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Devastating. This is the only word I could think of as I watched the horrendous aftermath of Typhoon Frank that swept the Philippines last week. Destroyed homes, power disruptions, food and water shortages in provinces like Iloilo marked the fury of the storm. But of all these, Frank showed the full force of his wrath with the sinking of MV Princess of the Stars in Sibuyan Island, Romblon. Only a handful of the more than 800 passengers on board survived the tragedy.

As I watch on TV the family members of the passengers of the ill-fated vessel, I can’t help but empathize with their grief. Those faces that are at all at once hopeful and yet hopeless, expectant yet resigned, mirror sorrow in its most profound form. Not knowing what has happened to a loved one, whether a child, husband, wife, nephew, niece, uncle, aunt, grandparent or friend is still alive or already dead is perhaps the worst form of torture imaginable. How could there ever be closure for them?

Having lost my father recently, I understand the importance of holding vigils, saying prayers and finally, of laying him to rest as vital in the bereavement process. This period somehow eases the initial shock of losing someone so dear, and these ceremonies, if they so be called, smoothens the transition of letting go, and of ultimately accepting the reality of death. I am by no means done with grieving. I don’t think one can ever be “finished grieving.” Perhaps, only time can assuage the pain that death brings. But my only consolation is that deep in my heart, I know that my father is in a far better place, and this helps me a lot in being able to go on with my life.

But what about those whose family members are still waiting for news of their loved ones aboard MV Princess of the Stars? The agony of not knowing where they are, the torture of not being able to give a proper burial- these intensify the feelings of grief a million times over. I can only pray that God give them the courage and the faith to face this trial in their lives. I also hope that the shipping company understands and takes to heart the needs and requests of these relatives. The news on TV features them complaining of their requests going on deaf ears, of not being given sufficient information, of being left in the dark.

I hope that Sulpicio Lines doesn’t treat the passengers on board their boat as mere statistical losses. Everyone on board that ship was once a flesh-and-blood member of a family. He or she had dreams, had loved, had cried, had trusted the shipping company’s judgments enough to travel in the midst of impending storm. Thus, the concerns of their loved ones must be addressed and heard.

Frank’s wrath has subsided for now, but we are left to grapple with the devastation and ruin that he brought on us as a people. Let’s take a moment to say a little prayer to those who were lost in the storm, holding on to the faith in our hearts that though their families may not see them again or may not have the chance to lay their bodies to the grave, God has already brought the souls of those who had perished to the tranquil seas of their Heavenly Home.

What happens now? This is the question I always ask myself now that my dad has already been laid to rest. People around me say that life doesn’t stop with death, that there are a still a lot of things that those of us left in this mortal world have to occupy ourselves with, that there are still people who need us. Relatives and friends remind me that I still have a daughter who is only two years old who is dependent on me for everything. And I know that.

Despite this, however, there are moments when I simply can’t move or do what needs to be done. Grief can be very crippling and though I try so hard to let go, part of me seems to want to hold on to the memory of a father who lived so bravely and loved ever so deeply. This might sound too emotional but I know that nothing will ever be the same, that a part of me has died too.

Writing seems the only release for me now. But this I can’t even do without shedding a tear, and I feel so tired and drained at this constant sorrow that hangs over me everyday. How does one cope with such loss? What happens now? Will I ever heal? These are just some of the questions that I ask myself during these trying times. I only pray that God and Mama Mary will give me the strength to go on living. I need that very much.

The motorcycle. Ah, what an indispensable modern-day convenience! Compared to four-wheeled vehicles, it has its own distinct advantages. For one, it’s cheaper by a long shot. Those of us in the upper level of the poverty line can at least afford to buy or loan one. It’s also more economical to use. With the rising gasoline prices nowadays, a fifty peso tank refill can at least get us to the market and back (albeit when I was in college, it used to get me all over the place for three days). Last but not the least, the motorcycle is traffic-resistant. With a skilled defensive driver, the single MC can easily swerve past rows of cars, easy rides and pedicabs jammed in our narrow city streets, and get us to our destination faster with time left to spare. Indeed, the motorcycle combines the ease of a bicycle and the speed of a car in one sleek and useful package.

Yet, with all its virtues, there is one thing that the motorcycle sorely lacks: It does not protect its riders from the elements. Heat, wind, rain, dust and smoke—the brunt of all these have to be borne by its riders. Add to this list suicidal street dogs madly dashing through the highways, drunken or otherwise stoned pedestrians and/or drivers, and reckless or imprudent drivers in general, who make life miserable and downright dangerous to the majority of decent and courteous motorcycle-riding public in this city.

Things being already as they are, we who ride our single MCs everyday have to deal, and our coping mechanisms have resulted to some rather peculiar scenes from the motorcycle:

1. The Masks. I don’t recall the Dumaguete motorcycle riders in my youth wearing masks. Back then, masks—whether they were surgical types, gauze ones or the wash-and-wear kinds—were only worn in hospitals. Not now. The increasing number of vehicles plying our city streets and the growing incidence of smoke belchers have made masks a necessity to the MC riders, especially to those of us whose lungs are too weak to take on all the pollution.

2. The “Hand” Mask. In the absence of a mask, the hand shall suffice. It looks quite peculiar at first, but on hindsight, I think this position not only makes for protection from dust and pollution, it also makes for safety: The backrider covers his or her own mouth and nose with her right hand and uses his or her left hand to shield that of the driver’s, leaving the driver free to maneuver the vehicle.

3. The Arm Gloves. Sunscreen just won’t do. The more enterprising entrepreneurs noticed darkened arms of the poor motorist since they are the body parts most exposed to the sun’s heat, and decided to make arm gloves. They look like regular gloves, except they’re longer (arm-length) with open ends at the knuckles (perhaps keeping the knuckles unwrapped helps motorists retain their grip on the throttle). At sixty pesos, they sell like hotcakes not only to single MC drivers, but to pedicab drivers as well, who only utilize one glove to protect their exposed left arm. Those without arm gloves improvise by inserting both arms into long-sleeved polos in much the same way that doctors would when they touch babies inside incubators.

4. The Overturning Umbrellas. When it rains, motorcyclists can either seek shelter and wait when the downpour stops before continuing their journey or go on regardless of the shower. The more prepared of us, however, readily open the handy umbrellas we’ve brought along. Most of the time, our tight grip would prove no match for the fury of the wind, which would cause our multi-colored, multi-sized sunshades to overturn, resulting in a rather comical scene of a man (or woman) fighting with an umbrella to the delight of other riders and pedestrians.

5. The Motorcycle Raincoat. Raincoats come in all shapes and sizes, but the most ingenious ones are those especially made for motorcycle riders. A long time ago, single MC riders had to contend with getting their lower extremities wet when the rainy season comes around. That was when raincoats were still cut a tad too short at the knees. Now, however, they are cut long enough at the front to protect the driver’s arms and legs from getting wet. Others are big enough to “hide” the backrider.

DUMAGUETE CITY- The torrential downpour this week turned an otherwise mundane spillway in Bagacay into something of a tourist spot. My husband and I were making our way towards the Hypermart when we realized we could not get across because the overflow, well, overflowed. The heavy rains had so increased the water level that it flooded the road and caused torrents of brown, muddy river water to gush down at incredible speeds, rendering it impassable to most motorcycles, pedicabs and any other two-to-three wheel contraptions known to man.

To most that is. Because there were not a few brave souls who dared to cross the raging surge, and their attempts, successful or not made for a rather entertaining show to those of us who watched. Some adolescent boys also earned some dough pushing these bold riders to safety as their vehicles stalled in the middle or near the end of the violent flow. The fearless (or perhaps they were practical- turning back means more gasoline, and thus more money spent) drivers who dared the tide also employed different tactics just to make it through. There was one pedicab carrying a full load of passengers whose driver decided that accelerating all the way was the key to a successful cross. Other motorcyclists thought that going slow as one traverses the tide and then accelerating near the end in order to get the their vehicles out of the water was a better idea. One man on a bicycle mulled over his situation and thought that carrying his bike and wading across was his best option.

Many of those who revved up their engine and accelerated from start to finish ended up getting stuck near the end. Those who went slow at first, and then going full throttle near the end had better chances of not stalling, while the man who decided to carry his bike and wade across successfully made it through with his pride and his bike intact.

That scene on a rainy Tuesday afternoon reminded me about the gushing torrents of trials and ordeals that we face in our journey through life, and our responses to them. When faced with troubles, do we hurry through- anxious to get out of it as fast as we can-and curse whoever we can for allowing us to suffer? Or do we tread the waters cautiously, carefully feeling the way, allowing ourselves to immerse in the problem and learn a lesson or two from it?

One of the pamphlets which I got from Carmel Church in Lipa, Batangas is entitled Suffering: How to Make the Greatest Evil In Our Lives Our Greatest Happiness by Fr. Paul Sullivan,O.P. Contrary to the notion that suffering is evil, he writes that “suffering is not simply an evil, for no one suffered more than the Son of God Himself, more than His Blessed Mother or more than the Saints. Every suffering comes from God [because] nothing happens to us without His wish or permission.” Fr. Sullivan believes that God allows people to suffer “because He is asking us to take a little share in His Passion… God suffered all the dreadful pains of His Passion for each one of us. How can we refuse to suffer a little for love of Him?” If borne with the utmost patience, he said that suffering becomes the gold in our lives, bringing out all that is good in us. “Those who have suffered are usually the most charming people.” The key, he says, to graciously bearing all our sufferings whether they are trifle ones or major agonies is to “accept them with serenity and patience. What really makes suffering difficult to bear is our own impatience, our revolt, our refusal to accept it. This irritation increases our sufferings a hundredfold and, besides, robs us all the merit we could have gained thereby.” Besides, God does not allow us to suffer alone. If we ask for help from the Almighty to bear our sufferings, then He gives us the strength to bear our troubles. Fr. Sullivan shares the experience of one doctor who published an article in the secular press on the power of prayer. The doctor claimed that: “Prayer is the greatest power in the world.” He further shared: “I and my colleagues frequently see that many of our patients, whom we have failed to cure or whose pains we have failed to alleviate, have cured themselves by prayer. I speak now not of the prayers of holy people, but the prayers of ordinary Christians.”

This doctor’s proclamation reminded me of my oncologist’s reaction three years ago when he noticed vast improvements in my cancer after only my second chemotherapy. He asked me if I prayed, and when I answered in the affirmative, he nodded his head and said: “Pagpatuloy mo ‘yan. Mahal ka ng Diyos.” (Just keep on praying. God loves you.) Fr. Sullivan also urges his readers (as I do) to ask the help of the Blessed Virgin Mary in our times of suffering, saying: “God gave her all the immense graces necessary to make her the perfect Mother of God, but He also gave her all the graces, the tenderness, the love necessary to be our most perfect and loving Mother.” Certainly, the intercession of the Mother of God is a very puzzling, if not difficult, concept to accept for some, but from one who has experienced the power of her miraculous intervention, I can only say that Our Blessed Lady loves us immensely.

We all have our personal overflows to cross everyday in our lives. Whether we choose to step on the gas and accelerate all the way to the end, or go slow, immerse in the tide or carry our bikes and wade through the turbulent waters, we can be assured that God, like the adolescent boys standing by the overflow, is ever ready to help. Their only difference is, God doesn’t ask for pennies or anything in return. He only requires our faith.

We make decisions everyday. Things as trivial as what to eat, drink or wear all have to be decided on. Of course the more serious ones like where to go for college, what career to pursue or when to settle down absolutely have to be thought over and eventually have to be resolved. Come to think of it, we have to keep on making decisions every single moment of our lives—unless, of course, we encounter situations or are placed in circumstances that are totally beyond our control. Accidents, for example, belong to that sphere far beyond the reach of any human power. They are unexpected, undesigned and often unfortunate occurrences which involve embarrassment at the least and death at the most. Sickness, too, when they come, especially when you’ve kept away from vices and have lived a generally healthy lifestyle before the diagnosis hit, also belongs to that realm that leaves one bereft of that capacity to make decisions. We hear of individuals who don’t smoke getting lung cancer and transfusion patients contracting infection from AIDS-contaminated blood. It’s completely out of their hands and most of the time, it’s unfair.

Yes, at that precise moment when these mishaps strike, we are left completely helpless and at the mercy of the whims of a very cruel fate. But once the shock has subsided, it is reassuring to know that the power to decide has not completely left us. We can and still have to deal with the aftermath. After all, once placed in such conditions, we have no other choice but to deal with it—and dealing with it usually involves a hefty lot of decision making. For instance, when I got sick, a lot of things had to be decided on: To proceed or not with the treatments, to go home or stay in Manila, to curse the high heavens and blame them about my plight or pray and psyche myself up to beat the cancer. The decisions that my family and I made were not easy ones. They were even quite painful. But what is life without pain anyway? John Patrick in his play The Teahouse of the August Moon wisely puts it thus: “Pain makes man think. Thinking makes man wise. Wisdom makes life endurable.” Every resolution that is of consequence in our lives involves pain as decision-making is by nature a tortuous, agonizing process. However, when we know that we’ve considered all the pros and cons, weighed all there is to reflect on and prayed about it unceasingly, then the decision, no matter how tough, can be made with peace of mind and heart.

It takes courage to make sound judgments. Sometimes, it’s even easier to not accept the reality of the situation, bewail our fate and simply just give up. But the men and women worth their salt make it their choice to be face life head-on. The decision to live a courageous life amid all of life’s battles can be a conscious choice. And how do we do that? Victoria Lincoln in The Arts of Living has an answer that we can ponder on:

“Courage begins when we can admit that there is no life without some pain, some frustration; that there is no tragic accident to which we are immune; and that beyond the normal exercise of prudence we can do nothing about it.

But courage goes on to see that the triumph of life is not in pains avoided, but in joys lived completely in the moment of their happening. Courage lies in never taking so much as a good meal or a day of health and fair weather for granted. It lies in learning to be aware of our moments of happiness as sharply as our moments of pain. We need not be afraid to weep when we have cause to weep, so long as we can really rejoice at every cause for rejoicing.”

Filipinos love celebrations. In Dumaguete alone, we have barely gotten over the Buglasan mania and preparations for the city fiesta are already in full swing. With December just around the bend, Christmas also smells wonderfully close. Of course New Year follows, then Valentines and then …but I’m getting ahead of myself. You do get the picture, don’t you? Fiestas and celebrations are part and parcel of the Filipino (perhaps, even the human) psyche. We just love festivals!

But we don’t have to wait for fiestas or special family occasions to come around so we can party. Life is reason enough for a toast. In fact, I’ve noticed that the more I found reasons to celebrate, the more life gets placed in perspective. So what really makes life worth celebrating?

Family comes first in my list. I savor every precious moment of my daughter’s infectious laughter and my husband’s firm resolve. Of course, when it comes to family, I must not forget to mention Jewel, my “eldest daughter,” whose canine loyalty is far more precious than any material possession that I have.

The next best thing to family is food—especially Italian fare. Savoring very creamy and cheesy pizzas and pastas have become a very precious treat. And now that it’s also imperative for me to eat lots of fruits and vegetables, I’m giving my taste buds a workout with varied tastes and textures. Everyday is a fiesta with sweet lansones, chilled watermelons and would you believe, steamed okra dipped in salt and vinegar.

Then, there are pictures. With the invention of camera phones, priceless moments are captured easily and printed just as quickly. Photographs capture that once-in-a-lifetime instant when a face cannot look exactly as it did at any other time, when a first step was taken, when the triumph of a victory or the pain of loss is as genuine as the day it was felt. When I look at the photos I have of my daughter—from the time I first held her in the delivery room up to now—I always find a reason to celebrate.

I always get a kick out of people whose eyes narrow and jaws drop whenever they see me. So on my list, I always find a cause to celebrate when I see old acquaintances and yes, even relatives, who disbelieve that I’m still alive. Sometimes I even get the feeling that others wish me dead just to prove what they want to believe. So I celebrate everyday of the life that the good Lord has given me so that I can continue to proclaim how wonderful He is and how truly effective Mama Mary’s intercession is. Of course, the jaw dropping gets pretty hilarious sometimes, so a bash is always in order every time that happens.

Last but not the least, I find reason to celebrate in everything that Life throws at me. The joys, fears, uncertainties, sadness, anger and grief—all sorts of emotions and sentiments that make this existence colorful and vibrant are more than enough for a toast. Dreams fulfilled and dreams yet to be realized, the everyday struggle to either succumb or fight—all these scream for a celebration. Because despite all of life’s punches, it’s still good to be alive.

MANILA- 2007 is now only a distinct memory. Yet for me, it certainly did not go quietly away. Like the fireworks that lit up the Manila skies from midnight to dawn of December 31, 2007 to January 1, 2008, the year that just closed was one fraught with colorful- sometimes dazzling, sometimes deadly- displays. And that’s just on my own turf. In the realm of politics, calamities and showbusiness, 2007 can certainly boast of its just share in the limelight.

As our little family watched the dark skies light up with the rainbow of colors that herald the coming of the new year, as we listened to the ear-splitting sounds of whistle bombs, triangles and baby rockets in our midst, it suddenly occurred to me that all these noise and fanfare are simply forerunners of the year ahead. Just like any other year that came and went, 2008 will certainly have its share of surprises, trials and accomplishments. Just like any other year, it will give opportunities and take them away without batting an eyelash. And just like any other year, it will have the same number of month, weeks, days, hours, minutes and seconds that it always has. Yet, like every time it came and went, the New Year always gives a frayed humanity what it sorely needs: hope.

Although I’ve made the New Year speak like it was some sort of pyschic offering us a glimpse of the future, the truth of the matter is that 2008 or time for that matter, doesn’t have a hand in what happens to the world, to our country or to us. It simply gives us a blank page, an empty calendar in which to work on. It allows us to close the year before with all its successes, failures and emotional baggage and gives us a fresh slate in which to work anew. Though by no means does it give us rose-colored glasses or reason to believe that things will certainly work for us this time, every New Year gives us endless possibilities. It presents prospects for improving our lives, our health and our relationships. It allows us that precious chance to make of ourselves something better, aspire for things greater than ourselves, and ultimately get down to business to do the work necessary to make all these happen.

We are already given the groundwork to pursue our hearts’ desire- all the time that the Year of the Rat holds stretches out for us like an empty highway that extends to that place we could call success, contentment or achievement. And because we are mortal, 2008 could also lead us to that eternal sleep which only God can wake us from. Yet, even with such ominous acceptance of our own mortality, the New Year confers on us the hope that in spite of it all, we could still live our lives and make our mark in this world. For in the final analysis, it is the hope of something better, be it in this life or the next, that urges us to face life head on.

I started working when I was in fourth year high school. Part-time, that is. Whatever free time I had from school, I put into my job as a DJ/newscaster in a local radio station or as a student assistant in the then Silliman Medical Center or the Registrar’s Office. It was tough. Taking hold of my time was like juggling three metal balls while maneuvering a monocycle. The comparison might be a little extreme, but I do not exaggerate. I think any working student now can put themselves in my shoes then. A regular day is not complete without the usual sprint from the Registrar’s Office, for example, to the A/S Building and then to the Main Library to take down notes for a paper due the next day. When most other students consider their day complete, mine had just begun at around eight-thirty at night as I drive my trusty old motorcycle to one of the radio stations here to go on board the 9-12 midnight shift. Remember the paper due the following day? Well, I still had to type that as soon as I got home. After college, I rushed on to work as a research assistant before finally flying to Manila to teach.

All those years were busy years. My days were spent thinking about what would happen next. There was always a deadline to beat. Everything that had to be done for the day and if humanly possible, what was assigned to be accomplished tomorrow, must be done today. My mantra then was: Seize the day! It was always a race against me and time. When I got sick, I realized one does not stand a chance of winning against time.

Time is set. We are given 60 seconds for every minute, 60 minutes for every hour, 24 hours in a day, 30 days in a month (on the average) and 12 months in a year. It’s a constant that we have to live with so that no matter how many activities one crams into a particular day, time won’t give up its hands and say: “I can’t do this anymore! You’re schedule is overloading my system.” The hands of the clock will continue to turn—tick-tock-tick-tock. Meanwhile, our fragile bodies get stressed and ache all over before finally succumbing to exhaustion. Medical studies have shown that chronic stress is now one of the causative factors of sickness and disease. In a world that considers “instant” normal, people now live like automatons—somehow forgetting the fact that we are given the eyes to see, the ears to hear and the nose to smell.

I believe that getting sick is God’s way of telling me to enjoy His creation and “behold the wonder” of all that He has made. Now that I have to rest, I’m finally able to take each day as it comes and savor the time spent with family and friends. Whether it be a motorcycle ride to cool Valencia to smell fresh air, a walk in the beach to look at the sunset, or a no holds barred Wow magic sing session of Melissa Manchester’s Looking Through the Eyes of Love (where I always get a 95, by the way), I’m finally learning what it’s like to live. But the best part of getting sick is having all the time in the world to take care of my daughter. Talking to her, hearing her laugh, giving her light massages everyday—these make life worth living. And whether I have 5 minutes, 5 days, 5 months, 5 years or 5 decades, I’m glad that I’m not fighting against time anymore. I’m smelling the roses, finally.