Agony Hill

          I first heard of the word “Panata” and witnessed it all at the same time when I was in college. My classmate and I were 15 minutes early for a Mass and as soon as we arrived in church, a harmless decrepit woman dressed in white caught our attention. She was doing the Way of the Cross in her brown and wrinkled bare feet. When the congregation stood for the entrance of the priest, I was surprised to see her parading behind the good father, her hands solemnly clasped in prayer and her eyes fixed on the cross by the altar. She kept her distance from the priest by standing a few meters away, but when he delivered his sermon, she stood behind him again, all the while bobbing her head up and down in agreement to whatever the priest said. It was a peculiar sight: she, an old woman who could probably only speak and understand Hiligaynon agreeing to the Irish Reverend whose English had been garbled by the flawed acoustics of the church. Since most churches in Iloilo are frequented by the most bizarre worshippers, I dismissed her as another “buang.” My friend however, explained that she’s simply doing her panata.

          My poor grasp of Tagalog never made me think that the word has something to do with vows as in Panatang Makabayan. I later discovered, though that the word has a religious significance and the examples border from the simple like lighting a candle before the Virgin Mary on one’s birthday to the extreme like crucifixion and self-flagellation during Holy Week. I could not find a seemly equivalent Hiligaynon word for it, but it is synonymous to the “Panaad” of Cebuano which means ‘act of promise.’

            I would like to share to you how I made my own panata. Just like the old woman, mine is also doing the Way of the Cross, though not on my bare feet because mine involves climbing a mountain with a rather browbeating name - Agony Hill. For six years now, my faithful trek to Agony Hill on a Holy Thursday has become my spiritual retreat, a purging of the soul as I endured the summer heat and a yearning of the heart as I offered petitions. Because of these, the mountain has become my friend, a silent witness to my struggles of rising and falling and rising again.

             Six years ago, I first climbed the mountain after making the most liberating decision of not continuing my teaching contract in a Chinese school. I was no longer happy with my work so when March came, I felt freer than any of the graduates. I was still high on the feeling of being emancipated from schoolwork that I jumped at every chance of getting invited to go anywhere, thus, I ended up going with my roommate to Agony Hill, a rolling valley towering over the quaint town of Alimodian 25 km off of Iloilo City.

         For many years, Agony Hill had been cleared to serve the faithfuls in their Via Crucis during Cuaresma. To make the penitential rite more meaningful for the visitors, the local government of the town and the parish church erected huge imitations of each station of the Way of the Cross.

           As soon as I was greeted by icons of the first station, I whispered my petitions. I was in between jobs, so not knowing where my next paycheck will come from, I prayed that I be given a job that will financially get me by. When I reached the summit, I stood before the giant cross, invisibly opened my chest and laid forth all the desires of my heart. Suffice it to say that when June came, I was given not only a teaching job in my alma mater but to my surprise, I was also given a person to love. And so, my panata of climbing Agony Hill every Holy Week came into existence. I’ve also learned to love the mountain not so much for the expiation of my sins nor for the request of favors, but for the sheer joy of climbing it.

          My 2009 visit of the mountain was the most blissful climb that I did. I hiked Agony Hill with the person whom I thought was the One. We did the obligatory Way of the Cross, but my eyes were set on him and him alone. That time, I had a job that thoroughly gave me professional pride and I was secure in the arms of this man. What could go wrong?

           My climb the next year gave me that answer. Around February 2010, our differences took a toll in the relationship that I decided to end it. But for old time’s sake, I asked him that we climb Agony Hill again hoping somehow that we could piece back our broken hearts together. He did accompany me, but we no longer held hands and the conversations were punctuated by awkward silence. Still, I hoped and prayed that our relationship be given a second chance.

             By 2011, I was still in denial and I was still longing for the man who once trailblazed Agony Hill with me. With a heavy heart, I trekked the mountain with some colleagues. Again, I stood by the giant cross and prayed that he be given back to me.

             My prayer wasn’t granted.

             Last year, I’ve finally accepted the fact we’re no longer going to climb mountains together. Trekking Agony Hill with the colleagues who became good friends, I realized that it was I who was given the second chance - a chance to meet other people, to discover my passions, and to love myself again.

             This year, I’ll once again scale Agony Hill on a Holy Thursday with friends and I’ll continue to do so up until these able knees will allow me. It has, after all become my panata. But perhaps I’ll invite that guy who gave me flowers last Valentine’s Day to join us. And before the giant cross, I’ll once again send my petitions to the heavens, but this time like the old woman, I’ll be clasping my hands in prayer and I’ll be fixing my eyes on Him and only on Him. 

Agony Hill, 2012

Agony Hill, 2011

Agony Hill 2010

My ex was the one who took my 2009 Agony Hill photos. I'd rather die than ask for copies.

Agony Hill, 2008

THEIR STORY, OUR STORY

“The Four-Way Test: Peace Through Service”

           A long time ago, famine struck a land where two brothers worked as farmers. The younger brother thought that since his older brother had a bigger family, he needed more rice. And so at night he secretly carried one sack of rice to his brother’s storehouse. To the younger brother’s surprise the next day, he still had the same sacks of rice as he had before he carried one to his brother. So that night he set out again to bring his secret offering when he bumped into his older brother carrying also a sack of rice. The two brothers wept after realizing that both had thought of doing the same thing. That is, carry a sack of rice to each other’s storehouse with the thought that one needs it more.

          Ladies and gentleman, this is one folktale that clearly sends a universal message that when we think more of others and less of ourselves, we find a greater gift in our relationships and within ourselves, the gift of peace. But is peace really born out of service?

          Today, I am given the task of scrutinizing the phrase “peace through service.” And I will do this by putting it under the magnifying glass of the Four-Way Test. The questions are as follows: Is it the truth? Is it fair to all concerned? Will it build goodwill and better friendships? And will it be beneficial to all concerned?

          My dear friends, we all love to hear stories. Stories about triumphs of the human spirit amidst trials and tribulations have clearly been sources of inspiration. There is no other powerful example than a man’s life story to prove a point. Therefore, the four ethical questions that will be posed to me today shall be answered through the names of these notable men whose works of peace through service have forever been etched in the history of mankind.

          First, is it the truth? Mahatma Gandhi’s name echoes resoundingly to answer this question as his optimism led him to believe that all throughout history, the way of truth had always been won. He found truth through nonviolence, thus his efforts paid for the freedom of his country, India from the British rule. His philosophy of passive resistance transcended religious and political ideologies. We can win a person not through the way of violence but through the way of love, sacrifice, and service. His truth also became our truth.

          Second, is it fair to all concerned? Hasn’t Martin Luther King, Jr. exemplified this enough? His tireless service to end racism and discrimination in the U.S through peace efforts may have cost him his life but it started a movement that empowered the black community, thus encouraged the U.S government to abolish laws in black and white segregation. Peace through service transcends the color of our skin, the differences in our faith, abilities, and social background.

          Third, will it build goodwill and better friendships? Oskar Schindler, a German businessman saved thousands of Jews from the atrocities of Hitler during World War II by letting them work in his factory. When after the war he became bankrupt, the Jews in his ‘Schindler’s List’ - the Jews he helped, financially supported him and his family. Peace through service creates an effect of kindness and gratitude that ripples far beyond our own lives.

          Lastly, will it be beneficial to all concerned? Benigno Aquino’s struggle to bring back democracy to his country cost him his life but it gained back the freedom of the Filipinos against Martial Law. One cannot deny the fact that this man’s peace efforts have benefitted and will benefit the many generations of Filipinos.

          My dear friends, these are stories of ordinary men who made such extraordinary actions and because of that they became the movers and shakers of this world. We are no different from these men. We have in our hands the key to peace and that is through service.

          Let me go back to the folktale of two brothers I have narrated in the beginning. It was said that not long after, a church was built on the same spot where the brothers bumped into each other. It was because they couldn’t think of a holier place than that spot where the selfless act of service was exhibited. Ladies and gentlemen, may you let your every standing ground be a holy place of service. Act now!

A piece I wrote for Jeiya Nicole de Castro which won 1st runner-up during the 30th Rotary Four-Way Test Oratorical Contest held in Red Cross Building Bonifacio Drive La Paz, Iloilo City on February 8, 2013.

          

Pushing 30

30 isn't such a bad number, but when it comes to age it's I think where most women my age (late 20s) experience midlife jitters. It's the biological clock, for one. I know a lot of women who would like to have children before turning 30 because our eggs decrease in number as we increase in age. We'll have a slimmer chance of getting pregnant in our 30s than in our 20s. The problem, however is even if they're willing to have babies, they still don't partners! My issues on turning 30 has nothing to do with my ability to procreate, but with my professional productivity. I feel at this point in my life that I haven't accomplished anything "major" yet.

Last December, I asked a colleague if she can help with an oration piece. She asked, "Why don't you do it, Van?" I replied that I don't have much time and I don't feel very confident in my writing skills. She asked again, "So when are you going to start?" That made me uncomfortable because even if I want to do a lot of things in my career, I haven't really made an effort to start working on it.

Then, early this morning as I lay on bed contemplating whether I'll wake my sleepyhead students for a contest or let them sleep a few minutes more, I realized that if I don't start working on my dreams, I'll forever be stuck as a chaperon or coach to my students for the rest of my career. And as I grow older, my students will be getting younger each year. I don't want that to happen. As much as I want them to reach their potentials, their winnings and goals are not my own. I am just the "coach," after all. Nothing to be proud, really.

So what would I like to do exactly?

I'd like to write for a magazine. I'd like to be academically-inclined through researches and that involves writing, too. I'd like to get a scholarship in a university abroad and finish my Ph.D there. After which, go home and make a difference in the academe. I'd like to travel and see the Eiffel Tower, the pyramids in Egypt, the Angkor Wat, the Taj Mahal... oh, the whole world! I'd like to win an award for my causes.

But all is not in vain. I've started on seeing the world part. I've gone to Hong Kong, Vietnam, and Cambodia. I'm also trying to explore the Philippines now. I'm trying my hand on writing again and rediscovering the passion that has been slumbering for so long. I'm on the right track as far as my advocacies are concerned.

The midlife jitters sometimes get into my system making me feel insecure and hopeless. But I know that as long as I take each day as something to bring me closer to my dreams, I know I'll be able to achieve them all. Yes, I will.

Now, if only I can do something about that baby part there ;-).

Coffee Convert

Yesterday, after coming home from a pre-New Year date with two graduate school girlfriends, I raided my closet and got rid of my "obsolete" clothes. This practice always ends up in a fashion show; thus, it took me two hours to put everything back in order because with me matching a long forgotten skirt with a new blouse or trying on a pair of faded slacks with several tops can sometimes get me too carried away. After the closet cleaning/catwalk, I proceeded to dust the shelves and arrange my books. I also swept the floor and the ceiling, scoured the shoe rack, and washed my shoes. All of which took me more than two hours to finish. While I was taking out the garbage, it hit me that I didn't feel in the least bit tired. In fact, I was eyeing the clothes that I needed to launder and I was contemplating on doing it after the general cleaning. I had no desire of stopping!

I wondered where I got the energy and thought of what I consumed the whole day - there's the coconut milk for breakfast, C2 iced tea for lunch, and gasp, coffee for merienda!

You see, I am not a coffee drinker. The only time I took coffee was when I was in college with some Korean students who insisted that I drink one. The strong coffee gave me such a headache that I vowed never to drink not even a drop since.

But yesterday's coffee didn't give me a headache. It even boosted my energy (which is what coffee is supposed to do). I've always had a negative impression on coffee because of its caffeine content. It makes one's body become addicted to it. I am of the belief that my body's mechanisms should all be au naturale and should never be dependent on coffee.

So with the fear that I'd be too tired the next day, I stopped working and even without a trace of exhaustion, I forced myself to sleep. But when I woke up this morning, I was surprised that my energy wasn't depleted by last night's hyperactivities. I was mentally alert which reminds me that coffee is a stimulant, too. The surge of energy that I experienced in drinking yesterday's coffee isn't even comparable to what I feel when I take multivitamins or power drinks.

So, does this make me a coffee convert?

Yes, because now I don't have such a resentment against coffee. Now I can say "Ok, let's go!" when someone invites to Coffee Break or Starbucks instead of my overused "I don't drink coffee." I can now call myself a social and occasional coffee drinker. I guess the headache I experienced in college was just all in the head?

And no, because I'll say it again - I don't want my body to be dependent on it. People who have heart problems are asked to cut their coffee intake. I don't have a heart problem, but the point is, if you want to stay healthy, avoid coffee. Despite Nescafe's massive advertising that coffee is an antioxidant and that it's good for you, so it's alright to daily drink five cups of it, I still don't buy it (literally and figuratively). Coffee is addictive, period.

So addictive that I couldn't help tasting and sniffing the creamer after

But coffee is not only for drinking. You can also put it on your skin. In Balitang K once, I saw Angel Aquino mixing oil and coffee together. She then rubbed the concoction on her elbows. There goes your natural exfoliant. I've also once tried coffee facial and body scrub. The whole coffee beauty treatments smell of sensual delights if not of coffee shop.

With this, I'd recommend coffee to coffee virgins both as a beauty treat and as an energy drink. It is after all, one of the earthly pleasures we mortals should experience. There's something about its smell. The aroma actually gives you a heady feeling making you remember the sweet damp smell of the earth and of coffee beans picked by such able hands, the color of their flesh not very different from the dark coffee you're drinking. And with the first sip of it, you return to the ancient past of pharaohs, knights, kings, monks, crusaders, emperors, and samurais - to the people who drank and enjoyed coffee like you did. And when it warmly settles on your tummy, you return to the sights and sounds of the present - the honking cars, smell of cigarettes (what's with the coffee and cigarette tandem?), and the mild chatter of your yuppie friends. So, you smile and take a sip again enjoying the present and relishing the past.

Yesterday's coffee experience was like that for me. It was surreally delicious! But like my meeting with the girlfriends, my coffee drinking would be very irregular (definitely not daily), but let's just say that I'll probably grab one if I plan to clean my room non-stop again.

Random guy behind us

Thank you, Jureca Failanga and Graziella Sigaya for the laughs and chat over peppermint, chocolate, and strawberry coffee. 

Jeepney Blues

For a number of reasons, I don't like riding jeepneys. I think you, too had your share of jeepney drivers from hell experience. Drivers you'd like to strangle because they wait for more than 30 minutes before they drive the jeepney, only to stop after 5 minutes just to pick up another passenger. And, why do they have to whistle like that? Not the I-can-carry-a-tune kind of whistling, but the hey-I've-parked-my-jeepney-just-for-you-kind of whistling. It's the one where they suck up their lips and produce a sound not different from mating rats. Then, there are drivers who are just plain rude. A colleague once asked a driver if he can park his jeepney somewhere in Gen. Luna. He answered, "Pwede man kung gusto mo magbayad duwa ka gatos." So, my colleague nastily shot back, "Gapamangkot ko gani husto, Nong nga-a wala pulos sabat mo?" I secretly applauded her for that. Of course, there are those who are war freaks, those who would put up a fight with passengers and traffic enforcers. If you're caught up in that situation best go down and hail another jeepney. Then, there's your classic smelly driver who never changes clothes, never takes a bath, and who's never been introduced to a deodorant. But the drivers aren't really the sole reason why I hate riding jeepneys - they're mildly irritating in comparison to their counterparts which are the jeepney passengers. 

WELCOME TO SARDINIA

Now, you've probably also had your share of being in a crowded jeepney. Sardines, we call it. And sometimes, the crowd smells like it, too. Now, let me separate each one from the crowd and say something about these hapless citizens. Each one is a representative of the general population that inhabit Sardinia with a brief description and reasons why I hate sitting with them.

1) RAPUNZEL

The Rapunzels of Sardinia usually have long hair, and they think they're princesses, too. When the jeepney's kilometric windows are open, they like to think that they're Rose at the helm of Titanic with Jack making them feel that it's the most romantic ride of their lives. Their hair then, turns into a giant octopus with tentacles that could reach the farthest jeepney passenger. And so, with the breezy billows, their long hair would almost always swim to their seatmate's orifices: the eyes and the mouth. Sometimes, these hairy tentacles would insert itself in the nose. The victim has no choice, but to lead them down their towers and snap them back to reality. A word is enough.

2) RUSSELL CROWE

The actor is well-known for his role as the schizophrenic John Nash in A Beautiful Mind. Russell Crowe of the Philippine jeepneys, are yes, crazy, and no, they don't have a beautiful mind. He is scary especially when he talks to himself, to his other self, and to his imaginary friends. Sometimes, he gets too violent. One word is never and will never be enough for Russel Crowe so, when that happens, get down from the jeepney pronto and hail a taxi cab. 

3) MEOW MEOW

Koreans in our local and colorful language are known as Kurings. Kurings in our dialect actually refer to cats. What are the sound of cats? Meow-meow. So the Meow Meows are your chinky-eyed tourists/students who sit in groups and won't stop yakking about kimchi and Gangnam style. Their loud conversations annoy me, period. 

4) ADAM and EVE

The Adams and Eves of the jeepney are those lovers who can't keep their hands to themselves. They publicly show to the world of jeepney passengers that they love each other. So goes the necking, kissing and oh dear, petting. But it's not all roses for your Adam and Eve. Just like these biblical characters, they have their share of toils and pains. Didn't God tell Adam, "I will make you enemies, you and the woman."? And enemies they become. Yes, these lovers fight. The fight ends with a tear-streaked girl almost always, getting down from the jeepney and with the boy trailing after her. Oh, sweet. 

5) PICKPOCKETS

Among the jeepney passengers, they are the most dangerous so, everyone should be wary of them. What do they look like? Oddly enough, they don't look like your typical thief with the drug addict look. They look just like you and me, except that they're in the jeepney for all the wrong reasons of stealing your wallet, your jewelry, and your soul. So be afraid. Be very afraid. 

I’m sure there are other citizens of Sardinia out there who ought to be represented, just like the smelly ones and the smokers. But most jeepney passengers know their hygiene already and people rarely smoke in the jeepney, so they don’t need to be mentioned.

The jeepney symbolizes the all-Filipino road experience - slow because I'm picking up passengers, so shut up, and fast because I'm the king of the road, bitch. The passengers in a crowded sardine fashion become the helpless victims, and so forge a brotherhood and sisterhood of passengers with a common enemy – the driver. I’m sure the jeepney drivers themselves have a list of passengers from hell, but for now, you’ll just have to content yourself by reading my version of jeepney passengers who make my daily commute annoying and scary as hell. 

Wet Christmas

Alone but not lonely. That's my motto every Christmas. Since I started working, I've spent Christmas all by myself. I could always go home and spend it with my sister and niece, but I like the joy and solitude of being alone every Christmas.

This year, however, I spent Christmas day at the Missionaries of St. Therese (my aunt is one of the sisters) after attending mass at St. Clement's. At around 4 PM, I decided to go home. I was waiting for the jeepney when it started raining really hard. I stood there for quite sometime getting wetter and wetter but still hoping that a taxi or a jeepney would stop by. They never did even if they didn't have passengers. The drivers probably didn't like the idea of taking in a very wet passenger. Since the convent was quite far from the highway I decided to take shelter in a hut by the roadside. The family took me in, but it's a good thing my aunt fetched me and brought me back to the convent.

Too wet to wear

The package of the gift I received got ripped because it got soaked by the rain

Too risky for me to go out and brave the rain

What happened next is that I stayed for two more hours before I went home. So, Christmas lunch and dinner were spent with the sisters. Rain is synonymous to blessings. With the company of the sisters and the soaked to the bone experience, need I say I more that it was a truly blessed Christmas?

Nomnom

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Scared

Writing -- this act has become such a tedious and frightening experience for me. By writing, I don't mean just the entries I write in my journal nor my posts in this blog. What I mean is serious writing. One that will help me rise up from my lowly status in the university through academic publications and researches. Another is one that will (crosses fingers) give me a literary career through short stories and features.

The problem is this fear of writing. I don't know when it started or how it possessed me. Every attempt at serious writing is thwarted by the thought that I'm no good at it, so why bother? It scares me that I will never get to publish anything if I'll continue to allow this fear to dominate my psyche. 

Sure, I got to be part of my college publication but those campus news stories never count when I fill up the part under "publications." Sometimes, in a frenzied writing mode, I'd start writing what I think are well-crafted paragraphs about topics worth reading, but I never get to finish any of them nor do I find the patience to edit them. My muse seems to make fun of me. If this will go on, I'd probably die without any publications. I'd be old and I'd lead a dull gray life while I wait for my muse to inspire me. I guess I'd say goodbye to that literary career. 

I try to make it a habit to write, but as I said, it's a tedious task. I can spend an hour in just coming up with a perfect title. I can sit the whole day in front of the computer just mulling over a one paragraph introduction. I don't write that often in my journal anymore and I think that's really lazy of me. 

This whole article really just sums up my desire to become a writer. But I don't really know where and how to start. I know that I have that potential in me. I have that fire, too, but it's perhaps dying now put out by my more realistic goals. 

I really hope I'll take my writing career seriously and do something about it. That's a New Year's resolution for 2013. Wish me luck!