Influences (or Why I Write the Way I Do)

Natalie Goldberg (free-flowing writing)
Clarissa Pinkola Estes (wild woman writing)
Jane Hutchison (direct-to-the-point writing)
Ernest Hemingway (simple words writing)

Friday, October 18, 2013

Blink at 8

the word for the week is blink.

in one blink of an eye, at work, the honeymoon phase is over, the challenge of reality sets in, and it's an uphill climb all the way.

then on another, seeing Yaman grow kikay and crazy over lalaloopsies, squinkies, monster high, one direction, dork diaries, and just anything pink and fancy. one can say that 8 years has gone by, and in the blink of an eye, the baby scooped from my womb at 430pm eight years ago is now her own person.

it is significant that when i was taken out of the operating room to the recovery room at mother's seton that day, the first people i saw, standing beside each other, was my mom and my bestfriend, angeline.  silhouetted by sunny, warm light. my mom, with close to 50 years of motherhood and my bestfriend, with her brood then of 4. a continuity of generations, experience, and wisdom.  two women standing there, welcoming me into their world and perhaps, at one time, breaking into helpless sighs, mumbling, 'goodluck --- kung aram mo lang!...maaaraman mo na ngunyan. hilngon ta daw.'

in my mind's eye, i still see angeline clutching a ripe yellow papaya, saying something like, 'para marahay ka sa laog.' that time, i needed more healing than the physical internal wounds of childbirth.  it would take more than just papaya to heal. what was symbolic was that angeline was there, my bestfriend who went early into motherhood, whose 'knowing' is deep. i would do all right. we would do all right.  one day at a time. until the diapers are discarded for infant underwear. from egging them to sleep with lullabyes, to singing with and even fumbling over lyrics and tune, as they rat in toto 'Best Song Ever'  by one direction. all 8 years passed in one blink.

so like my mom, gie, and all my mother-friends, we marshall on. living our own stories of warmth, discovery, stress, sorrow, resignation, and anticipation in motherhood.  our children love us but they may not like us all the time.  sometimes they stay for the wrong reasons, and leave for unexpected ones.  sometimes the only home they go home to is our heart, our memory.  despite our nagging presence, eventually they become who they truly are. that's just it. no hard and fast rules. only endless OJT.  the sighs will come but we stay on and continue believing.  until the next blink.

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