Leavings: Liebster Award

Lance tagged me in a meme called the Liebster Award, only neither Lance nor I really know who's giving the award and why, so let's just go with it. Anyway, it's been a while since I've filled out a meme.

THE RULES

Share 11 facts about yourself.

Answer the awarder’s 11 questions.

Ask 11 questions of your own.

Tag 11 people.

THE FACTS

1

I like to sing. I sing a lot when I'm home alone. I am shy about performing on a stage, but if we happen to be at home watching American Idol, Glee, or a musical movie, or if a song I like comes on the radio, or if someone has a guitar and starts to play, I will sing along if I know the words and you are someone who will not judge me for it.

2

As my friends Nina and Vikki can attest, I'm not a hugger. The only people I make it a point to hug are my parents, my lola, Cris, and, occasionally, my brothers and cousins. The circle of people whose hugs I reciprocate is only a little bigger.

It's not you; it's me.

3

I attend church with my brother and consider myself a Christian, but I also consider myself agnostic. For all my belief, I still disagree and question, and for all my disagreeing and questioning, I still, somehow, believe. I just don't like to talk about it much, don't blog about it, avoid talking to conservatives about it, and have never talked about it with my parents, because I don't want anyone worrying about me going to hell.

Mostly, I hope no one back home reads this and blames my parents. They raised me well, but my faith is my own. If I'm wrong, then I'm wrong, and if there's a God, then I'll work it out with him.

4

I like watching bad TV, but it has to be "good" bad TV. The Kardashians, Gossip Girl, and America's Next Top Model are "good," for instance, but I can't sit through The Millionaire Matchmaker, True Beauty, or TMZ without wanting to throw something at the screen.

5

I love green things and grew up in a really green place; my mom is an excellent gardener. I don't think she passed her green thumb on to me, though. Every plant I've been given to personally care for has died.

6

I love to bake, but an oven won't fit in my apartment, so I just use Cris's when I can. I love baking cookies in particular, but I'd like to learn to make bread.

7

I prefer old hymns to contemporary worship music. Singing hymns somehow makes me feel closer to the community, while contemporary worship music seems very much a very individual thing. As it is, church is one of the few community things I do, and my involvement is minimal at best, so it's nice to have something that makes me feel a little more connected to other people at church.

8

I learned to play the ocarina late last year. I bought a four-hole pendant ocarina in Beijing just for fun, but if I'd known just how much I'd enjoy it, I would have splurged a little on a 12-hole sweet potato ocarina so I could play songs with more than one octave. I might ask someone to get it for me if they go to China or Taiwan this year.

9

I write, eat, and use my craft knife with my left hand but use scissors and kitchen knives with my right.

10

I like nice things, but I hate shopping. I also hate being badgered by sales clerks; I prefer clerks who let you browse in peace and help you only if you ask. I actually leave stores with badgering clerks even if I like the things inside. My idea of going shopping is wandering around, looking at things, and telling myself (and the clerks!) that I'll come back some other time. This is partly why very little of my wardrobe has changed in four years.

If something needs replacing, I spend a long time agonizing over whether to replace it with something durable but expensive or to just get something cheap to tide me over till I feel more ready for a costlier purchase. When I run out of time, because I spent so much of it being indecisive, I often end up buying something that is neither as cheap nor as durable as I'd like, and my dislike for shopping only deepens.

11

I wish I could have a dog, but no one would take care of it while I was at work. Besides, look what happened to my plants.

THE QUESTIONS

1: Do you dream in color?

Yes. I read somewhere that this depends on what kind of television you grew up with. I'd be more surprised if someone told me that they dream in black-and-white.

2: What did you do with your first salary?

Spent it on food, transpo, and books. I know you're supposed to send it home to your parents, but I felt uncomfortable with the idea. It's not that I wanted to keep the money for myself, it's that sending the money home would have meant asking Dad for money for two more weeks.

3. What are the books that you've read more than once?

There are a lot; these are just a few favorites.

American Gods
Good Omens
The Graveyard Book
Brief Lives
— all by Neil Gaiman; Good Omens was co-written with Terry Pratchett. Gaiman was a favorite author for a while, and I still like these books.

A Wrinkle in Time, by Madeleine L'Engle, and the rest of the series

A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams, and the rest of the series (but not the Eoin Colfer continuation)

The Arrival, by Shaun Tan

Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen; a recent reread, because I've been following the Lizzie Bennet Diaries on Youtube

The Martian Chronicles, by Ray Bradbury

4: Your dream job?

The protagonist of Pattern Recognition, by William Gibson, makes a living off a strange physical sensitivity to branding. In one scene, an agency flies her to London to show her a logo on a piece of paper. She takes one look at it, says, "No," and then spends the rest of the day enjoying the city (and spending her money).

Unfortunately, I do not feel physical revulsion upon seeing pictures of Bibendum, so something else will have to do.

I'm actually pretty happy with my current job, but if National Geographic or LEGO came calling, I'd be out in a second.

5: What's the greatest moral issue of our time?

I think human rights will be a big deal for as long as humans somewhere are denied them. It sounds generic, but really, when you talk about causes like women's rights, gay rights, children's rights, or ethnic minority rights, you are talking about human beings not being treated the way human beings deserve.

6: Describe how you look to a blind man.

I am an inch or two over five feet; I don't really measure because most other people are taller than me, anyway. My face is heart-shaped, with bony cheeks and chin, and I don't weigh much, but my body is starting to go soft from lack of physical activity. My hair is short. The skin on my face is uneven because of some mystery problem that comes and goes. The skin on my legs is a bit rough because of some parts that I scratch, stubbornly. I still think I'm pretty, but you know, that's just me.

7: Name three words you have a hard time spelling.

misspell

accommodate

embarrass

8: What are the places you like to visit someday?

Incomplete and in no particular order:

New York

Italy

Mexico

Singapore (again)

Beijing (again)

Japan

Taiwan

Palawan

Davao (it's been a while)

Sagada (again)

Mt. Pinatubo

Vigan (the last time didn't count)

Zanzibar

Cuba

Hong Kong

London

California (again)

and Kalsangi with kids, before my parents retire and move out.

8: Your greatest frustration?

That I didn't have a sport or sustained extracurricular activity as a child.

When we were in the US, I never asked my parents if I could go to gymnastics, be a cheerleader, or join something like Brownies or Girl Scouts, because they seemed like things only American girls could do. I didn't explicitly think that then, but it was something I felt deep down. Finally, when I was in the fourth grade, I joined the track team on an impulse and was kind of good, but then we moved back here.

I had piano lessons both in the US and here in the Philippines, but they stopped because we couldn't find a teacher who could teach me and Mikko after school on weekdays, and I didn't want to give up Saturdays doing other things.

9: How do you cope with loss?

The last time, I listened to some sad music (Adele, anyone?), then some great music (Ceremonials, by Florence + the Machine). I cried and wrote in my diary a lot, and wrote blog entries, semi-cryptic and not. I prayed. I worked on some crafts. I just kept working. I realized I could now enjoy people, activities, and ideas that, before, I'd felt compelled to make second priority. I looked for friends both old and new. I hung out with my brother and saw my family a little more. I learned Mandarin.

I'm thankful I haven't had to deal with the death of a loved one yet.

10: What's the next language you want to learn, and why?

Probably a southern Chinese language, like Hokkien or Cantonese, or Spanish. I think I should learn Spanish because it seems important to being Filipino (though I won't think you less Filipino if you only know one language), and I chose the Chinese languages like I chose Mandarin; they might be useful to me one day. But at this point, studying any language is more out of nerdiness than any actual career plans.

MY QUESTIONS

1

What is your favorite cheese?

2

Do you have a favorite building?

3

Any plans for Valentine's Day, or is it not your thing?

4

Tell me about an interesting scar or blemish.

5

If you were to go out without any identification and suddenly die, how would it happen, and where should we start looking for your body?

6

Regardless of whether you actually regret your major, if you could go back in time, what would you study instead, and why?

7

Complete this sentence: "When I was 10 years old, I thought I'd be __________ by the time I reached my current age (__)."

8

Describe your ideal dwelling.

9

How do you keep your current place tidy?

10

What's the most important decision you've made in the last five years?

11

If you had the country's or even the world's attention for one minute, what would you say?

THE PEOPLE

Audrey T.

Eush T.

Petra M.

Nash T.

Zoe D.

Dom C.

Carina S.

Nina D.

Joey R.

and anyone who comments and is not on this list (and not Lance).

If I've tagged you, it's either because you're more likely to actually blog or because I'm just curious. Kindly leave me a link to your post if you accept this award.


BONUS

Enjoying the View

The view from my new apartment, which I moved into on Saturday, overlooks a nearby subdivision where I can see kids playing basketball, people walking their dogs, and trees, trees, trees, trees, trees. And in the distance, behind a layer of smog, is the Ortigas skyline and a bit of Greenhills.

In the past two days, I have drunk in the view and felt myself in other places, particularly gorgeous green Singapore or just somewhere like home. I think it's because it's a little hard to believe that I am right here in Quezon City, that this view is mine, and that this life is my life.

The dark cloud over everything in the past month or so has been my own fear that all this amazing stuff — my wonderful dream of a boyfriend Cris; my move-enabling, actually enjoyable job; and now this fantastic apartment — will be taken away, just as so many other things were taken away or I was pushed from them. So, I half don't want to believe in them to make the impending pain of losing them easier to bear.

My friends (rightly) say I'm being ridiculous, being afraid of things that haven't happened and may never happen. Cris would say that people don't know they can choose to be happy; "We're going to be happy, Kat," he likes to remind me.

I know, really, because in the past few years, I told myself to choose happiness and work on whatever would get it for me. I wanted career fulfillment, some nice (if only rented) real estate, more family time, and more love. But really, I wanted to be at home in myself, to learn to be my own anchorage, and to architect my heart into the haven I longed for amid all the changes, disappointments, and adjustments.

The thing is, I did that because of the disappointments; I did that while telling myself, "Life is not entirely the wonderful thing you've dreamed about; just roll with the punches and find something to smile about regardless." I guess it was really just another way of saying, "Life will get better, but not by much, so don't ask for much; be content with what you get."

And then, life got better by a ton.

And quickly, I realized that while I was good at living like happiness was a light at the end of a long, long, long tunnel, I wasn't prepared for when I found myself standing outside with the sun in my face and the sea at my feet.

Or inside a new apartment with the lease in my name.

It was just so much easier to be self-confident when I had nothing to lose and nothing to miss. That's it, I think. In a weird way, the lack of fulfillment was armor. I'm so much more vulnerable now that I'm where I always wanted to be, with the kind of people I always wanted to be with, and doing the kinds of things I always wanted to do.

For the past couple of years, I lived believing happiness depended on strength in the face of difficulty; now I find it depends on openness and vulnerability in the face of fulfillment, especially fulfillment you never thought was possible.

This post features photos by Cris.

Prayers these days are alternately, "Thank you, God," and "Oh, God, what happens next?"

More of this, I hope with all my heart. Please let there be more of this, and help me to enjoy it.

The Better Story: Notes on Agnosticism and "Life of Pi"

I've been meaning to write down some thoughts about faith, religion, and "Life of Pi," by Yann Martel but haven't gotten around to it until now. I'm going to discuss the ending and twist of the book, though, so I suggest you stop reading now if you don't want to get spoiled.

Davita and me (plus Pi)

It's a great comfort to meet people whose experience of faith is something you can relate to, even if they're fictional characters.

Last week, I finished my mom's Christmas gift to me, "Davita's Harp," by Chaim Potok. Apart from the children's book, "The Tree of Here," this is is the only book by Mr. Potok I have read, but considering how much I liked both books, I might have to check out the ones on my mom's shelf when I go home.

[image source]

"Davita's Harp" is what I like to call a plainsong kind of novel, after "Plainsong," by Kent Haruf. These are the kinds of books that don't really follow the mountain-shaped beginning-middle-climax-resolution curve. Instead, they feel like a long, leisurely stroll with a friend from one end of a wide field (or plain) to the other. The field may have a few hills, but nothing abrupt; walking over these hills feels natural, and your friend talks about life and memory to help pass the time.

For this reason, books like these are easy to dismiss as "dragging" and even "boring;" like any real friendship, they require a good first impression and then some commitment. It's a good thing "Davita's Harp" was well-written and thus rewarding.

In this book, the friend is the titular character, Ilana Davita Chandal, a grade-school girl growing up in Depression-era New York and trying to make sense of her parents' politics, religion, and the Spanish Civil War overseas.

Davita's background is a bit mixed up. Michael, her American journalist father, comes from a conservative Episcopalian family but has stopped practicing his religion and is a Communist (it is not clear which happened first, or even whether he is agnostic or an atheist). Except for his sister Sarah, a devout missionary nurse, and one odd uncle, Michael's family has cut off all contact with him because of his (un)beliefs.

Davita's mother Anne, meanwhile, is a social worker, Polish immigrant, and former Orthodox Jew. She becomes a Communist only after getting to know Michael and is also a scholar in her own right. But, she has long despised all religion after surviving her father's abuse and neglect, the horror of the pogroms in Europe, and torture by Cossacks.

Both Anne and Michael are active members of the Communist party in the US and often go to or host meetings.

In the middle of all this is Davita, of course, who, partly as a result of her parents' leanings, and partly just because she's a smart girl, has plenty of books to read, plenty of curiosity, and more awareness of what's going on in the world than most children her age—yet her experience of world events are still definitely a child's.

The titular harp is a door harp at the entrance to the different apartments that the Chandal family inhabits (for vague, likely political reasons, they never stay in one place for too long). The harp strings ping whenever someone enters or exits the home, but over time, they signal the comings and goings of the people in Davita's life.

This is what a door harp looks like. [image source]

Though Davita has no religious upbringing, she is curious about the faith of the people around her: her Aunt Sarah, who prays fervently to Jesus; her next-door neighbor and playmate Ruthie, whose family is piously Jewish; her cousin David, whose mother's recent death has him reciting a mourner's kaddish daily for eleven months; and the writer Jakob Daw, who has no religion but whose stories involve quests for meaning.

Davita also has an early sense of religion as a possible component of one's identity; when neighborhood gang members threaten to beat her for being a Jew, her father's non-Jewish status has everyone confused—"So, what are you?"—and they let her pass, for now.

What I like about Davita's growing faith is that it seems to grow naturally. Mr. Potok does not actually explain why she is drawn to religion, so we are left to come up with our own reasons, or even to project our own experiences of faith onto her. Perhaps she wants something to fill her time alone, because her parents, loving as they are, must go out and make a living or serve the party. Perhaps she is looking for some kind of center amid all the moving from apartment to apartment. Perhaps she seeks a sense of order under the atmosphere of war and chaos. Perhaps she wants solace from grief and abandonment. Perhaps she is drawn to the religious community and the possibility of friends and family with a shared interest.

Perhaps it is all these things, or perhaps there is no one reason. Davita says nothing at all about any experience of a God drawing her near—yet we are free to believe that this may be it—we just know that she's following her heart. And sure, there are some people who try to convert Davita one way or another, but in the end, she goes to the synagogue because it feels like the right place to be, even if she doesn't understand what the rituals are about. She begins to kneel with her Christian aunt in prayer, even if Davita herself doesn't believe in Jesus, because it somehow feels right.

And because Davita follows her heart when it comes to faith, she doesn't meekly accept every teaching or custom as-is. She wonders why women must remain separate from the men in the synagogue. When someone close to her dies in the Guernica bombing (the Picasso painting has a huge effect on her when she sees it in person), she feels compelled to recite the mourner's kaddish, though Orthodox custom seems to discourage women from doing so.

When Davita transfers into the yeshiva, the Jewish religious school, she challenges her teachers' literal interpretations of the ancient Hebrew texts and researches an unorthodox theologian on her own. When religious authorities further discriminate against her because of her sex, she begins to understand how a single event can change a person overnight; the novel suggests that feminism may yet become Davita's cause, just as socialism was her parents'.

It is extremely refreshing to read about someone else finding faith without having the author spell out what is leading them. Nor does it seem as though Mr. Potok is imposing an unorthodox or feminist agenda. The characters arrive at their respective conclusions because that is how rational yet fallible human beings arrive at their conclusions. I think Mr. Potok's writing thus respects the nature of faith as personal and definitive yet only partially explicable.

Of course, I may be biased, as I experienced religion in much the same way Davita did. I never took the Bible literally and saw it as a literary compilation, even as a child. I had and still have a lot of questions. Many of those questions—as well as a core idea of the kind of god that the Abrahamic god must be, to be truly God—have led me to disagree with a lot of the things taught in or prescribed by the churches I've attended, including the one I attend now. Like Davita, I have little to say today about a personal experience of a God. And yet, for reasons I can't really explain, I believe in and pray to One.

I recommend "Davita's Harp" to anyone else with similar experiences, anyone who knows someone with similar experiences, anyone with a general interest in faith and religion, and anyone who likes a good plainsong novel (try "Certain Women," by Madeleine L'Engle, too).

[image source]

The other day, I started "Life of Pi," by Yann Martel. I'm just at the part where the boat has sunk, but so far, I've enjoyed Pi's adolescent exploration and acceptance of Hinduism, Islam, and Christianity. I especially admire Pi's desire to be a Christian despite his hangups about how avatar-Jesus-as-sacrifice is supposed to work. It doesn't make sense to him (it doesn't make sense to me, either), and yet he knows that there is something good there.

I know conservatives may paint poly-religious Pi as a superstitious, fearful boy trying to cover all the bases for his salvation. But, I'd agree with Pi that he simply sees these three religions as different ways to commune with the one God he loves. One could argue and nitpick all day about how incompatible these religions may be with one another, but ultimately, I think faith and its practice is what we make it.

Heat Under the Rocks

Click to enlarge.

Sometime last month, my brother signed up for a church-organized hike-slash-one-day-retreat on Taal Volcano. I wanted to hike, too, but was apprehensive about signing up; in general, I'm wary of Christian strangers asking me questions about my faith. I'd rather avoid situations that open me up to judgment or even condemnation just for being honest about my doubt. I'd also like to avoid situations where I seem to be something I'm not, which is a full-blown believer, and then be accused later of deceit.

Besides, I had Mandarin class the morning the hike group was supposed to head out.

Then, my mom told me that my dad was flying in, not on business, but just to join the hike and spend some time with Mikko and me. This seemed like a lot of trouble on Dad's part, as he takes vacation leaves sparingly, so, I decided to use one of my allowed absences from class and bond with my family.

My goals that day were to just enjoy the time with my dad and brother, enjoy the time outdoors and away from Manila, stay in the background during whatever retreat activity they had planned, and keep quiet when it came time to share. At the very least, the organizer-church—the same church I've been attending with Mikko since late August—seemed to be led by the kind of people who respect other people's quiet.

There were lots of beautiful views (some of which I'm sharing on Tumblr and Facebook).


Click to enlarge.

We went up to the summit and then went back and forth along this long ridge. It was still fairly early in the morning, the sun was not too hot, and there was some cloud cover. Despite the number of tourists going up and down, it was a quiet day.

After some time, we gathered at the rest huts to listen to the retreat master. And funnily enough, the theme of the retreat was goal-meeting (and right off the bat, the master said, "You don't all have to share").

While he didn't say anything or quote any passages I hadn't heard or read before, he did get me to think about questions that almost everyone asks each other and themselves:

What are your goals for today? What are your goals for the future? How are you going to accomplish them?

Is it bad to say, acknowledge, or admit—is it a crime?—that I haven't had a grand life goal since the breakup?

I don't blame Martin for my apparent purposelessness; I believe it was ultimately a good thing for me to arrive where I am now, in the condition I'm in now. But see, back then, so many of my goals depended on him. Today, I haven't stopped wanting the things I wanted; but they've become kind of abstract considering they aren't immediately feasible.

So, all I've wanted to accomplish in the meantime is to learn to be happy with myself, be reconciled with my flawed parts, and stay productive. I don't know when I'll have what I want(ed) or if it will ever arrive, so I just want to be happy catching as catch can.

One warning the retreat master gave everyone last Saturday was that taking things into one's own hands may only muck things up for ourselves, when God has his own designs on our lives. There are plenty of contentious ideas to do with human goal-setting and divine designs, but that day, I didn't want my objections to ruin a lovely day out with my family. I laid most of these objections aside and allowed myself to agree with this one thing: because I don't know what's next, I'm just going to stay reasonably busy, keep the door of my heart open, and hope for the best.

It was, all in all, an awesome day to be out with my family. I felt renewed gratitude for them, especially my parents and all they'd done for me and my brothers. I know my life wouldn't be as good as it is now if it hadn't been for my family and their love.

The love really is the greatest thing, the best thing that helps me keep my faith. On some days, it's not so hard to lay off my doubt and see the beaten track again, the clear path of belief and the relative ease with which it would meet my feet. On those days, I know how easy it is to "just" believe.

I am afraid of rejection there, too. Why would God welcome someone so willful and self-absorbed?

And yet, the love of my family, despite how physically and emotionally distant I've become in the past few years, is what allows me to reach for if not grasp the kind of love that they talk about in church. It is that kind of love that would lead me back to the fervent kind of faith I used to have. And like I said, I'm keeping my door open.


Click to enlarge.

Dead Rabbit

I take horoscopes and other attempts at prediction with a grain of salt, but out of general curiosity and growing interest in Chinese culture, I decided to check out what Chinese astrology had to say about my prospects for the year of the Water Dragon. Somehow, I stumbled upon this website and received a troubling forecast.

The site first gave me my birth chart (click on the image below), which made as much sense to me as hieroglyphics until it was supplemented with this other website. I have strong fire and weak water (whatever that means), which both make for good times with the Dragon.

Top geomancer Joseph Chau, who works with the Mandarin Oriental Hotel as well as with certain local real estate companies and other businesses, also supplied our women's website with these more detailed predictions. According to him, for a good year, I must:

• Work hard
• Maintain stability
• Try not to aim too high
• Be more humble
• Try not to be greedy
• Strengthen my immune system
• Relax more

Now, this sounds like good advice for anyone regardless of their animal sign; that's the main reason I take this stuff with a grain of salt.

The first website, however, gave me a less benign outlook for the long term. Behold, "the rise and fall of your (my) entire life:"

According to this, I have some pretty good years ahead of me, and if I want to have a happy marriage, I ought to get hitched before I turn 30. (My mother would probably agree.) After that, I'd have about 20 years of happy relationships and financial bliss.

Once I turn 50, however, my luck flat-lines. I wonder which of these horrible disasters should befall me then:

• I get cancer.
• I go to prison with a life sentence.
• I get a death sentence.
• I get hit by a car and become a wheelchair-bound vegetable for the rest of my days.
• I lose my mind.
• All my kids die, my husband deserts me, and my assets disappear.
• All my life becomes a sisyphean striving in what should be my golden years.

(In contrast, my friends here at the office are all going to be rich cougars. Maybe one of them will take pity on me and hand me some leftover smoked salmon from the window of her diamond-encrusted BMW.)

My immediate response to this graph was to tell myself, "Just spend life making it good and happy, and maybe you'll avoid most of that bad juju."

Then again, my efforts to make life good might only land me in some Greek tragedy by way of self-fulfilling prophecy.

Either way, it seems useless for me to worry about it now. I'll just enjoy the next 25 years and then see how long I can keep going after that—my approach to life before this stupid graph, anyway.

Gong xi fa cai!

In the Beginning

I know I said I'd reread the whole Bible this year, but I hadn't realized that reading it in three languages was going to slow things down quite a bit.

The first time I did it, I got through on four chapters a day—and I wasn't taking notes. To do it in three languages this year will require 12 chapters a day, which I don't have time for, considering the other things I want/need to accomplish each day.

Three to six chapters a day (one or two for each language) plus note-taking seems more reasonable and, if I'm diligent, will at least get me to the end of the Old Testament by December 31.

Why am I doing this?
I could explain it myself, but I like G.K. Chesterton's way (emphases mine):

"There are two ways of getting home; and one of them is to stay there. The other is to walk round the whole world till we come back to the same place; and I tried to trace such a journey in a story I once wrote. ... I conceived it as a romance of those vast valleys with sloping sides, like those along which the ancient White Horses of Wessex are scrawled along the flanks of the hills. It concerned some boy whose farm or cottage stood on such a slope, and who went on his travels to find something, such as the effigy and grave of some giant; and when he was far enough from home he looked back and saw that his own farm and kitchen-garden, shining flat on the hill-side like the colours and quarterings of a shield, were but parts of some such gigantic figure, on which he had always lived, but which was too large and too close to be seen.

...

"It is well with the boy when he lives on his father's land; and well with him again when he is far enough from it to look back on it and see it as a whole. But [passionate critics of religion] have got into an intermediate state, have fallen into an intervening valley from which they can see neither the heights beyond them nor the heights behind.

...

"[T]he best relation to our spiritual home is to be near enough to love it. But the next best is to be far enough away not to hate it." — Introduction, "The Everlasting Man"

I feel that I left the valley of exasperation with my religion a long time ago and have climbed to that opposite side. So now, it's well past time that I took a good look and decided whether I could still have a home back there.

Why start with the Bible, then? Why not ask a priest or pastor to lead me?
I grew up Protestant, so I subscribed to the sola that told me all I needed to understand was in the book, and the book was open to me, and I didn't need (but could be helped by) someone in church authority to explain it to me. It was to the Bible I turned when I got fed up with what I was hearing from the pulpit, because I wanted to be sure of what's what. And today, the Bible still feels like the best starting point, because it's the book upon which all Christianity stakes most if not all of its claims.

It's also a point of unfinished business; I never finished my second re-reading because by the time I'd reached the middle of Isaiah, I was in the thickest part of my angst about the church and couldn't take anything more to do with it.

Sola aside, I don't claim to know everything about Christianity. Nor do I claim complete self-sufficiency. That's why I still go to church on Sundays; sitting in the pews and listening to an appointed leader is part of observing from the other side of the valley.

Why read in three languages?
It's a matter of pride.

Language has always been among both my greatest strengths and my greatest weaknesses. English was my first language, and I've made a living out of sentence-wrangling with it. I seem to be getting along fine in Mandarin so far. My tongue still stumbles, though, over the simplest Tagalog and Bisaya. When I speak in these languages, I can hear my own accent, and it trips me up.

I've always felt like an outsider in this country—I find it hard, sometimes, to call it "my" country—because of how I sound and the way I'm treated because of how I sound. There was a vicious circle for a while there; I had an aversion to learning the local languages because I wasn't good at using the local languages.

I think I've also crossed the valley when it comes to my ethnic identity, and I'm far enough away to make it out now. But to do that, I believe I need to tighten my grasp of the local languages—the one used here in Manila and the one used back in Socsksargen.

So, I'm going to read and listen and mutter to myself a lot more, and I'm going to start somewhere that's familiar: the Bible. Then, maybe when I'm done, I'll know which side of the valley is home.

Now Dismiss

A recent comment from Lance has encouraged me to blog a little more openly about my faith, so here's a little pre-Christmas reflection.

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In church, we've been counting down to Christmas with four songs that were sung in the days leading up to Jesus's birth. I missed the first, but the other three were Mary's, the angels' to the shepherds, and Simeon's.

I like the latter two best. I miss the days when I believed that heaven could speak to me in the most unlikely places, so to imagine myself hearing the angel song, say, while waiting on a crowded MRT platform would give me all the hope and foundation I needed. Never mind my doubt and throw off my anxieties if I could have a moment like that to remember: I saw angels and heard them sing. We all did. The light and the sound was incredible. God is real, and near.

At the same time, however, I suspect that I wouldn't be the one seeing the angels. That visit today would be made to day laborers at a construction site, slum dwellers, and flood evacuees sleeping on cold classroom floors. If there is such a God as the preachers have preached, he is a God of those for whom things are most hopeless, and I should be afraid to receive the word that the Gloria was sung.

The prophets of the Bible have warned against ignoring the suffering of the fatherless, the widowed, and the destitute. Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed not for sexual deviance, but for failing to care for the needy. The Messiah heralded by the angels brings justice, so for all the times I've failed to care, I should be afraid.

This is the point in the post where someone who means well rushes to the comment box and says, "But you're missing the point of the angel song! They're announcing the arrival of a Savior who banishes all fear! The Savior is for both rich and poor! Just accept him into your heart, and you won't have to worry about punishment; you'll be in heaven when you die!" (Plus a little side debate about faith and works.)

This is why Christmas can be difficult for me. Believing in and celebrating a Savior entails believing in the kind of God that would send a Savior, and would send one in the style set out in the Bible, which in itself requires a lot of rewiring on my part to be fully accepted. Once I get through those road blocks, I then have to consider the proposal that this Savior is Jesus of Nazareth.

And if it is Jesus, then it is the Jesus who made it a point to prioritize the poor and the outsiders over all the rest. It's the Jesus who, in one teacher's translation of the old Greek and Hebrew for "compassion," saw the multitudes and wanted to shit himself.

It's the Jesus who can tell you at the gates of heaven, "I don't know you," and whose ancestor Abraham may tell you that the gulf between your station and poor Lazarus's is too great to cross.

When I was smaller, I wanted to be the boy with the basket of bread and fish, ready to be offered and shared. Now that I'm older, I know that at my worst, I'm the Levite crossing the road to avoid the mugging victim, and at my best, I'm only the man in Mark 9:24, Thomas who needed to touch the holes in Jesus's palms to believe, and Zaccheus who needed a little shakeup to give his wealth away.

In some small measure, then, Simeon's song is comforting, because he received the sign he was waiting for, held his Savior in his arms, and knew that he could now die happy and at peace. On good days, I don't have to go through all these mental gymnastics, I can see how easy it is to "just" believe, and I have a little peace. On bad days, I hope there is a God, I hope he gives signs, and I hope I'll know how to recognize them, to grasp them before I die, so I can have a little peace.

And in the meantime, I do what work I can.

Do What Pray Tell

A well-meaning friend suggested that, now that I'm single again, I should spend more time with God and ask myself if I was going to be with him in heaven after I died.

The thing is, she and I have different ideas of God. I don't think she'd really dig mine, much less how I spend time with who I believe is God. There's also no paper trail--no Bible study group signup forms, no outreach ministry membership brochures--to prove to her that I spend any time with God at all.

Ever since I left my church job, talking about God to the people--especially the professing Christian people--who have known me since childhood runs the risk of opening a can of worms that never seems safe to open. So, all I could do was sidestep my friend's suggestion and address some of the other points she'd raised during our conversation about whether I'm ready to date anyone.

I do wish, though, that there was someone I could talk to about my faith. The next-closest person to me who has any clue about its state is my younger brother, but out of pride, I avoid talking to him about it. I say next-closest, because Martin knew a little more than my brother does, but his viewpoint is Catholic, so he didn't quite get everything.

I once dropped in on a Filipino Freethinkers meeting and would have liked to talk to the Episcopalian guy, but I don't feel like going back.

I guess I would just like to talk to someone who understands Protestant, particularly evangelical church culture, is familiar with evangelical teachings, would listen to what I had to say, wouldn't judge me, and would maybe even walk away without worrying unnecessarily over the fate of my immortal soul. Basically, I would like to talk to someone who would listen, not preach or fret, and just leave me in the hands of whatever God they believed in, just as I place myself in the hands of mine.

Preferably not someone I work with, because just knowing they follow me on Twitter makes things soooo awkward already.

Is it too early for New Year's resolutions? I'm looking forward to the new year. These are more plans than resolutions:

1. Reread the Bible, this time a KJV.
2. Continue studying Mandarin.
3. Bike more.
4. Move out of Cubao.
5. Keep a planner.
6. Make more complicated popup buildings.
7. Invest some more.
8. Study more economics.
9. Get a pet. If where I live doesn't allow pets, get a small pet that doesn't make noise. A turtle, maybe.
10. Be happy.

And as for whether I'm ready to date anyone, I don't think I want to just yet. So far, no one who's expressed interest has really grabbed my attention, either. I guess we'll see how the new year goes.

Communion

1.

I'm not sure what I'm doing in church. I started going again, tagging along with my brother, a few weeks ago, but half the time, I'm not sure why I'm there.

I used to blog quite a bit about my faith. I stopped when I stopped going to church and quit my old job because I'd stopped going to the church where I worked. I just had and still have all these questions that, at all the churches I'd been to, would only have been met with judgment instead of consideration. I couldn't find anyone with a satisfying answer to my own personal Mark 9:24.

To explain everything I do or don't believe today would take another post, but in a nutshell, I call myself an agnostic theist. Somehow, despite all my doubt, I believe there is a God. The big however is, I don't believe that humans and human religions have the last word on who God is and what he does.

So, for the longest time, I couldn't stomach being in church, because everything anyone said from the pulpit was met in my head with, "Well, how do you know?" or, "That doesn't sound like something God would really do."

So, no one's more surprised than me at the fact of me sitting in the pews next to my brother these past several Sundays, hanging on to the pastors' words, and feeling my heart welling up in song.

The skeptic in me says that old habits die hard. She also says I'm vulnerable right now and looking for something to hang on to—that it's the only reason I've started going again.

But, the believer in me knows that my faith's been creeping slowly back for months, beginning with counter-doubts for all my doubts. Somehow, despite everything, inexplicably, I just believe.

It helps that the church my brother's chosen, though still conservative in doctrine, is quite open, and openly open. There's a sense that its leaders actually see individual human beings with myriad needs and concerns, not just sheep to herd and count. And so far, they've spoken less about how to avoid going to hell and more about how to treat your fellows, how to help one another, and how to be good in an often bad world.

The most telling thing for me was when the pastor spoke before Communion last Sunday and said that the table was open for everyone regardless of denomination, and, "not just for those who believe, but those who want to believe." And I could tell from the way he spoke and stood that his invitation was not some memorized spiel but a sincere invitation to taste what God and church had to offer. So, I took the bread, drank the wine, and was thankful.

2.

After church, Martin and I met in the area to talk things over some more. I'm not going to reproduce his exact words, but even if I didn't hear what I wanted to hear, I know I heard everything I needed. I've sworn to myself to remember this every time I feel my own bitterness returning. I do believe everything will be fine.

Archaeology

I meant to write something more straightforward yesterday, but I ended up making up a story (?) instead. I revised it a bit just now, though I'm not sure if it's better.

Before I get to that, though, what I meant to write yesterday was, Martin and I broke up two weeks ago. It was the result of as grown-up a conversation as can be had with one person (me) sobbing, and I am sad as hell, but I guess it's time for us now to figure some things out separately. We are still friends, though.

I suppose that takes away some of the mystery of what I've written, but anyway—


Archaeology


When they dig us up at reunion dinners and birthday parties, they will find the ruins of an unfinished temple, abandoned because its builder-priests had simply run out of time.

To be sure, there had been a deadline, though it had been pushed back and back by so many interruptions, until the priests had simply agreed that they would finish in good time, eventually.

The diggers will climb the gentle staircase of the temple’s foundation and note that early construction had been easy enough, with slabs of granite faith and the cement of ardent promises. They will find the memories, too, painstakingly carved into the inner walls and preserved in glass jars, made airtight with fondness.

“Look here,” they will say, “dirt and flaming petals from an old ledge, crumbs from a crispy catfish salad, pine needles from Sagada, a boarding pass to her hometown, a paper star.”

Then, where the next walls went up, there will also be the first crack, hastily filled with panic’s plaster.

“Here is where the morning priest had some crisis, the kind that's notoriously difficult to avoid but still looks childish in hindsight. See the receipts from Butter Diner, the keys to separate houses across the city? She dropped her hammer and sealed herself off in a room for 90 days.”

Annoyed by the delay, the evening priest occupied himself with letters from the crown. They will see that building resumed after the cloister was torn down, when the morning priest had heard silence outside its walls as well as in. Its cracked stones form the base of the pillars, which might still have stood solid and majestic, eagles and lions carved into the basalt, if lightning hadn’t struck.

“Look: worn bandages, a broken crutch, an empty golden tin that once held methyl salicylate, tear- or beer-stained scrolls. This time, the evening priest was abed for nearly a year, and building slowed to a near standstill.”

That year, the foundations were strengthened somehow, but nothing could rise till the builders were stronger. In the meantime, the morning priest made new blueprints, for the city that would surround the temple: smooth streets for easy walking, simple houses that shared single courtyards, open markets, large enough barracks, and parks larger still, for children and grandchildren who already had names.

“Here the books and ticket stubs mark the new year, and the evening priest vowed to continue their great work. Over the beautiful pillars, which they would finish first, he said there’d be a gilded roof to last for all time. But look, the limestone blocks never left the quarry. He left to accept a regency."

Hammers are not as heavy as crowns; his is half-buried beneath tall grass. Forgotten, dropped, or thrown from his cart, no one can tell. Some digger will trip over it on their way to climb the steps. And they will go to the very top, see the invisible pillars, and gaze from the dais over the jungle, grown where houses would have stood. They will explore the niches, open the jars, and catalog everything carefully for display in their own faraway museums.

They will not know how we passed hammers to one another, prayed for peace under the open sky, admired our own handiwork—how I traced your eagles’ wings with my fingers; how you caressed my lions with your palms—and promised with tears in our eyes that this would be the greatest temple, a shining marvel to all the world. They will see only the bones of the morning priest, sealed off in a stone room to die, clutching blueprints to her chest.

A Reintroduction

This is more for myself than anyone else.

I was born in General Santos City, South Cotabato in 1987. My father was (and still is, really) an engineer at Dole Phils., Inc., and my mother, a homemaker overqualified for the local job market at the time.

I went to Dole Philippines School, which some people remember as an international school (it isn't anymore) and others think is in Bukidnon (which I will always rebut, and often vehemently).

After I finished first grade, my dad got a transfer to the Dole Fruit & Nut Co. in Fresno, California. We lived there for three years.

I often wonder if that time period is too brief for me to still have an accent, but there were other factors:
- English was my first language.
- Even before we left for the States, most of my playmates were Americans and/or English-speaking Filipinos.
- No one else my age spoke Filipino when we went to the States, not even the kids at the Filipino church we attended (where the service was in English).
- The three years abroad were what child development folks consider part of a person's formative years.
- When we returned, it was to a place where few people spoke Filipino/Tagalog; the local vernacular was either Bisaya or Ilonggo.
- When we returned, Americans and/or English-speaking Filipinos were the ones who were most friendly to me. I quickly associated the vernacular with bullies and so wasn't keen to be like them.
- All of the young adult books in our school library were in English.
- The only teacher who gave me one-on-one help in learning the national language was my Grade Five teacher, the first Filipino teacher I had upon returning to Kalsangi--which is probably why my grasp of the language is still Fourth-Grade-level.
- I wasn't an attentive student. Sometimes, I would look away from the board for a moment and then look back, only to find that it had completely changed--plus 20 minutes had gone by. I was really more interested in library books, computers, and imagining pulpy stories than in studying for any subject, much less Filipino.
- I was consistently in the top three of my class (I usually was and eventually graduated #3), so I didn't really feel pressured to work any harder.

We came home. When I wasn't out with friends or holed up somewhere reading, I was outside--biking, hiking, climbing trees, and swimming.

In my senior year of high school, I read a spare copy of "The Purpose-Driven Life" lying around the house and gave my life to Jesus.

I went to the Ateneo de Manila University for college. The greater brains, talent, and/or initiative shown by many of my batchmates there made me feel worthless. Church, prayer, journalling, blogging, books, philosophy and theology classes, shifting out of the School of Management, and joining the school's literary publication put me back on my feet.

In senior year, I became disenchanted with the church I was attending and frustrated that it didn't have adequate answers to my questions.

I read an essay by a guy I hadn't met yet and, under some compulsion, had an imaginary conversation with him while alone in my dorm room that night.

I graduated from college and got my first job at a different church, for two reasons: I was getting desperate, as there weren't many job openings that weren't outsourcing- , broadcasting- , or sales/marketing-related, and I wanted to see if this church might have the answers I sought.

After one year, I left, also for two reasons: I wanted to write more, but more importantly, my beliefs had become increasingly liberal. It was clear to me that my beliefs (and questions) didn't fit in with the teachings and culture of that church--or any other I had attended thus far--and that my employers deserved someone who truly shared their vision. I left as quietly as I could, without telling anyone there of my second reason, because I was afraid of being judged.

Between graduation and early this year, my self-esteem went up and down in what's fashionably known as a quarterlife crisis but could generally be described as me feeling wasted and rootless. I missed home with my family, fresh air, grass you didn't have to keep off, trees, insects, nearby sea, and big sky. I also fidgeted for something to keep me busy outside of books and writing (I've been too drained by work), until I found a craft I could really enjoy.

Also between graduation and early this year, I was reintroduced to the guy who wrote the essay I'd read and, over the course of the next few weeks, heard the other half of that imaginary conversation. We've been together two years, four months, and six days. Among many good things, he's helped me to believe in myself again.

A few months ago, I went to Singapore for a week with my family, and for some reason, I'm still not over it.

I have been working at this company for nearly two years (full come September). Last month, I was promoted to assistant editor.

Today, I'm bracing myself now for more changes at work. I'm looking forward to catching up with my brother and moving to a bigger apartment. I'm taking things with Martin as they come. I hope to get better at my new craft. I'm still unchurched, but secure in my faith. I still miss home or long for places like Singapore, but it doesn't get to me as it used to. I try not to regret my "wasted" youth, because it isn't over yet.

All things considered, I am happy, and thankful.

30 Days of Books: Days 8-14

I've decided to break this meme into chunks lest the later days get buried under my usual walls of text. Here we go with Days 8-14:

Judgment Day: 21 May 2011

Well, that's according to this religious group, anyway. I'm not inclined to believe it myself; I'm amillennialist, and the math's just weird to me. I'll stick to what Matthew had to say on the matter. But I suppose we'll all know our fates come next Saturday by being raptured--or not raptured, as the case may be.

I always thought that with the end of the world so near, I'd not go to work and spend all my money on a plane ticket home and/or a trip to the beach. But I also like the peaceful picture painted by Ray Bradbury in "The Last Night of the World," in which the end is simply thought of as "the closing of a book," and everybody just goes to bed at the end of the day, as if it were any other day. I can honestly say that if the world did end this Saturday, or in October, as the eBible Fellowship says it will, and I happened to be doing what I did every day, I wouldn't mind. The world will end sooner or later, whether by divine cataclysm or natural entropy, this Saturday or a billion years from now, and you either accept that or you don't.

Okay, all that said, I'd probably go to Martin's house, since he's my closest loved one in town, and we'd watch "Shrek" or "3 Idiots" or just read books together or something.

I think I'll do that anyway.

Thoughts on "Certain Women"

I just finished Certain Women by Madeleine L'Engle. In it, a young actress, Emma Wheaton cares for her dying father David--also an actor, and a great one--who's sort of obsessed with a role that he never got to play, that of the biblical king David. Their family saga is interspersed with and often paralleled to that of the king, in turn told as the actors and playwright discuss how each scene should be written.

It sounds like a cheesy TV movie waiting to be made, but I hope I can assure you that it is not. Still, it is also not many things that people tend to look for in books these days.

Ms. L'Engle's prose is very understated, and her pace is gentle; some might say slow, but I'm not one of them. I mean, you can't really expect some gripping thriller when most of the action takes place at dinner tables at the end of the day and on an old man's boat in the lonely Pacific Northwest (which, now that I've read about it, I'd like to visit). Instead, I think the author's own background in the theater shows in the way she lets the story and characters reveal themselves through dialogue and reflection.

This may be a failing in that it sometimes sounds as if the character is only talking so that the author can get everything out there--again, like in plays. One of my favorite scenes, in which Emma and several of her half-siblings (both Davids had many wives) gather around the piano and discuss an absent brother, sounds like this at certain points.

But I'd also like to believe that in those days, (the 1930s-60s), people actually talked to one another like that. In the end, I also feel that I know more about the characters than they actually said, which I always think is a good thing. And even if some characters don't get more than a few lines (and most don't get much physical description) I also like the feeling that I know who each character is--considering the number of wives and children each David had, this is something. Her characters are human, flawed and in some ways desperate, and if they are flat in some ways, the author actually admits it at one point.

I will say that the buildup to the one violent scene in the book wasn't subtle enough; from the moment Ms. L'Engle first dropped a hint that it was going to happen, I knew who was going to do what to whom. Was it intentional? It does make me wonder how the victim walked so blindly into it, but perhaps like me, who once gave my phone number to not one but two creepy strangers who asked, this person wanted to assume the best about the villain.

I will also say that the way the scene was written was cheesy and has probably been used to write such scenes a thousand times before. I hope it doesn't make the crime any less brutal.

Because Ms. L'Engle goes back and forth between Emma's story and the Bible story of King David, one might assume that she's being preachy. It's easy to assume this given how Ms. L'Engle weaves her faith into nearly everything she's written (or at least everything of hers I've read*), but I think making this assumption is wrong. Throughout the book, Ms. L'Engle shows just how open to interpretation a Bible story can be. It's definitely worth noting that many of the discussions about the king, his wives, the prophets, and God's likely intentions are held by an Episcopalian, a Baptist, their somewhere-in-between-granddaughter, an admitted adulterer who's slacked off religious practice, and the agnostic playwright. All their talk made me want to crack open Samuel I and II again to see what I might make of it for myself.

All that said, I will concede that it may not be interesting to people who aren't interested in the Bible, much less religion. It might also take some getting used to if you're not already accustomed to the way Ms. L'Engle writes about faith.

Can I tell you, though, that David's is probably one of the most gripping in that whole book? Once you get past the giant-slaying, there's still all the war, polygamy, singing, drama, prophecies, more war, and, of course, death. It's practically a soap opera--and it would probably contend for the title "All My Children."**

Anyway, I enjoyed the book. If you find it, I hope you'll at least read it.

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*I'll admit here that I'm a L'Engle fan; here's what I've read: the whole Wrinkle in Time series, including the saling-pusa fifth book, An Acceptable Time; The Arm of the Starfish; A Ring of Endless Light; Walking on Water (non-fiction); Penguins and Golden Calves (also non-fiction); The Joys of Love; and Certain Woman. It's also kind of fun to catch Ms. L'Engle recycling; there's a conversation about Chekhov in The Joys of Love that appears again in Certain Women. I think she only reused it, though, because she assumed that Joys was never going to be published; it only came out after her death.

**Fun fact: While in the theater, Ms. L'Engle met the love of her life, actor Hugh Franklin, who would later star in "All My Children."

Coming Clean

The letter-giving didn't happen. There wasn't time. Either I was still catching up on work, or I was having too much fun with my family to bring it up. Before I knew it, I was hugging them goodbye, and then my uncle took them to the airport.

Part of me wonders if I really should give my parents the letter. It's not that I'm afraid of how they'll react. I'm just not sure anymore if making an announcement really matters.

Lunch last Friday went something like this:

Mom: How come you don't go to church anymore?
Me: I have a lot of questions, and I'm not satisfied with the way the churches I've attended are answering them.
Mom: ... But you still have a God?
Me: Yes.
Mom: And you still pray?
Me: Yes.
Mom: Okay. But if you have questions, maybe you should ask Tita Lisa. She's good at those things. You know that she's now handling the religion program for the whole school?

And that was the last we said on my own faith. Maybe she'll ask again, maybe she won't. Maybe my two yeses were enough for her. They were honest, after all.

On Sunday, we went to the Legazpi Village market for breakfast and shopping. Dad had his vegetable noodles, Mom had chorizo paella, Mikko had Russian cabbage rolls, and I had a chicken shawarma. I think Mom had the best time; she found her old schoolmate, artist Sunny Garcia, and then she bought (well, Dad bought) a capiz chandelier, a dress, and some magnets.

We went to church at Union. It was my first time there, and it was really refreshing to hear a witty, coherent sermon that didn't rely on outdated e-mail jokes, corny anecdotes, or fancy PowerPoint graphics to spice things up--it's actually easier for me to pay attention and respect that way. The pastor did say a few things about homosexuality before launching into the meat of his sermon, and that told me that this probably wasn't the church for me, either. But I forgot about my disagreement in order to just enjoy the rare, quiet time with my family. It was simply nice to stand next to my mom singing hymns. It was nice to pass the communion trays from my brother to my parents.

It's these little things that I miss about going to church. But I know you can't go back unless you want the big things, too.

I did say I'd talk about these things on this blog, but I only will when I feel I have to. No more for today. I just want to relish the new memories I made with my family over the weekend, inside church and out. I hope I see them again soon.

Easing Out

My parents are in town this weekend. Yesterday, over lunch, my mom asked me a question that I had been expecting but still somehow was not quite ready for:

"How come you don't go to church anymore?"

I had planned to have a letter handy in my pocket to gently explain everything, but I guess I got too caught up in all the deadlines at work to write it before I saw my parents. That's all right. I will give my parents the letter tomorrow. And I will talk about it here eventually. Here's hoping and praying (really) that things will work out.