Feeling Good Despite Looking Out of Shape

As I look in the mirror, I see, not a fat ugly lady, but a woman with a happy and contented soul. So contented that I could die but no, I won’t just yet. Just exaggerating a little. Of course, there is still that desire to look fit and slim but I could always work out on that later on, when, maybe, my little ones are a little bit older. Nursing and you-know-whats took their toll on my physique that I can barely compare the me-now to the me-before. But hey! It’s part of living the life!

The Pause

I paused for a moment (actually days or weeks) to consider if what I’ve been doing was worth my time…

My musings have proved to be detrimental to my newfound hobby plus the new side hustles I do in order to help me with my blogging escapades. So I declined the offer of my cynic self to just disappear into oblivion. I just can’t. For what reason?

As the many sides of the self continue to argue, the fingers, once again, took courage and boldly moved to type.

(I’m Going Home, I’m Going Home) Wondering Why/How Traveler’s get awesome realizations

This morning, I opened my Facebook account to find out that I was tagged in a post. And this is just one of the types that would halt me from whatever that I was doing and since I share the same sentiment with the author of this composition, I just feel it would be a waste not to share it on my blog. So going home it is… Going home… Going home…

“Sunday, what a beautiful day. I woke up refreshed after knowing that I would finally get home and see my wife and daughter. I skimmed the book that I was reading hoping to get a few inspiration. It was not a religious book nor a Bible. It’s a book with several essays on it – on travel to Calcutta, London, New York, and some occasional literary reviews on books and authors. I read through some pages, put it down and pondered. The author’s words, exquisite!”

“I sometimes wonder why people who travel a lot developed a sense of maturity with how they view things. They developed a certain insight so deep it would pique your interest and make you ruminate, ‘How did he ever arrive to that awesome realization? ‘ If travelling opens our eyes to possibilities, to see the tiny details of the universe and the magnificent loom of God, then perhaps, I should start packing my bag and head to a wonderful journey. Travelers have gone through places, experienced cultures, met with different kinds of people. They tasted several flavors and basked at different types of weather. But on top of all of these, they suffered devastation, of rejection and failure, of loneliness and boredom, feasted on joy and sexual freedom, possessed by wisdom and knowledge until they settled down and found their way home. Only then, they started writing. Only at home. Not in other places. Home.”

“Thus, I am packing my bag once more, full of memories and experiences, of mistakes and heartaches, of myriad colors, of various notes, and unto the new chapter of the book I am making and towards a new insights about life. I have not gone to places, but I have gone through life.”

“And this time, I’m going home.”

Leomel Pasquin

Blogging Mantra

It really is interesting how this particular blogger can keep his audience for long and I am one who has been a regular to his blog site.

A recurring theme I’ve found on his blog is his mantra of punching the damn keys. And so I thought I would create mine as well?

After all, the essence of blogging for me is having some platform to express my soul.

So here goes…

“Type unless you’re asleep!”

If I could explain this, I mean, I should focus on my writing whenever I have the chance to. Trade offs include watching television, chitchatting, sewing, and many more.

Really we never know. So here I am, at around 11 pm, thinking about writing. And reading of course. And doing the act.

Yummy!

We are All Weird

TóTómel: Tilling the Nascent Philippines

weird_eyesWell, some things are normal; others are too bizarre by relative standards. Some things are good; others are evil. Yet, also, there are things that hit the point of normalcy. While others step towards the bi-polar (extreme), others are too comfortable to stay in the middle. Isn’t that weird? The varieties, the multitudes, and the differences of things are like jigsaw puzzles where a single amorphous slice is mustered with the rest to form a single picture.  So with much oddity, we claim this jigsaw puzzle as the world we live in.

You might  wonder what suddenly prompted me to write about this. Let me tell you what has dawned on me yesterday while doing my survey in the northern municipalities of Iloilo.  In the long range of the national highway, I saw a motorcycle running on its own towards us.  I wonder how a ghoul could hold such speed…

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Of Books and Reading and Me

For the likes of me who keeps two phones on her table, a laptop and a netbook, reading has never been that smooth since I have to check my social accounts, punch the keys on my laptop while I occasionally switch to the ebook I have been reading for a year now. But I always regard reading a must do, always ready to pull it out to read whenever.

Mind you, I read all the introductory parts, the foreword, preface, prologue, or any other fore part there is to read. I love investigating first the background prior to the writing of the story.

Here’s some disclosure: It’s true, I have not actually read yet the book of Soren Kierkegaard, ‘Either/Or.’ I am still at the prologue part. But I always put it behind my mind to read it when I can. When I am not sleepy, or lazy. There really is something in him that drew me close to his profile. (See you in a while, Soren.)

I don’t really read everything word per word, sentence by sentence. I just run my eyes until I’m done. But I’m not done by the way, I go back and read again after I already knew the story. Weird right? But that’s how I read. Until eventually I have memorized every conversation that hooked me. I say it out loud when I’m alone. I do lots of monologues, internal talking. Intrapersonal sort of things. And I enjoy it a lot.

Sometimes, I cry.

Sometimes, I weep.

Sometimes, I laugh.

Sometimes, I don’t understand at all.

But all those books… They kept me company. One way or another. I get to assume roles. I can be as intelligent as I can imagine, or as elegant as I wish, as slim as I can dream of.

And I can always read all the books that I like. Provided that google has decided to give it out for free. Or that’s just how I put it. Of course, it all depends on the publishing company or authors, not really google.

The best part in reading is that you have things to nurture in your mind while you do the pressing house chores. Those that you read become part of your system. And thanks to that… I can almost finish every work in my home rather mindless as thoughts just, you know, wander thru.

But for tonight, I will have to delve deeper into the book I’ve been reading for ages now. And hope I can get to the bottom of it. I really like to know ‘its story.’

Ode to Farmers, by Leomel Pasquin

Nothing is more relaxing than to sit beneath the shadow a huge tree and enjoying the scenery of a vast rice field before sunset. Men started to emerge from paddies which they tended to the whole day. Along their paths were verdant grasses that shyly sprouted in greetings for the dawn of the rainy season. More than the beauty itself, I started to recall the themes which fascinated Amorsolo most and became subject of his quest for realism. I’m glad that he was solely engrossed with the gaiety of farming and the people involved in it rather than the injustices that these people suffered which did not merely bruised them economically by being perpetually tied to the land but also morally by regarding them lesser than the bourgeois. Whatever his purpose is, the same thing remains abound: that whenever there is a titled land, such can never be free from atrocity or hostility or depicts myriad for of injustices. Land and blood remains as formidable requisites to a legal title.

Having no land to till on my own, I imagine myself transported back to the 60s where an acre of it would cost you about three thousand pesos or less depending on the agreed price between the seller and the buyer. If there is only a way I could go back, I should have been doing the same thing as of those men who walked in pack on their way home. The only difference is that I’ll be doing the land which I personally own and not of somebody else’s. I might have also listed myself as one of the migrants to the south and exploit the land provided by the government to use and farm.

Back in 1960s, it was in these years that people were inclined to have a job in the city, and farming was considered an inferior endeavor which only suit those who hadn’t gone to school. Those who took their chances in the city were relatively better economically compared to those who till the land —well, except for the hacienderos and illustrados who had vast titles over them but which they possessed solely by virtue of their influence and political clouts. They did not even had a hand on the land itself and their attachments were primarily confined in their thirst for profit. This kind of practice was very common during this time and I could only picture out how my grandmother would refer them as “pinanginbulahan” or fortunate. Most of these people were educated in law or engaged in other businesses and see themselves as elite, or someone we used to call “sosyal” before the very term assumes several meaning in subsequent years. And because they know better than anybody else, applied titles to the land they did not even have any roots or history. That’s how things work back then. You get to have a piece of it if you have the edge in knowledge and you have money to exploit in exchange of for intermittent emancipation from poverty of the people.

It was also during these years that my mother was born. Expectedly, she is one who thinks education is the only way out of poverty, thus compelling us to take a long way to school everyday. I am grateful for her nonetheless because I get to explore our little library in our meager elementary school. I came to know things like dinosaurs and why people need to wear undergarments. It was her that showed us the possibility of possessing knowledge and how to use them to advance one’s self above others. While I believed it for the long time, a part of me still desires that success does not only mean getting a good-paying job but also helping other understands the value of uplifting those who are around you. Because most of the time, success is not about an individual quest but of collective teamwork, of getting things done hand-in-hand.

And yet, I am still thankful of education because it is through it that I discovered farming as a noble profession. In fact, it is the noblest profession one could ever think of. In Japan for instance, farmers are regarded with high respect and the government give subsidies to them. They are not only seen as the foundation of a good country but a conduit of the spirit of the earth and of human race. Unlike in our country where a farmer is used as a premise or a benchmark to compare economic status. An ordinary child would often look down on a person with a shabby clothes and stains of mud in his body than a person who wears a plain white clothes and a pricey sneakers on his feet. Or between a doctor and a farmer, people give much regard to the former. That is just how it is, and culturally we are made to look it that way.

But things are changing. With the dawn of social media, people like me and many more came out to share information of the benefit of farming and the importance of farmers. This could not been more true than this moment when we all face the biggest challenge that shakes the foundation of the world – socially, economically, politically, morally and spiritually. This is the time that we need the farmers better and that we need to give them the respect they ought to have long ago. Because no one more deserving of our respect than the one who silently feed us everyday. It’s not the landowners, it’s the farmers. And it is the only way we give them justice for all the tears and blood they shed in tilling the lands just to keep our dreams come true.

Today, I remember my grandmother who used to bring me to the garden where the chili were red and the coffee blossoms smell good; I remember her in the scorching of heat of the sun smiling down on me and telling me, “You have to plant to eat, and you have to eat in order to go to school. And no matter where success may take you, you will always go back to the land you till and that is how you pay respect to those who came before you.” My grandmother was never educated but she has the wisdom rooted in experience, and an essential lesson taught by the very soil she cultivated.

June-ing in to More Posts

Bravo! Congrats to us because we have stayed longer than we bet! As busy as we are we are still able to steal time to write and ponder or ponder and write.

A lot more to learn!

And to post!

Cheers!

Dr. Kate Ledesma on Youtube

Just can’t help sharing to you one of the people I got inspiration from in order to blog.

You just have to click the link below to find out what she’s up to!