RUMINATIONS ON WAR AND PEACE, Prologue to the Essay Reaching for World Peace*
by Blanca Datuin
The Age of Innocence
There was a stream out the far end of a barrio in Capas, Tarlac, where my mother and her brood of three had run to escape from the rumored impending carnage in the town. The water in the brook ran so freely we youngsters took such great delight in floating our little boats down the stream--boats fashioned out of the largest leaves we could find, or some stray paper that may luckily fly our way--on a journey to some secret destination
In our young minds, we rode on a flotilla to the other side of the world, not any which way, if we could help it. For at the helm of each boat was a captain of its own to steer it to its proper destination. In our little world, the stream was a solace, a sanctuary free from the sins of man, the water of peace and beauty. Of course, the river could run wild and the current so swift and strong it could carry you with its flow. Little did we know then what the mighty power of will could do to overcome the current and calm the storms in one's life.
It was the height of what came to be known as the battle to liberate the Philippines from the Japanese in early 1945, a period fraught with fear and uncertainties, not unlike all other times of war among peoples through the years. But for us young ones, that was the age of utter disregard for the reality of beastly acts monstrous men were capable of. We cavorted with nature in our secret world; we pranced with glee to the sound of combat planes above us. We played hide-and-seek, totally unsuspecting of the monsters of war we were supposed to be hiding from, completely unknowing of the price of the peace and safety we were seeking.
Hovering above us were combat jets of both warring sides engaged in deafening dog fights while down below roamed the Japanese soldiers combing the community for guerrillas or any civilians harboring some fallen or wounded American soldiers. Hungry Japanese marauders, on the other hand, were foraging for food, scouring hiding places of civilians for chicken or pigs for roasting. When they came upon us, I remember how everyone held his breath scared to death that the swine hidden in the closet would create a single grunt that would wipe us all. The memory of such is so confounding when you begin to wonder if that porker was worth risking our lives for. The evacuees' elders, mostly women with husbands in the underground movement, decided it was a risk they had to take with all the trust in God they could muster. For it was food for their starving children, a prized source of meat they bought in the black market with a whole sack of Japanese money they had all pitched in. I guess, fear of their young ones starving to death in the midst of that deprivation was far stronger than their fear for their own lives.
The Other Face of the Enemy
Before evacuating from the town plaza where my mother used to run a store, the enemy had stepped in with the full regalia of a Japanese sergeant. He spoke good English and had polite manner, my mother noticed, an indicaion to her that he was educated. He asked my mother where my father was, perhaps suspecting some guerilla in hiding. My mother explained painstakingly that my father was in Manila where he worked as a lawyer. Any adult son? He pursued. Yes, my mother answered, but he, too, is stranded in Manila. Indeed, lack of transportation due to the travel prohibition of the Japanese army prevented their joining us in the province or for us to join them in Manila. Such candid exchange, my mother making no attempt to hide the facts and the officer trusting my mother's words. Better close up, he finally pronounced as an order. Go where it will be safer for you and your children. And he warned us of the imminent violence in the poblacion when the "enemies" return, referring to the Americans. He spoke briskly, but with a kind of gentleness.
(to be continued)
*A rewritten version of the original essay Reaching for World Peace, awarded Second Prize in the 2002 Jose Rizal Memorial Essay Contest in Los Angeles to commemorate the 105th death anniversary on December 31 of the Philippines' National Hero. During the ceremony, the Spanish Consul General Jose Luis Dicenta "reiterated his country's recognition of 'past mistakes' and called Rizal 'one of the most actively independent characters that humanity has known." To the Filipinos, however, this was not enough. Without explicit apology, these are empty words. A grave injustice was done this peace-loving pride of the Malay race when he was accused falsely of rebellion. and executed with dispatch. The wounds of a nation would never heal without, at least, an official apology from Spain.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
YOUTH INVOLVEMENT IN THE FUTURE OF THE WORLD
Facebook notes from my granddaughter, Monica, currently attending the Global Warming Int'l Conference in Durban, South Africa
Monica Christoffels
Monica Christoffels
www.trust.org
DURBAN, Dec 2 (Reuters) - China gave U.N. climate talks a lift on Friday by confirming it may sign up to a legally binding deal to cut emissions of heat-trapping gases, a move that could help rescue talks about the future of the Kyoto Protocol, observers said.
Monica Christoffels
Monica Christoffels
www.nytimes.com
Delegates from 194 nations gather in Durban, South Africa, this week to try to advance, if only incrementally, the world's response to dangerous climate change.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
THE OTHER HALF OF ME
The Valentine That left Ahead
THE OTHER HALF OF ME
(in memory of Wilfrido D. Nolledo, author of But for the Lovers)
Beneath this mound of soil
lies the other half of me,
in wait for this self
still walking the ground
trekked together before, but
now dotted with only a pair of footprints.
I lay the roses upon the tombstone
in a ritual of love, and pray:
please God let him who loved
you continue to love you,
and you who loved him in his life
continue to love him evermore.
I sit awhile on the grass
the well of tears at last
comes unabated, unashamed as,
desolate, I speak to the other half of me,
retrieving images of the past,
the highs and lows of our together life:
the poetry we fed on that filled the soul
as our empty pouches laid concealed in the
richness of our dreams; the hurts we
unknowingly meted out to each other. What are
aches and pains for--that gnaw at layers and layers
of grit--if they cannot unearth the Phoenix in us?
Shared rage against inequity, shared agony
over the cauldrons of war, shared anguish
over injustice, shared dreams and hopes for peace.
Such passion and ecstasy, anger and humor--
all inextricably bound in the mingling
of life’s laughter and tears.
This self must go on through the motions of life
though not quite whole, not quite hale,
for the other half of me is gone.
(How strong she is, people say; if only they knew…)
Tasks must be finished, whatever the heavens drop;
but there is an end to every journey, I, too well know.
Little drops of rain moisten the soil on my other half;
the cold tomb looks up at the endless blue above,
and the earth sucks the tears of the va ulted sky.
I beg the other half of me, be patient, wait for the
Dispenser of Life to fill the tomb’s empty space by your side
and make the we of us complete again. - Blanca Datuin, 2004
2016
I reposted this last year, and then it got deleted somehow. One click, and it was gone. But I'm reposting this old copy this time on the occasion of Valentine's Day, and of Wilfrido's death anniversary on March 4.
2011,
December 19 this year marks our 52nd wedding anniversary, which my children and I still observe even though my husband, Novelist Wilfrido D. Nolledo (of But for the Lovers, Cadena de Amor and Other Short Stories, available at Amazon. com) has been gone for seven years. Ding, as he was known to family and friends, passed away barely completing his last novel, A Capella Dawn.
I usually tend to escape a revisit to the past as it brings back images both joyful and lonely. Was it Alfred Tennyson who said ""A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier times"? But I dug up recently this lovely letter from a dear friend while I was sorting old letters from Ding and from close friends. It's from Cora Bisogno, the former Cora Cloma, who was my maid-of-honor at my wedding. It was supposed to have been read during our celebration of our 40th wedding anniversary in 1999 when Ding was still up and about. Cora, however, got tied up with her public relations work in New York and could not come to share the day with us. So, she did the next best thing she could do: send us this letter to be read during the party celebration. Cora is a writer herself but like many of us in our circle of friends who were diverted to other occupations, strayed away from a writing career.
Here is her own recollection of my campus romance with Ding at the University of Santo Tomas in Manila when Ding, newly graduated from the College of Philosophy and Letters (Philet) and I, on the other hand, still a babe in the woods and poet wannabe, fresh from high school, met through a mutual college friend who submitted my first short story to Ding. Those were the years when male and female students went through separate corridors in our university but, strangely, met in co-ed classrooms. (When I think of it now, it really seems so useless, those separate corridors. I don't know if it's still done now.) Even stranger perhaps to outsiders is the fact that quite a few campus romances somehow bloomed and thrived in that university despite the strict rules of the Dominican priests. As a matter of fact, a favorite joke during one of our early reunions decades ago was the dictum that the Philet College, especially, was a happy hunting ground for the right mate. A few I can recall that ended at the altar were Recah Trinidad (to become the famous sportswriter and columnist) and Fe Lacsamana; Neal Cruz (now a long-time columnist/writer) and Marina Novenario; Meny Heernandez (who became a consul) and Yoly Canseco (now a retired GSP National Director); Writer Gerry Umengan and Vilma Dagasuan (to become a magazine editor); Ernie Franco and Cherry Santamaria, summa cum laude of her batch; Rey Vidal and Lou Hernandez; Tony Siddayao and Maricruz Prada; and Eli Molina and Nelly Balthazar; and of course, Wilfrido Nolledo and yours truly. Well, perhaps, our dean, the Rev. Alfredo Panizo, O.P., didn't do a good job guarding us; in fact, we considered him a consintodor and we loved him for it, of course. Ding and I actually met right in the Dean's office, sat at the long conference table there and chatted right under Father Panizo's scrutinizing eyes, he whose office desk was just a few feet away. But he kept our confidences, yes, our beloved dean. (He eventually officiated at our wedding, who else could we have asked?) Maybe, it was his way of looking after his college children; would rather have them in the safety of our school than have them indulge in secret assignations outside. We had a good faculty, too: Manuel Viray, later to become ambassador; Erlinda Rustia, much admired professor whose respect we coveted despite her stinging verdict to those she thought were not called to be writers ("If you cannot write, go enroll at the School of Hair Science," addressed to male students thus eliciting giggles from some); sweet and bedimpled Pity Guinto-Rosales; Primi Cervania (our Spanish professor behind whom we snickered when she would stick to Spanish even when we kept asking one another "what the heck is she talking about"? And Menchit Rocha, a Chabacano from Cebu, would translate roughly Ms. Cervania's Castilian Spanish.
Those were days when courtship was so pristine and virginal that the unbridled generation of today would sadly frown upon. Yet, with Ding and myself, it was a period of getting-to-know each other and sowing the seeds of a deeper relationship beyond the physical and temporary. So, when in the following recollection of Cora, she asks "why did your marriage withstand the test of time," I'll add to her answers that it must have been those school years that we "occupied" the dean's office during my vacant period and had long talks about practically everything under the sun. In baring to me his heart, his dreams, his pains, his art, Ding impressed me with his depth. Here was a man who did not laugh at other people's mistakes or weird appearance, who had compassion and felt the pain of a suffering world, who worked hard (he was already working then) and was willing to give of himself to people he loved, and most of all, knew how to love and respect his mother.( If you want to know the character of a man, I was told, observe how he treats his mother.) Even in youth, somehow I was attracted to those values, and at that time of my young life,I don't remember having found them in the men I had known, probably because of their own youth and still developing personhood. But what touched me most was the seriousness with which Ding pursued me (four years!), yet never forcing me to do anything against my moral beliefs.
Here's Cora telling a part of that chapter in my life. I'm sharing it for whatever insights the youth of today may gain from it. Inserts in italics are mine.
MEMORIES OF DING'S COURTSHIP, an excerpt from a letter from Corazon Cloma Bisogno to Ding and Blanca on their 40th wedding anniversary.
It's amazing to realize that you've been married 40 years! I know few couples who have remained together that long. My parents' marriage ended after 18 years and my own marriage lasted only three years ...You and Ding are blessed to have met in this lifetime. Time may play tricks with my memory, clouding details of remembrances... So, forgive me if I don't do justice to our joint histories.
...We were in college when we met Ding. I believe we were sophomores when you noticed him. I think he attended one of our classes--he was a senior or had graduated already and in fact was in the graduate school at the time. He was the literary editor of the Blue Quill, our college journal--that's how we met him; we submitted poems. (Unknown to Cora and my other gangmates, Ding had been writing letters to me already even before that. I was to take over as literary editor of the Blue Quill two years after, and Ding moved on to become the literary editor of the Varsitarian, the university organ.)
I remember Prof. Erlinda Rustia raving about Ding. He was a big man on campus, soon to become a major national writer... When I met you, I thought you would enter the convent later and become a nun. You were really so pure of heart and deeply spiritual. I had been a postulant in the convent for a year, so I knew I wasn't one of those called, but I thought you were. (Was this perspective elicited by my daily visits to our university chapel together with another close friend, Nene Marquine (now Navarro), with whom I prayed the rosary during our vacant period?) Imagine my surprise and delight when you were becoming interested in Ding.
Your courtship was very quiet and private, both of you being quiet and private persons. How wonderfully astute Ding was to have an insight into your character and soul. With so many attractive and equally talented girls around, he saw your true beauty and looked into your beautiful heart and fell deeply in love. Being shy, you did not gush openly about your feelings, but I knew you were in love, because you spoke much about how kind and gentle and brilliant Ding was. You related the gist of your conversations you two had about literature, philosophy and the arts and subtly gave me a picture of a strong yet gentle man who could dominate a conversation, yet brought out the artist in you as well. Your eventual marriage was a foregone conclusion.
Your lovers' tiffs were brief little incidents that served merely to spice the relationship, add a little excitement and color, perhaps to ensure that a future life together will be interesting and perhaps bring some scintillating challenges. They were perhaps reminders that you were both, afterall, artists with the requisite temperaments to watch out for. The quick darting looks Ding would throw your way when we would accidentally (or were they really accidental?) encounter him on campus or in hallways, were eloquent expressions of his affection. I was thrilled as a happy spectator. (Wow, Cora, I didn't know you took notice of all of that.) How you would shyly avoid looking directly at him, hiding your emotions even from us who knew. How young and innocent we all were.
Your wedding day itself is a hazy memory now, as I have seen so many weddings of family and friends in the eternity of 40 years... All I can remember is that you were a pair who looked perfect together and everybody had a sense of that "happily ever after" feeling...
(Ah, walking down the aisle in a traje de boda designed and sewn by no less than the genius poet and dramatist Rolando Tinio, later to become a Philippine National Artist, and Ding in his immaculately white suit I suspected he felt uncomfortable in because he hated formal suits so.)
I felt I was embarking on a new relationship of having to share your friendship with Ding. But I was very happy for you. Now all I had to do was wait to become an extended member of your new family as an "aunt" to your future children. We kept in touch. You did not allow our friendship to become a casualty of your new life... then Ding received a grant from the U.S. Embassy to come and study in America. (Ding was actually invited to the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa, that was followed by four consecutive grants.) With children you were off to a new adventure of raising a growing family as Ding's writing career flourished.. Then our paths led to different directions as I myself immigrated later to America and started a new life. Years later we reconnected when you had a brief stint here in New York as an associate editor. We have continued communicating with each other since then though you had gone back to California to be with your children and then to Manila to get Ding to join your children.
Why did your marriage withstand the test of time? It is not just love you have for each other but respect and friendship as well. Even as you raised your children, Ding and you have been partners who have kept pace with each other. Perhaps you compromised a little by encouraging his career more than yours, but your reward has been his love and loyalty to you. You share common interests, you have grown and evolved together. You continue to fascinate each other. You are true to yourselves and live very simply. Our friendship is like your marriage, in a way. It doesn't go out of style. Forty years later, I have no doubt we can pick up where we left off the last time we saw each other, for we would still hold similar interests and values.
So, congratulations as you celebrate with your children, grandchildren and friends. I regret I cannot be there to share your joy. But my thoughts and my love are with you.
Cora
The Empty Nest
The little rascals are gone,
the Christmas tree dismantled,
the fine china back in the cupboard,
the cushions neatly resting in the sofa,
the gifts unwrapped, the loot hauled away.
Silence, emptiness fill the house, no longer a home.
One would give the world to have them back.
- Blanca Datuin,1999
Friday, November 11, 2011
Overcoming the Drought
RE-POSTING FROM THE ARCHIVE -
Almost two decades ago, on a cold December night, I drove to Los Angeles, telling my family I was just going to a meeting. In truth, I was going to receive an award from the Jose Rizal Memorial Organization in the U.S. for my essay, "Reaching for World Peace." It was a long drive and a courageous one at that, because I had to do the side streets since I had already stopped doing the freeway. Why the secrecy? I didn't think it should be fussed over. As my son Ruel would say of his own achievements, "No big deal."
I had kept my writing a secret as much as I could, so fearful was I of paling in comparison with my husband, a mogul in writing even while still on campus where we both met. It would hurt him that I should even feel that way, for he so much would have been supportive. But that's just it--our being so close in affinity would endanger my sense of identity and freedom. As it was, even the title of one of the few stories I had written after marriage was already influenced by our common love for Dylan Thomas: Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
When Ding (as he was known by his close friends) first left for Iowa University on a grant in 1965, I escaped from my loneliness upon being left alone in the Philippines by writing a short story, Go Gentle into that Good Night, published in the Philippines' Weekly Nation Magazine and then winning its Short Story of the Month Contest. It was my maiden name I used and the chairman of the Board of Judges, National Artist N.V.M. Gonzales, thinking that was my married surname, referred to me in his write-up as Mrs. Datuin, having seen me heavy with child when I claimed payment for the published work. (In those times, single mothers were not in vogue, so if you're pregnant, you must be married and if you're married you must be carrying the last name of your husband. I chose to separate my writing identity.)
In his comment on the decision, N.V.M. Gonzales wrote: "The tone and delicate handling of Mrs. Datuin's material are most remarkable especially considering the requirements which her subject calls for. It is for this that her story will be memorable to many readers."
Meeting NVM face to face thirty-two years after, during a parangal party for him in North Hollywood as hosted by Linda Nietes of Casa Linda Bookstore, I introduced myself as an author of a short story he had voted for as Short Story of the Month. His first question was "Have you written since then?" When I answered no, his reaction was, "Why did you stop writing?" How could I explain to him the years of childbearing and child-rearing when my husband, family and earning a living came first and ahead of any creative functioning. Ideas would come out like flashes of lightning when you're in the middle of laundering, cooking, teaching and then you cannot sit down and germinate them. It's like aborting babies that you desperately want to give birth to. Actually, I had written and published two other stories after that: Light to Last (Philippines Free Press), Bury Me in Santo Domingo (Weekend Magazine), and a few magazine articles.
Indulging in art is a selfish occupation: you tend to neglect your mundane obligations, in fact, even your own self. My husband had admitted to such as though a way of apologizing, which he didn't have to do, as I understood fully well the nature of his occupation. and his need to give that God-given talent to the outside world. I had seen him work clicky-clack on his Hermes typewriter till the wee hours of the morning, and all I could help him with was look after his health and serve tea and sympathy. Though I insisted he needed sleep, he couldn't resist that urge to put into writing those words and ideas that haunted him no end. When he had to submit his works for a literary competition, I took care of arranging the pages, putting them together with fasteners and stacking them in those big brown envelopes, making sure that the real name was in a separate sealed envelope. Authors' names were always anonymous. Receiving that long-awaited letter announcing his having won the competition was a welcome consolation for those long hours of writing.
But I digress too much. All I meant to do was share an excerpt from my essay, "Reaching for World Peace," which I would do for my next post.
Almost two decades ago, on a cold December night, I drove to Los Angeles, telling my family I was just going to a meeting. In truth, I was going to receive an award from the Jose Rizal Memorial Organization in the U.S. for my essay, "Reaching for World Peace." It was a long drive and a courageous one at that, because I had to do the side streets since I had already stopped doing the freeway. Why the secrecy? I didn't think it should be fussed over. As my son Ruel would say of his own achievements, "No big deal."
I had kept my writing a secret as much as I could, so fearful was I of paling in comparison with my husband, a mogul in writing even while still on campus where we both met. It would hurt him that I should even feel that way, for he so much would have been supportive. But that's just it--our being so close in affinity would endanger my sense of identity and freedom. As it was, even the title of one of the few stories I had written after marriage was already influenced by our common love for Dylan Thomas: Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
When Ding (as he was known by his close friends) first left for Iowa University on a grant in 1965, I escaped from my loneliness upon being left alone in the Philippines by writing a short story, Go Gentle into that Good Night, published in the Philippines' Weekly Nation Magazine and then winning its Short Story of the Month Contest. It was my maiden name I used and the chairman of the Board of Judges, National Artist N.V.M. Gonzales, thinking that was my married surname, referred to me in his write-up as Mrs. Datuin, having seen me heavy with child when I claimed payment for the published work. (In those times, single mothers were not in vogue, so if you're pregnant, you must be married and if you're married you must be carrying the last name of your husband. I chose to separate my writing identity.)
In his comment on the decision, N.V.M. Gonzales wrote: "The tone and delicate handling of Mrs. Datuin's material are most remarkable especially considering the requirements which her subject calls for. It is for this that her story will be memorable to many readers."
Meeting NVM face to face thirty-two years after, during a parangal party for him in North Hollywood as hosted by Linda Nietes of Casa Linda Bookstore, I introduced myself as an author of a short story he had voted for as Short Story of the Month. His first question was "Have you written since then?" When I answered no, his reaction was, "Why did you stop writing?" How could I explain to him the years of childbearing and child-rearing when my husband, family and earning a living came first and ahead of any creative functioning. Ideas would come out like flashes of lightning when you're in the middle of laundering, cooking, teaching and then you cannot sit down and germinate them. It's like aborting babies that you desperately want to give birth to. Actually, I had written and published two other stories after that: Light to Last (Philippines Free Press), Bury Me in Santo Domingo (Weekend Magazine), and a few magazine articles.
Indulging in art is a selfish occupation: you tend to neglect your mundane obligations, in fact, even your own self. My husband had admitted to such as though a way of apologizing, which he didn't have to do, as I understood fully well the nature of his occupation. and his need to give that God-given talent to the outside world. I had seen him work clicky-clack on his Hermes typewriter till the wee hours of the morning, and all I could help him with was look after his health and serve tea and sympathy. Though I insisted he needed sleep, he couldn't resist that urge to put into writing those words and ideas that haunted him no end. When he had to submit his works for a literary competition, I took care of arranging the pages, putting them together with fasteners and stacking them in those big brown envelopes, making sure that the real name was in a separate sealed envelope. Authors' names were always anonymous. Receiving that long-awaited letter announcing his having won the competition was a welcome consolation for those long hours of writing.
But I digress too much. All I meant to do was share an excerpt from my essay, "Reaching for World Peace," which I would do for my next post.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Touched by Kindness and Humility
REPOSTING THESE REFLECTIONS AS WE ARE REMINDED OF THE HUMILITY OF THE PUBLICAN IN THE GOSPEL TODAY, October 27, 2019, 13th Sunday in Ordinary Time
October 9, 2011
Many days there are in our daily life when we witness kindness and humility of those who rank higher than we are and at other times, of ordinary people like us. In today's bustling world, when everyone, it seems, is glued to one's cellphone chatting no end, or eyes focused on iphones--whoever takes notice of the kindness of strangers, the nobility of a humble act? Golden nuggets passed by unnoticed, taken for granted, ignored as though insignificant acts. No big deal, one would say. Yet, they are, at least to me. As a poet once said, how beautiful a day can be when kindness touches it, (and a simple act of humility, I must add, raises it to one of nobility).
Yesterday I witnessed something that touched my heart and later, when I was alone and recalled it, brought a lump in my throat and felt humbled by it. It was our parish' day of receiving the statue of Our Lady of Fatima for the Living Rosary Crusade that has been going around the world to pray for world peace. After a few days of intermittent downpour, the morning suddenly shone with perfect brightness. How good is the Divine Providence to let the sun shine to welcome Mary's devotees. As I was busy doing my tasks of greeting the throng of parents and youngsters and distributing the day's program, I noticed some parishioners staring at some feces down the church steppe, which I could only guess was left by a child who couldn't hold it anymore. Not wearing a Pamper in this age of throw-aways? Or, could it have been dung left by some pets? Because, earlier there were a lot of animals brought by their owners for the annual Blessing of the Animals Day ceremony out in the church patio. I didn't see the actual act of emission, so I had no way of knowing.
Anyway, two thoughtful persons tried to cover the waste with tissue paper while the rest just stood, staring at it like a sacred piece of clay. Father Preston Passos, our parish administrator, happened to be passing by perhaps to start greeting the church-goers and seeing about the organizing tasks. Seeing what everyone was staring at, he went back to the rectory and and returned in no time, dustpan and broom in hand. Without much ado, he scooped the unwanted specimen, threw it away in the trash and wiped the remains with paper towel. Then and only then did a parish personnel standing by came to the rescue and took over. But it took our beloved pastor to initiate it. Here is the perfect picture of a man of God in his black priestly cassock bending to do the task everyone else appeared helpless to accomplish.
I don't know how many other times Father Preston had shown such kindness and humility (perhaps it's second nature to him), but I can mention another occasion. Parish desk person Patty Yaque and I were struggling to hang up a class banner on one side of the fence facing our parish school street. Classes had not begun and thus, no student was around to help us. The parish maintenance officer was already gone; so was the gardener. Poor Patti Yaque was the only one left to help me as Father Rodolfo had suggested. Then out of nowhere came the Rev. Preston who would be the last person I would ask for help, knowing how knee-deep he is in dealing with an avalanche of paperwork as our church administrator. Patti must have told him we would be out there to hang a banner as a way of explaining her absence at the desk she was supposed to man. Quietly, without a word, Father Preston stretched the banner, tied to the fence one end as Patty, up in a ladder, held the other end. (No, Father Preston, being tall, didn't need a ladder.) In a jiffy, the job was finished, and after expressing satisfaction about the banner, he walked back to the Rectory to attend to what I imagined his flood of paperwork.
October 10, 2011
Today is my RCIA class at Our Lady of Peace. At exactly 8:30 A.M., all my students were there at the entrance of the parish convent where we were supposed to hold the class. It was a joy seeing them come en masse like that because it's not every Sunday all are in full attendance. Melissa, Ricardo, Rosie, Guadalupe, Janet, Mario. The Holy Spirit heard my prayer to call them. We strutted to our usual room, feeling buoyed by the enthusiasm of my adult catechumens. Then we discovered our room locked. I went out to look for the maintenance supervisor . Surely he must have the key. No he didn't. He tried each of his bunch of keys and not a single one would fit. We tried another room. No luck. We went upstairs, and lo, one was luckily opened. But no chairs, though later, somehow, one chair came into full view from a corner. I went to the other room where another RCIA class (for youngsters) was being conducted. I asked the catechist in charge if we could borrow some six empty chairs we noticed in her room. She might have latecomers, she said, and she needed the chairs.
Ah, never mind, I told my catechumens, we'll survive standing. "We can sit on the floor," they all chimed in. Great. Did you know that students of the ancient philosophers didn't have a classroom and they just sat under the tree, I asked. Well, at least we're inside a home, with a roof over our heads. That brought smiles on their faces. I would have wanted to sit on the floor myself were it not for the fact that being a septuagenarian, they would have difficulty getting me up. So, to spare them that I accepted the one chair that somehow materialized from a corner. But the image of the group sitting on the floor and listening intently to the Word of God and the story of Jesus that we can meditate on when we pray the Holy Rosary (our topic for the day, October being the month of the Holy Rosary), was so exhilarating and gratifying indeed. How lovely and loving is the Holy Spirit working on us! We prayed: "Thank you, Lord, for this gathering and this opportunity to sit on the floor to offer our love in response to Your call. As we go back to our mundane lives, don't let us lose this experience of Your gift that we share with others. Continue to guide us in our faith journey, O Holy Spirit, that we may respond in the same generous and humble ways that your followers had done before. " - Blanca Datuin
(Our Pastoral Associate, Rosie Hernandez, apologized later for not having our usual room open for the class and thank us for keeping our spirits up despite having to sit on the floor. No problem, Ms. Rosie, it gave us opportunity to offer more to the Lord. No use to fritter away our emotions over such small things.)
October 9, 2011
Many days there are in our daily life when we witness kindness and humility of those who rank higher than we are and at other times, of ordinary people like us. In today's bustling world, when everyone, it seems, is glued to one's cellphone chatting no end, or eyes focused on iphones--whoever takes notice of the kindness of strangers, the nobility of a humble act? Golden nuggets passed by unnoticed, taken for granted, ignored as though insignificant acts. No big deal, one would say. Yet, they are, at least to me. As a poet once said, how beautiful a day can be when kindness touches it, (and a simple act of humility, I must add, raises it to one of nobility).
Yesterday I witnessed something that touched my heart and later, when I was alone and recalled it, brought a lump in my throat and felt humbled by it. It was our parish' day of receiving the statue of Our Lady of Fatima for the Living Rosary Crusade that has been going around the world to pray for world peace. After a few days of intermittent downpour, the morning suddenly shone with perfect brightness. How good is the Divine Providence to let the sun shine to welcome Mary's devotees. As I was busy doing my tasks of greeting the throng of parents and youngsters and distributing the day's program, I noticed some parishioners staring at some feces down the church steppe, which I could only guess was left by a child who couldn't hold it anymore. Not wearing a Pamper in this age of throw-aways? Or, could it have been dung left by some pets? Because, earlier there were a lot of animals brought by their owners for the annual Blessing of the Animals Day ceremony out in the church patio. I didn't see the actual act of emission, so I had no way of knowing.
Anyway, two thoughtful persons tried to cover the waste with tissue paper while the rest just stood, staring at it like a sacred piece of clay. Father Preston Passos, our parish administrator, happened to be passing by perhaps to start greeting the church-goers and seeing about the organizing tasks. Seeing what everyone was staring at, he went back to the rectory and and returned in no time, dustpan and broom in hand. Without much ado, he scooped the unwanted specimen, threw it away in the trash and wiped the remains with paper towel. Then and only then did a parish personnel standing by came to the rescue and took over. But it took our beloved pastor to initiate it. Here is the perfect picture of a man of God in his black priestly cassock bending to do the task everyone else appeared helpless to accomplish.
I don't know how many other times Father Preston had shown such kindness and humility (perhaps it's second nature to him), but I can mention another occasion. Parish desk person Patty Yaque and I were struggling to hang up a class banner on one side of the fence facing our parish school street. Classes had not begun and thus, no student was around to help us. The parish maintenance officer was already gone; so was the gardener. Poor Patti Yaque was the only one left to help me as Father Rodolfo had suggested. Then out of nowhere came the Rev. Preston who would be the last person I would ask for help, knowing how knee-deep he is in dealing with an avalanche of paperwork as our church administrator. Patti must have told him we would be out there to hang a banner as a way of explaining her absence at the desk she was supposed to man. Quietly, without a word, Father Preston stretched the banner, tied to the fence one end as Patty, up in a ladder, held the other end. (No, Father Preston, being tall, didn't need a ladder.) In a jiffy, the job was finished, and after expressing satisfaction about the banner, he walked back to the Rectory to attend to what I imagined his flood of paperwork.
October 10, 2011
Today is my RCIA class at Our Lady of Peace. At exactly 8:30 A.M., all my students were there at the entrance of the parish convent where we were supposed to hold the class. It was a joy seeing them come en masse like that because it's not every Sunday all are in full attendance. Melissa, Ricardo, Rosie, Guadalupe, Janet, Mario. The Holy Spirit heard my prayer to call them. We strutted to our usual room, feeling buoyed by the enthusiasm of my adult catechumens. Then we discovered our room locked. I went out to look for the maintenance supervisor . Surely he must have the key. No he didn't. He tried each of his bunch of keys and not a single one would fit. We tried another room. No luck. We went upstairs, and lo, one was luckily opened. But no chairs, though later, somehow, one chair came into full view from a corner. I went to the other room where another RCIA class (for youngsters) was being conducted. I asked the catechist in charge if we could borrow some six empty chairs we noticed in her room. She might have latecomers, she said, and she needed the chairs.
Ah, never mind, I told my catechumens, we'll survive standing. "We can sit on the floor," they all chimed in. Great. Did you know that students of the ancient philosophers didn't have a classroom and they just sat under the tree, I asked. Well, at least we're inside a home, with a roof over our heads. That brought smiles on their faces. I would have wanted to sit on the floor myself were it not for the fact that being a septuagenarian, they would have difficulty getting me up. So, to spare them that I accepted the one chair that somehow materialized from a corner. But the image of the group sitting on the floor and listening intently to the Word of God and the story of Jesus that we can meditate on when we pray the Holy Rosary (our topic for the day, October being the month of the Holy Rosary), was so exhilarating and gratifying indeed. How lovely and loving is the Holy Spirit working on us! We prayed: "Thank you, Lord, for this gathering and this opportunity to sit on the floor to offer our love in response to Your call. As we go back to our mundane lives, don't let us lose this experience of Your gift that we share with others. Continue to guide us in our faith journey, O Holy Spirit, that we may respond in the same generous and humble ways that your followers had done before. " - Blanca Datuin
(Our Pastoral Associate, Rosie Hernandez, apologized later for not having our usual room open for the class and thank us for keeping our spirits up despite having to sit on the floor. No problem, Ms. Rosie, it gave us opportunity to offer more to the Lord. No use to fritter away our emotions over such small things.)
Monday, September 19, 2011
MY DAILY SHARE
MY DAILY SHARE
SHARE-- that now ubiquitous word, is really such an all-embracing word. It denotes giving and taking, opening up to other human beings as well as taking in what they may offer and sharing it with others. We take part in the game of life and we demand that we get a fair share of what we put in terms of money, time, effort, or whatever resources we contribute to whatever communal endeavor we have chosen to participate in. A piece of a whole, a fragment, an allotment dispensed to all participants in a shared undertaking. In the whole spectrum of life, one asks for his/her share within the context of freedom, fairness and justice. One may share, in a spirit of generosity and unselfishness, one's plate of food, one's talent, one's resources. The capitalist shares the profits of the day with his workers: that's only fair and just. And in an imitation of Christ who shares the kingdom of God with the whole of the human race, the prophets and the faithful work to spread the Word that is meant to be shared by all.
What we may want to share can be an infinity of stuff, from the material to the abstract, from the emotional to the spiritual. from the traditions to our lasting values, from the rational to the, alas, the irrational. For we can have the good and the bad in our human nature, and in casting out our demons, we share consciously or unconsciously, our despair, our bitterness, failings, our pains--all that darkness of the soul. A.y-y, there's the rub. Who wants to even listen to all that, much less share? How many times has one heard the listener say "I don't want to hear about that," when trying to unburden himself to another, ? Or, "I have enough problems of my own"? Was it Anton Chekhov or Leo Tolstoy who wrote in his stories about the apathy of some people in the face of tragedy? I can't remember now the title, but there is this story of a cab driver telling his passenger about his son who just died and the passenger impatiently just tells him to hurry in his driving. How sad! We watch or read Shakespearean tragedies, the Greek plays and other plays or novels of tragedies. Who among us does not experience catharsis?
Isn't it more tragic than the tragedy being viewed when the viewer cannot feel a cathartic purging of emotions, of spirit? The truth is that it is in our sharing the pains of others that we develop our sense of compassion. It is in our ability to commiserate that we ennoble our own sense of humanness. How empty is the soul without anything good to share. How utterly impoverished is one unwilling to give of himself to others or unwilling to give up something for others. We, after all, are kins to one another. We are humanity: peoples chained together in a cadena de amor, as it should be.
What we may want to share can be an infinity of stuff, from the material to the abstract, from the emotional to the spiritual. from the traditions to our lasting values, from the rational to the, alas, the irrational. For we can have the good and the bad in our human nature, and in casting out our demons, we share consciously or unconsciously, our despair, our bitterness, failings, our pains--all that darkness of the soul. A.y-y, there's the rub. Who wants to even listen to all that, much less share? How many times has one heard the listener say "I don't want to hear about that," when trying to unburden himself to another, ? Or, "I have enough problems of my own"? Was it Anton Chekhov or Leo Tolstoy who wrote in his stories about the apathy of some people in the face of tragedy? I can't remember now the title, but there is this story of a cab driver telling his passenger about his son who just died and the passenger impatiently just tells him to hurry in his driving. How sad! We watch or read Shakespearean tragedies, the Greek plays and other plays or novels of tragedies. Who among us does not experience catharsis?
Isn't it more tragic than the tragedy being viewed when the viewer cannot feel a cathartic purging of emotions, of spirit? The truth is that it is in our sharing the pains of others that we develop our sense of compassion. It is in our ability to commiserate that we ennoble our own sense of humanness. How empty is the soul without anything good to share. How utterly impoverished is one unwilling to give of himself to others or unwilling to give up something for others. We, after all, are kins to one another. We are humanity: peoples chained together in a cadena de amor, as it should be.
It is in the spirit of sharing that this blog will be. For in putting into words my thoughts and feelings, perhaps, some readers will find kinship that can be nurtured into something positive, and some of it pursued for an enrichment of life and on to more productive ends of lasting values. My thoughts may not be welcomed by some, they may clash with other readers' opinions, beliefs, values, even faith. That's how we all are: different from one another; each with differing personality, each a product of a different culture, family, influence, education: each is indeed unique... But share we will, nevertheless, through stories, poetry, narration, be it of the profound, the tragic, the mundane or the comic side of life.
Each has a life story to tell, opinions, knowledge, information, feelings, thoughts, ideas... Share your story, we are urged; share your values, your beliefs, your faith. This last, especially, is not one meant to be just for oneself. You don't light a candle and keep it under a bushel.You let it shine for others, too. So, let us begin while the mind is teeming with ideas still and the soul burning with love. Let us dust old publications from the cobwebs of antiquity. For life is brief and the candle might snuff out anytime. #
- - Blanca Datuin (c) 2010
St. Louis Of France
Louis was born on April 25, 1214. His father was King Louis VIII of France and his mother was Queen Blanche. The story is told that when Prince Louis was small, his mother hugged him tightly. She said, "I love you, my dear son, as much as a mother can love her child. But I would rather see you dead at my feet than ever to have you commit a mortal sin." Louis never forgot those words. He grew to cherish his Catholic faith and his upbringing. When he was twelve, his father died and he became the king. Queen Blanche ruled until her son was twenty-one. Louis became a remarkable king. He married Margaret, the daughter of a count with whom he had eleven children. A good husband and father he proved himself to be as well as a loving son to his mother, Queen Blanche, lived, to whom he showed full respect. Busy as he was, the king found time for daily Mass and the recitation of the Divine Office. He was a Third Order Franciscan and lived a simple lifestyle. Generous and fair, he ruled his people with wisdom, charity and true Christian principles. There was no separation between what he believed as a Catholic and how he lived. He knew how to settle arguments and disputes. He listened to the poor and the underprivileged. He had time for everybody, not just the rich and influential. He supported Catholic education and built monasteries. The historian, Joinville, wrote a biography of St. Louis. He recalls that he was twenty-two years in the king's service. He was daily in the king's company. And he could say that he never heard King Louis swear or use any kind of profanity in all those years. Nor did the king permit bad language in his castle. St. Louis felt an urgent obligation to help the suffering Christians in the Holy Land. He wanted to be part of the Crusades. Twice he led an army against the Turks. The first time, he was taken prisoner. But even in jail, he behaved as a true Christian knight. He was unafraid and noble in all his ways. He was freed and returned to take care of his kingdom in France. Yet as soon as he could, he started back to fight the enemies of the faith again. On the way, however, this greatly loved king contracted typhoid fever. A few hours before he died, he prayed, "Lord, I will enter into your house, worship in your holy temple, and give glory to your name." St. Louis died on August 25, 1270. He was fifty-six years old. He was proclaimed a saint by Pope Boniface VIII in 1297. "Be kindhearted to the poor, the unfortunate and the afflicted. Give them as much help and consolation as you can."-St. Louis
What's in a Name?
We begin with a story that seems incredible in these times of skepticism and unbeliefs: the life story of a remarkable saint whose mother I was named after, except that when it was found to be too Frenchy, it was changed to Blanca. I used to have some acquaintance who used to call me Blanche which I did not respond well to for the same reason my parents balked at the idea of calling me that though they found it in their religious calendar at the time of my birth without really knowing St. Blanche life.
I first read about the story of Queen Blanche when I was a child of ten. How providential that on the eve of my birthday this year, the life of her son, St. Louis IX, would appear on the sidebar of my email, reminding me of this extraordinary mother who produced two saints: Blessed Isabelle and St. Louis of France. Her words, however, reverberates: what a tall order for her own self! But how remarkable her son turned out to be. Could such a mother wishing her son rather dead than seeing him commit mortal sin really have existed? And could such good governance and religion, as Louis IX had shown mix, really happen in today's times? It's a dream devoutly to be wished!
- Aug. 26, 2010
St. Louis Of France
Louis was born on April 25, 1214. His father was King Louis VIII of France and his mother was Queen Blanche. The story is told that when Prince Louis was small, his mother hugged him tightly. She said, "I love you, my dear son, as much as a mother can love her child. But I would rather see you dead at my feet than ever to have you commit a mortal sin." Louis never forgot those words. He grew to cherish his Catholic faith and his upbringing. When he was twelve, his father died and he became the king. Queen Blanche ruled until her son was twenty-one. Louis became a remarkable king. He married Margaret, the daughter of a count with whom he had eleven children. A good husband and father he proved himself to be as well as a loving son to his mother, Queen Blanche, lived, to whom he showed full respect. Busy as he was, the king found time for daily Mass and the recitation of the Divine Office. He was a Third Order Franciscan and lived a simple lifestyle. Generous and fair, he ruled his people with wisdom, charity and true Christian principles. There was no separation between what he believed as a Catholic and how he lived. He knew how to settle arguments and disputes. He listened to the poor and the underprivileged. He had time for everybody, not just the rich and influential. He supported Catholic education and built monasteries. The historian, Joinville, wrote a biography of St. Louis. He recalls that he was twenty-two years in the king's service. He was daily in the king's company. And he could say that he never heard King Louis swear or use any kind of profanity in all those years. Nor did the king permit bad language in his castle. St. Louis felt an urgent obligation to help the suffering Christians in the Holy Land. He wanted to be part of the Crusades. Twice he led an army against the Turks. The first time, he was taken prisoner. But even in jail, he behaved as a true Christian knight. He was unafraid and noble in all his ways. He was freed and returned to take care of his kingdom in France. Yet as soon as he could, he started back to fight the enemies of the faith again. On the way, however, this greatly loved king contracted typhoid fever. A few hours before he died, he prayed, "Lord, I will enter into your house, worship in your holy temple, and give glory to your name." St. Louis died on August 25, 1270. He was fifty-six years old. He was proclaimed a saint by Pope Boniface VIII in 1297. "Be kindhearted to the poor, the unfortunate and the afflicted. Give them as much help and consolation as you can."-St. Louis
Friday, September 9, 2011
The Other Half Of Me
THE OTHER HALF OF ME
By Blanca Datuin
(in memory of Wilfrido D. Nolledo, author of But for the Lovers)
Beneath this mound of soil
lies the other half of me,
in wait for this self
still walking the ground
trekked together before, but
now dotted with only a pair of footprints.
I lay the roses upon the tombstone
in a ritual of love, and pray:
please God let him who loved
you continue to love you,
and you who loved him in his life
continue to love him evermore.
I sit awhile on the grass
the well of tears at last
comes unabated, unashamed as,
desolate, I speak to the other half of me,
retrieving images of the past,
the highs and lows of our together life:
the poetry we fed on that filled the soul
as our empty pouches laid concealed in the
richness of our dreams; the hurts we
unknowingly meted out to each other. What are
aches and pains for--that gnaw at layers and layers
of grit--if they cannot unearth the Phoenix in us?
Shared rage against inequity, shared agony
over the cauldrons of war, shared anguish
over injustice, shared dreams and hopes for peace.
Such passion and ecstasy, anger and humor--
all inextricably bound in the mingling
of life’s laughter and tears.
This self must go on through the motions of life
though not quite whole, not quite hale,
for the other half of me is gone.
(How strong she is, people say; if only they knew…)
Tasks must be finished, whatever the heavens drop;
but there is an end to every journey, I, too well, know.
Little drops of rain moisten the soil on my other half;
the cold tomb looks up at the endless blue above,
and the earth sucks the tears of the vaulted sky.
I beg the other half of me, be patient, wait for the
Dispenser of Life to fill the tomb’s empty space by your side
and make the we of us complete again. #
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