for now.

Cheers!

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New Year Ponderings

On one Saturdate with my wife Rissa, I noticed a group of lively middle-aged, fortysevenish spruced-up women from across our table. Rissa thought it must have been a reunion of sorts, maybe high school classmates who have not seen one another in wrinkles. “Probably from St. Theresa’s,” she assumed. Rissa came from the same school -which is nearby from where we were having breakfast. She and her old classmates often hold similar reunions. Same birds. Same feathers. She can smell.

I thought differently. Because that was early morning, I wondered: what time did they wake up to choose a dress, matching bag and shoes, perfume and bling-blings? Do hair and make-up? Rinse and repeat? 

But because it’s the New Year and half-resolved not to mind other people’s business unless it brings me legal and honest money, I dared not rise from my seat and ask them. Afraid, too, that my wife will disown me.

So I let them be. My inquisitive mind is at peace.

--

The same peace was disturbed while driving back home. Near our place is a small intersection that can rival the famous Shibuya Crossing. On a normal weekday, daredevil motorcycles and tricycles, cars, buses and trucks take their chance beating each other while avoiding peddlers pushing carts and careless pedestrians spill their guts and blood on the pavement. Unlike the Japanese crossing, ours doesn’t have traffic lights to control the chaos. There are no time limits. Cross at your cardiac expense.

But since it’s the New Year and half-resolved not to rant and complain at every opportunity, I made the Sign of the Cross and crossed.

So I let them be. My critical mind is at peace.

-

Every New Year brings hope -I preach to myself. And this hope brings me joy.

Then I can smile a little more and love a little more.

I wish the same for you all.

Happy New Year! 2023 Cheers!

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Yesterday’s Light, Today’s Light

---

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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A Good Message From The Grave

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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Beating Long Covid

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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Fear and Prejudice

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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Old and Ugly

Lining up to pay in a supermarket counter, I was sandwiched by a couple of happy, old-but-not-too old lady and a gentleman who, by the level of the excitement I witnessed, maybe old ‘hood friends but have not seen each other for quite some time.

Lady in front me: “Hey, Frank, long time. How are you?”

Frank at the back: “They said I’m old and ugly. I said, ‘Not yet, but I’m getting there!'”

They had a good laugh. At my ears’ expense. More yakitty yak yak after that. Man, they were loud!

It took a while for my brain to process what Frank meant when he said, “Not yet, but I’m getting there,” and laughed loud about it. There was too much yak-yak noise at the front and at the back for proper processing.

Then, at the sound of the POS machine scanning the load of stuff in my cart, I had a grasp.

He must have meant we’re all getting there -old. You and I. We all. We get older by a second every second, by a minute every minute, by an hour every hour, by a freakin’ day every freakin’ day, ad infinitum. Then when we finally reach the end and we die, our bodies decay, decompose, rot, or get burned. Same process: slowly, second by second by every second. That’s uglier than ugly, bruh. Uh-huh!

Ugly. But true.

And if you don’t laugh about it, you lose.

So Frank, I catch your drift, man. That day, I left Costco with less money than I had when I got in, but with a new perspective full of happy thoughts.

Here’s to you. Cheers!

                                             

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Crossings

Long before I’ve picked up the game of golf, I’ve always wondered what’s the inside of a golf hole looks like. Like is there a chance a scorpion lurks in there waiting for a hand? When my brother and my bros-in-law gather, they’d talk seriously about their crazy sport much like cardinals do when electing a new pope. Back then, I didn’t understand why drive a small ball with a long thin stick into a tiny hole hundred yards away under the heat of a scorching sun. No way, Rory. I’ll never play. 

That was then. Now, because I play the crazy game, I understand golfers better. I’ve seen what’s and what’s not inside that hole. And why drive that small ball with a long stick? I’m not telling you!

---

Before this K-pop craze and prior to traveling to South Korea, I didn’t like Korean food. I did not approve of the Korean ‘invasion’ of the Philippines -the restos, the students, the music. But after visiting South Korea, I met and befriended some nice Koreans that led to a change of heart… and palate. The travel tamed my own prejudices towards Korea. Now kimchi and ramyeon are a staple food for me. K-drama, too!

______________

Coffee for me then was piping hot, white and sweet. I didn’t get it when people drink it black. I mean, where’s the fun in a bitter bold brew? Ain’t it supposed to brighten up a sleepy day? But after my son, Andre, brought in his espresso machine, I learned what real coffee is -more than just a simple beverage. The notes. And the aroma. The comfort it brings. The bitterness depreciated slowly until it wasn’t anymore. I am a changed coffee man.

______________

I could go on with more of these crossing stories: running; having covid; being a father with rowdy little tykes; getting old; losing hair. I’ve jumped from one end of the 38th parallel to the other to learn a lesson.

When you find a connection, you find appreciation and respect.

I raise this cup. Cheers!

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A Fleeting Thing Called Life

Just got my first birdie in golf. After exactly a year of playing, I finally made one! It was one lucky 13th hole, Par 4, in New Asia Golf Course in O’Donnell, Capas Tarlac last weekend, March 5, 2022. I knew I’d make the putt because my second shot landed just about 6cm away from the hole. A gentle breeze in the direction of the hole would have eagled it. Did someone take a video of it? Of course, golf course!

As soon as I sunk it, I let out a big yell loud enough for the flight ahead of us to hear. I waved to the left, waved to the right, gazed at the sky to give thanks and then danced like the Shaq the way he used to after a magnificent dunk! I was on cloud nine -whatever that is.

And then, it was over. That fleeting but powerful moment of exhilaration and jubilation was over. On the 14th hole, I hit a double par.

I chased that most elusive first birdie, you must know. I trained and practiced hard and hardest, flexed muscles I thought that at my age, had no use for anymore, dreamed and imagined about the glorious moment. I was falling in love with my birdie self before I became one. The law of attraction worked for me.

Oh, that feeling! So beautiful, so good. But it was over. It was just fleeting.

Just like college graduation day. Years and years of toil and sweat -only to culminate in an hour or two of brief celebration and Kodak clicking. Fleeting.

Or the first kiss and whatever comes after it. Fleeting.

Or the feeling of sitting behind the wheel of your first car for the first time. Fleeting. 

I’ll take them as life’s happy moments. But I will not let myself get so carried away by the temporary high of a first birdie that I forget to savor the beauty of life -to feel the wind on my face; to feel the joy of running; to feel the rush of the most lovely times of my life. Or just enjoy the pleasure of peeing after a long wait.

It is good to write about them, though. The picture above and this post, my first birdie lives forever.

On to the next chase: my first eagle.

Cheers!

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Story of My Light

My lighting design firm, Toespin, turned 12 years old yesterday, March 3, 2022. It is truly a delight to celebrate these years, but the years before that were not all bright and sunny -far from it.

That day, 12 years ago, is still fresh in my memory. From our house in Caloocan city, our first home, I walked several blocks to register a business name at the nearest government agency for business registrations. My first choice was Luxoré -playing on the word lux, meaning light and the letters R and E, my initials. When read, the last syllable should sound like ‘ray,’ thus the acute accent. The letter “O” is there to bridge the two to sound fancy and sophisticated. My pinkies were raised as I handed over my application form to the public servant at the counter.

It was denied. Somebody else had previously taken the name. They were selling furniture, I think. Or was it salted eggs? I can’t recall anymore.

I had to come up with another one fast. The first thing that comes to mind when push comes to shove is one’s name, right? Because if you can’t remember your name, you are not in a position to introduce yourself.

So here is Toespin’s etymology. Its first two letters are the last two letters of my first name and the last five are the first five letters of my family name. If that sounded like I was talking from a speeding roller coaster, you’re not wrong. It’s probably the same way Google, eBay, Yahoo and Youtube got their names, too. Their names suggest absolutely nothing of the nature of business they’re in -my inspiration, exactly.

After a few minutes, Toespin was born. I had to do something to make sense out of what appears to be a senseless name taken from the dark by shedding some light into it. And oh, that light came. It came at a time when all the money I had in my bank account was just enough to pay for penalty for not maintaining the required minimum balance. I remember pulling up a gas station and told the attendant:

“Fifty, please.”

“Fifty liters, sir?”

“No, fifty pesos.”

True story. Not joking. I wasn’t bald yet.

And so as I look back, I do so with awe and wonderment. As Rafael Nadal would say it -unbelievable! It’s only through God’s grace that we have a business that has survived the years. That, and despite the fact that I started this when I was already 50 effing years old! That just proves that you can’t be too old to think young.

God favors the old and the balding. I’ll take that anytime of day. 

Story of my light. Cheers!

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And I, Thank You!

This morning, I cozy up to my usual place with this cup spending this moment giving thanks for the abundance of God’s goodness this past week. I find this to be a good time to remind myself that I am blessed and I am grateful. Actually, for me, each day is a day of contentment and gratitude for the gifts of the past and the challenges it provides to help me keep my motor running and the mass between my ears from deteriorating.

I can get so caught up in the day’s routine that I forget to stop and be thankful for the good in my life if I don’t start this way. During the day, I am triggered to be grateful for big and small things, by big and small things. All because of a good morning coffee-kick off spiked with appreciation.

I see my wife and kids; I give thanks.

I pop peanuts into my mouth; I give thanks.

I recall a happy moment when I still had my bangs; I give thanks.

I delivered a good daddy joke; I give thanks. And laugh at myself.

This is my way of building my stockpile of happiness (an Ikigai rule). 

Today and always, be thankful. And be happier. 

Cheers!

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Drive-Thru Happiness

Driving home after attending a morning mass at our parish, my daughter Nikkei declared, “It’s my coffee treat today!” Excitedly, I turned towards the nearest drive-thru cafe and drive-thru we did. 

So with every sip of my hot peppermint cup, and with every bite of my veggie fritata, I say, “Life is good!”

It’s not that I am a regular cheapskate provider of my family, but that day, I was. For an old man like me who is not so hard to please, these little joys go big time simply because I recognize them. The simplest things in life can be the best if only we open our eyes and our hearts to see them.

I am alive.

I am a part of this family.

I am connected to a loving God.

I am a part of this miracle called life.

And it is good. Life is.

I paid for the gas, though.

Cheers!

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