IT was a lazy Sunday and my natural tendency is to rummage through my “archives”. I went through a drawer with all my past “diaries”. I always thought I started chronicling my life in Grade 5; I was surprised to discover that my very first entry was on January 18,1988, when I was in Grade 3. It was a funny introduction about my name, what grade I was in and who my friends were. This was the start of my hobby of “documenting” my life.
Why? Ever since I was a small child, I always dreamed of being a mom. I always imagined a particular scene in which I, in my old age, would hand over all my diaries to my children. They would read it and know who their mother was growing up. Maybe that’s why I have so many diaries from those years.
Later on, I began to write poetry. The theme would mostly be about family life, friendships and, of course, unrequited love. I was quite sensitive and expressive as a child. But my mother told me this was a weakness I should change. I needed to be stronger to succeed in life.
I used to hold back what I felt and tell myself to numb the feeling because I didn’t want to disappoint my mother. Then, I found a better way. I wrote everything down so I didn’t have to bother anyone with suppressing my emotions. Here’s some raw poetry that I wrote as the cover of my planner in my third year in high school.
If there are waters running
There is no certainty of truth
Do not have the waves to decide
For it is not but a choice…
but your choice.
Choose not with hesitance
Choose not to appease
But because there is strength to hold on to
A canoe might be there
but the paddle is yet to be sought…
So dare not choose due to desperation…
For capsizing might not be too distant.
I got so hooked on writing poetry. I would write three or four at a time. When we would go out of town, my family knew I’d seclude myself for a few hours to write. I would read my poetry to my sister right after I had finished something. My second sister, who was the “English” expert in the family, would have this “eh” face, which meant my poetry wasn’t up to par.
When I was in school, most of the people who wrote for the school paper were usually good in English class, and were contestants in spelling contests. They were also avid readers who consumed the Nancy Drew or Bobbsey Twins book series, or maybe Sweet Valley High. As for me, my weakest skill was reading comprehension. I never got into spelling contests. Worse, reading was never my hobby.
I wanted to be better. I started to look for books with few words. I found art books with captions. Then the images would inspire me. I would either copy lines that I liked, or write my own poetry on Post-Its beside images.
From there, I started to doodle with color and then interpret my doodle with poetry.
The height of our being,
the depth of our weaknesses,
always have some meeting space in between,
and unless you find it,
you’ll always worry how quick happiness would fade,
how long disappointments would reign
and does contentment really exist.
February 8, 1997
Fire Senses
The peace of verdant green
Sits on the flesh of nature.
Who fired the senses?
Clarity unfolds
With nothing but a fool’s deceit
Are you really asleep?
Tomorrow awakens with the
red and green of the seasons
Am I ready to face the holiday?
November 11, 2011
Today, this is my most favorite form of personal poetry. Freely dirtying my hands with art materials, then organizing my free piece with words. I love doing this when I’m on long-haul flights. I also love writing poetry when I travel. Below is my journal entry during my last trip to Boracay.
Waters Calm, Waters Push
The view of the clouds presents me all good choices. The waves flow through me with all good tidings for me to accept and thank. In my life where disappointments and hurt come so often as the morning breeze, I believe being in the cool waters of nature always gives me perspective and strength. I love the water’s strength. I love how it makes a choice to soothe, heal, calm or hurt all in one go. People always say waters give life but they can also take life away. The actions of water are its own but the effects vary to those who receive its blows. I believe nature knows even before they move. And that lesson of conscious and fluid choice is what I emulate each day.
The choice to be loved or not loved.
The choice to be regular or exceptional.
The choice to follow or lead.
The choice to blame or be grateful.
The choice to doubt or to believe.
Boracay, July 1, 2013, Shangri-La Beachfront
So, there you have it. This was my journal entry about my dream to become a writer and my aspirations to positively transcend.