Chance Meetings, Machines, and Missed Opportunities

Doing the grocery was not part of my to-do list today. However, the opportunity to do so presented itself while I was in a mall that I rarely frequent. While I was at it, I saw somebody that I know who I haven't seen in a long time.

Why is this chance meeting significant, you ask? Because I have always believed that when you meet people by chance and you haven't seen or heard from them from the longest time, the Universe is trying to tell you something through that person. It might sound weird but I think that during the time that both of you haven't seen each other, they've learned new things about life which you could learn through them. Sometimes, in an interesting way, it's the other way around. You may have a message to tell them; a life lesson they could learn from you.

There are no such things as "chance" meetings. Hugo Cabret eloquently put it:

"I'd imagine the whole world as one big machine. Machines never come with any extra parts, you know. They always come with the exact amount they need. So I figured, if the entire world was one big machine, I couldn't be an extra part. I had to be here for some reason. And that means you have to be here for some reason, too."

That goes for being in the right place at the right time with an old acquaintance. Unfortunately, my socially-awkward self got to the best of me. I paid my items and left the grocery without uttering a single word. What could I have learned from that person? What could that person have learned from me? I will never know because I missed the opportunity.

Last Sunrise

If today were my last day, I would shed off every pound of unnecessary qualms in my life. I would not heed the disquiets of my mind.

If today were my last day, I would embrace all the memories of my life with fondness. I would relish every ounce of opportunity  to hammer on these keys or whisper to the ears of my loved ones how much they matter to me. I would savor every inch of nostalgia from all the moments spent with them.

If today were my last day, I would make sure that each step I'm taking is on the mile leading to my dreams and passion.

If today I witnessed my last sunrise, I would revel in its profound beauty knowing that within its unfathomable depths lie the wisdom that I am exactly where I should be.

No Pressure Over a Music Appreciation Session

Music has always been an important part of my life. One of the vivid memories I have of it is how I eagerly listen to my parents' vinyl records every Sunday morning when I was a kid. Up until now, I can hear in my mind the crisp static-like sound at the start of every record or when there is a transition from one song to another.

My aunt is my biggest musical influence. She stayed with us for a couple of years and she would play the guitar while we were tending to our sari-sari store. During the summer and semester breaks, we would flip over the pages of song hits and song books. Unfortunately, this was during my puberty years. So you can just imagine how often my voice would crack when I sing. Fortunately, my aunt was kind enough not to mind it and encouraged me continue liking music (even if it didn't like me in return, as the common joke would go).   

All these fond memories came back to me when I attended Cattski Espina's music appreciation session last October 17, 2014 during the Ubuntu Festival at Hale Manna Beach Resort and Coastal Garden in Moalboal. After years of listening to and singing songs (singing as defined by someone who is occasionally out of tune), it was on that day that I fully appreciated music. 

Cattski started the session with a seemingly innocent question on what music meant for each of us and this turned into a very interesting discussion. A myriad responses came from the participants ranging from music being a form of poetry with melody to music being an expression of emotions.

This was followed by an inquiry on the difference between hearing and listening. Despite the various words used to answer this question, the central theme of the responses was that listening is superior to hearing since the former involves attention and the intention to understand. We were then made to understand how our answers reflect Copland's 3 planes of listening: sensual, expressive plane, and sheerly musical planes. Once the concept was understood, Cattski asked us to write statements that she dictated. Up to the very last dictated word, no one from our group was ever really sure of what we were writing about. It only made sense when she played Alanis Morissette's No Pressure Over Cappuccino. We learned that the sentences we wrote were lyrics to that song. We then discussed how different our impression of the song was compared to only reading the lyrics. It was then that that we realized that we were listening at the expressive plane. An important insight I gained from the music appreciation session was that every single person interprets and appreciates music differently based on one's perspectives and life experiences. More importantly, I realized that my interpretation is as meaningful and as correct as the other person. 

That is what I liked about the activity. There was no pressure felt over the music appreciation session. Cattski made it clear to us that there were no wrong and right answers. We were allowed to be our selves and share our personal insights on music. She spoke in a manner that allowed us to clearly sense her passion for music. She even said that it was her advocacy to "save the world one music appreciation session at a time." She urged us to listen to good music and appreciate it by moving from the sensual plane into the expressive plane. Perhaps her point is best expressed by quoting the lines from her Rock n' Roll song:

"Aren't you bored of those redundant shallow love songs, when they're sung by superficial balladeers... Aren't you fed up with repeating common humdrums, when they're played in such pretentious atmosphere. What you should listen to are songs that make you want to face your fears, boost your spirit, learn to fly, and live to inspire."

Thanks to Cattski's music appreciation session, I will never listen to music the same way again. 

What This Love Requires

Before anyone jumps to the conclusion that this is an essay on soft, gooey, mushy love, be forewarned that it is not. But this is going to be a short article on a kind of love that is as grand as any other form of love. It is about love and counseling.

I got reacquainted today with the reason why I took up Psychology. I wanted to be a guidance counselor. This might come as unexpected to some of my friends and may even draw a laugh from a few but yeah, I wanted to become one. This afternoon, I was blessed to have been a part of the facilitating team for one of the activities of the Counseling Seminar for our third year students. I realized that the rush that I got was the same high as when I do training. The experience made me wonder where I would be right now if I took that path.

Coincidentally, when I got home from this activity, I watched the movie Heaven is Real. There was a line in the movie that struck a deep chord. It said that "The one thing this love requires is to let others know they're not alone." I guess that is what counseling is all about --- love. Of reminding others that there's someone who is willing to accompany them in whatever challenging journey they're going through.

So to all my students who feel the pull to become a counselor, nurture it. The world needs love.

If These Words Could Reach You

Coincidences have a strange way of landing right in front of us. Of all the nights that I decided to watch the movie The Fault in Our Stars, which centers on people coping with their cancer-stricken lives, it was also the night that I learned that my previous mentor, Ms. Gaye Cenabre, just passed away due to the same condition.

I haven't been this much affected by the loss of one person. And Ms. Gaye is not even a relative so that should tell you how much I treasure her as a person. I haven't written about any person before and I would gladly make her my first.

This article is about regret. Being a person who is into reading inspirational books, I have known about adages such as "Spend more time with the people who matter because you might never have another opportunity to do so." Yet it turns out that I failed to heed the wisdom of this quote. Since the start of this year, it has always been in my mind to visit Ms. Gaye. But this never happened. Busyness had always been my excuse. An excuse I totally regret. And I hate myself for not being able to see her before she passed away. And I think that is largely the reason why I cried on the night people informed me of her demise. If these words could reach you, Ms. Gaye, I'm sorry for not having seen you.

To our Queen Serenity, our HR Queen, you will be missed.

But more than regret -- much more than that -- this article is about gratitude. Since I entered into the corporate world 13 years ago, I am very thankful that every time I change company or shift careers, there has always been a mentor who guided me in my path. Ms. Gaye has been that mentor to me in my eight years of stay in Waterfront. As few of my colleagues know, it was challenging at first because we had different working styles but we both grew professionally because of that. A large part of my career is indebted to her. Ms. Gaye was keen on rewarding my hard work with opportunities for promotion. And I believe a lot of Waterfront peers reading this have been recipients of these same opportunities. A lot of us owe her for our rise up the corporate ladder. Somehow, I find solace that even though I was unable to visit her, I was able to express this gratitude to her last January through a beautiful exchange of emails and texts. If these words could reach you, Ms. Gaye, thank you from all of us whose career you've helped build. 

This article is about celebration. A celebration of her contributions to the companies she has worked with. A celebration of the lives that have been touched by her. A celebration of the friendship that we all had with Ms. Gaye. A celebration of how strong she was during the challenging times in her health. A celebration of her being a mother, wife, sister, daughter, relative, and friend. A celebration of her wonderful years with us. A celebration of her life. If these words could reach you, Ms. Gaye, here is a toast for the legacy you have left. Cheers!

I'd like to remember you this way, Ms. Gaye. Full of joy
and vibrance in the face of challenges that came your way.

In our exchange of personal emails this year, Ms. Gaye, you said that you will miss me and that even if some good things never last, you will always be happy for me, for what I am now, and for what I will be in the future. You will also be missed. But you are wrong on one account, Ms. Gaye. Good things do last. Your legacy will last and your memories will stay with us. To say it in the words of the culture you have built in Waterfront, "It has been our pleasure knowing you and working with you."

The Writer, Unfolding

Untimely is an understatement. No one ever tells you when it will happen. Discovering that one has a penchant for words and the obsession with tugging soul strings was a slow and unromantic process for me. 

It started out simply as writing my daily journals when I was still a kid. The pages were filled with endless narrations of what I did and how the day went. There was the occasional bragging of my academic accomplishments (the nerd!), a couple of crushes mentioned, and the childish complaints of a young one who thought that the world was against him. The last one, no doubt, a product of watching too much soap operas. 

And then there were the yearly essays in school where the teacher required us to write on formal theme notebooks. At the start of every school year, my eyes would roll as the English teacher announced that the topic for the first formal theme entry was "What I Did In Summer." I might as well save myself the trouble and copy my essay from last year, I thought to myself. But being the diligent student that I was, I complied. Looking back, it is only now that I appreciate the repetitive process of writing about the same topic. I guess there are times that it's only in hindsight that we appreciate our teachers. Writing about the same topic allowed me to build on my previous work, the errors, the flaws in construction, the chaos in the order of thoughts, and the lackluster ideas. Allow me to pay my dues here to all my English and Reading teachers --- THANK YOU from the nooks and crannies of my brain's speech centers all the way to the worn out, dilapidated, and de-threaded leaves of my formal writing notebooks.

You might think that after all these visits to the different stops in my memory lane we have arrived at a point when I considered myself a wordsmith. No, it would take far more years.

I was under a self-induced illusion that I was a 'writer' when I was in high school. I passed an article to the school paper and it was published. But I think it got printed because I knew the editor. I remember what it was about and I cringe in embarrassment. In hindsight, again, I think that was the reason why I was assigned the copyreader position and not an actual writing post. The task of dotting the i and crossing the t was given to me. The caret and the pilcrow were my friends. I admired the real writers in school. They were really good. When I read their pieces, I understood why I was better off with the copyreader's proofing pen. 

College was all about poetry. I wrote poems but never really read that much verse. Writing was more of a release for the frustrations and sadness in life then. 

Life after college was different. Work drowned my words. It was all about figures, plans, and targets. Of course, I used words at work. But not words. The kind that soothed, or enraged, or induced a laughing fit. 

Blogging introduced me to these words. It was kind of untimely because I was busy with work and I was in the middle of changing careers. and I never would have thought it would be at that point. It's been four years since that lovely introduction. I admit that I haven't been really faithful and committed. I can just count with my fingers the number of articles I wrote since then. But that's the good thing about writing. It is patient, never demanding. It waits for you when you are ready. 

So, am I ready? The truth is I don't know. I have started this affair with words four years ago. But I don't think I have progressed much. Heck, sometimes I embarrass myself with some pieces I wrote a few years back! And I have a feeling that when I read this piece in two years, I might scratch my head asking myself what I was thinking. For now, I actually don't care. I am just unfolding. 

P.S. No carets and pilcrows were harmed while writing this article. In fact, none were used because copyreading wasn't done. ;O)

I Lied. I Hate Teaching.

Only three hours of sleep ought to have weighed my eyelids down. Yet sleep mocks me like an expected visitor that never arrives. I guess this is because of the last lecture I gave to my graduating students. There is this unnerving itch that beckons me to pound on the keys of my computer. Perhaps Maya Angelou was right when she said that there is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you. So let me make the untold told.

Over four years ago, I wrote an entry on my blog which I called, regrettably for its overly grand style, Born to Teach. In there, I outlined the long but interrupted history I had with teaching and how I was led to the academe. I claimed professed my love for teaching. But now, I hate it.

I hate it because, come to think of it, teachers are the most stupid bunch of people. Who would spend hours preparing their lessons just to see that look of students that tells us that we've made them understand how to unravel the Gordian knots of life. Okay, that might be too much of a stretch but you get the point. Also, imagine teachers getting overly concerned for students who don't pass projects on time, come to class late, or are absent. I mean, if these kids don't put in effort, why should I, right? But you see these teachers anyway. Why would anyone try to deviate from their well-planned syllabus to accommodate the pace of students? Shouldn't it be the problem of students to catch up? Teachers take their time to painstakingly integrate little bits and pieces of values like honesty and discipline in the discussion, in the activities, and in every nook and corner of the classroom experience. Silly, right? And to bring their practicality barometer down to an all-time low, they do this even if they know that these kids are bound to leave the school halls in a couple of years. Yes, you also see these kinds of teachers. I am one of those.

That claim is not to brag about myself. I am just one of the many millions of teachers who are like that. And it is during this time of the school year when I hear a few of my colleagues' voice get nostalgic when they reminisce their memories with the graduates. I've seen this happen a couple of times but I didn't get it. I found it cute but at the back of my mind I was like "Okaaaay." I guess it is something a teacher only grasps after seeing several batches graduate. By then, the smoke clears and one becomes faced with the clear and bland truth that the point where our lives meet with the lives of our students will come to an end. And that is what I hate. The bitter-sweet goodbye.

The other day, I saw a photo in Facebook illustrating how sad the story of parallel lines are because these lines will never meet. The case is as sad for intersecting lines because they meet at one point but drift apart forever. But who ever said life was one straight line? I'd like to think of it as a curved line filled with several waves and crests and at several points in time, my curved line intersects with the lives of my students. And school is just the first intersection. And then I realize that it's not a goodbye after all. And then I don't hate teaching anymore.