Kia Kaha Christchurch

Christchurch was not on top of the list of cities we want to migrate to when we decided to go to New Zealand. In fact it was the distant third. But, as fate intervened, my wife and I landed here first, and this city has captivated us since.

This is where my wife and I got our first jobs in New Zealand. This is where we met friends, old and new. This is where we experienced this country’s quirkiness that we learned to love.

Then, sometime in February, what started as a typical day turned out to be New Zealand’s darkest day by midday. Christchurch was struck by a devastating earthquake that left at least 165 people dead (as of this writing). Damage cost to properties is conservatively estimated to be in billion dollars. Two weeks after, the Central Business District is still cordoned off as the city is trying to start the tremendous task of rebuilding it.

Every business in the city is affected in one way or another, albeit to different degrees. But most are utterly crushed, and it saddens me to know that I will not see anymore that familiar store in that corner of that street on my way to work. I may not even see for quite a while the familiar faces that I get to greet on the bus or at the lunch haunts that I go to regularly.

But I realized that in spite of everything, we feel thankful; thankful that we are alive, thankful that all of our friends are alive, thankful that nothing bad happened to our home, thankful that we have friends all over New Zealand that cares for us.

Most of all, I am thankful that we are in New Zealand. I am thankful that civil servants here do really serve. I am thankful that the government really does its part in helping us in Christchurch.

With the support of our local leaders, the government, and even the whole of New Zealand, we are optimistic that Christchurch will rise once again and be a better city.

But support is never enough. A city is defined by its residents. I am a part of Christchurch, and the task of rebuilding is up to us. That’s what keeps us going. Proud, resilient, Kia Kaha!

The Truth About Love

Allow me to tell you this. Yes, love is a choice. But there is a reason for all the choices that we made. And it is that reason that we remain in love and with love.

Needless to say, if a reason for love vanishes, then we fall out of love.

Love = Choice + Reason

The absence of one in that equation negates love.

And with this in mind, let me tell you the formula for a long relationship. Be consistent with who you are. Change confuses the reason. Always remember that moment when you fell in love with each other. I am not talking about the time when you felt the physical attraction, but the moment when you knew he or she is the one you want to live your life with for the rest of eternity.

That was you whom he or she fell in love with. That was the reason for love that he or she made the choice with.

Separations happen when one of you no longer see a reason to choose to love the other. It is when one of you has changed and the other doesn't see the perceived "real you" anymore. It makes letting go as easy as saying it.

So be the person that your partner fell in love with and stay that way. If it is not the "real you", but you want to stay in that relationship, then by George, train yourself to remain that way, and in time it will become the "new you"!

An Open Love Letter to my Wife

Dear Onie,

There never was, and never will be, a moment that you are not in my mind. I breathe the love that we share, and it is what keeps me happy with life.

I still remember the first time we met like it was just yesterday. Although we joke about it now, you really had me long before we even said hello. I don't know what got into me, but the sight of you and your long black hair against the afternoon sun made my heart flutter like hummingbird wings in mid air. And it never had stopped since.

You came into a life that has been boring for me, but became alive when you joined me.

We married at a young age, lived with just the two of us for most of our lives, and yet I still look forward to waking up with you every morning of every day.

I do not know how our fairytale would end, but this I am very sure. I love you, and will always do, until I breathe the last of my life.

For Always,

Peetol

Nurture is not such a big word

For as far as I can remember, I have been always around a piano. In fact, the earliest memory that I have of playtime involved the black and white keys. I remember I would start my day by opening the lid on the upright piano by the lounge in our house and strike a few tune. All the others would make of this as their cue to start preparing breakfast. This would go on, day after day, during my pre-schooling age.

I was not on the piano the whole day, though. My other passion during my younger years was my bike. My first was given to me by my father and it was built up. I assembled my next from scratch.

But music was in my soul, and the haunting tone of a piano kept on pulling me to that cerebral realm that I tried to explain to many a countless times and failed. I see logic in music. This is why I can play any song on the piano with just its chords in front of me. What differentiates it from being a 'music widow' is that I use reason in playing, while they play it by their heart.

When I turned 10, I discovered that I can figure out and play almost any musical instrument on my own if given some time on it. And this was when I first picked up a guitar. It is my brother's, and he was being given lessons by a friend of my mother. I was not able to listen to any of the lessons, and yet, there I was, sneaking out the guitar when my brother was not looking, and played it.

By 12, my parents may have recognised my inclination towards music and enrolled me for piano lessons. I, on the other hand, did not want it because I felt I knew already what was being taught. So, after just two days, I quit. This may have been the biggest mistake of my life because my parents thought that I was not really interested in music, and never nurtured my passion for it from then on.

In fact, a funny story that I think would be very appropriate to share right now is that my mother was pleasantly surprised a few years back that I can read piano sheets and play it. All this time, 34 years to be exact, she never realised that I can.

My point is, to all you parents out there, recognise early what your children likes and nurture it before it becomes too late. I don't blame my parents for any of this, because even without their help, I was able to learn as much of music as I can possibly do on my own. But it would have been a lot easier if I was helped along.

Home Is Where We Find Our Way

Staring out the window, looking at the orange leafed trees of our neighbour's yard, I cannot help but feel nostalgic. It has not even been three days since I got back from the balut eating country of where I lived for most part of my existence, and here I am missing all the things and people I wanted to escape from, even though not so long ago we decided to pack our bags and head out to a country that has less of the people and intrigue, and more of nature and freedom.

Flying into Christchurch, I was seated with a Malaysian who emigrated to Australia and was on his way to the South Island for the first time. We talked about politics and how each of our native countries are faring in today's world. I can't help but notice how he was so passionate with telling me about Malaysia; a stark contrast to my drab account of the Philippines. Here he was, transplanted to Australia for more than ten years now, and yet he still knows a lot about his native country. Seated beside him was a neophyte emigrant who was only detached from his native country for just a little more than a year, and yet he doesn't have a single clue as to the current state of the Philippines.

I have been critical of Filipinos who were born and grew up with the most part of their childhood in the Philippines, but was transplanted to the U.S. in particular, and has begun denying their roots by pretending that they don't remember the language and the culture any more. I would imitate their accent and make fun of them. Little did I know that I will be turning into one eventually.

Leaving is all about finding your way home. When we go away, it is always to find our way home, no matter where that would lead us. We get to choose our way. Some will opt for the more scenic route that adds spice to our lives, the fastest one, or even one that avoid toll ways. But no matter what, home is where we find our way.

Soul Unraveled

I climbed a mountain recently, the effects of which I still can feel a good two days later. It is not only physically draining, but mentally as well. But I get to ponder on life up there. In spite of being in a group, I was alone and in silence I get to listen.

I have made mistakes in the past that shaped my life and what I became today. I have squandered fortunes and lost opportunities that could have been my crowning glory. I have hurt a lot of people for choices I made because of pride and prejudices.

Reality shatters every notion of a good life that you have unconsciously built to shelter you from the world. And up there where you are exposed and vulnerable, you begin to see the big picture. Life isn't as rosy as you have perceived. But acceptance makes it better.

Now that I am back on the ground, I begin my heartbreaking task to unravel the wall, brick by brick, and by my own hands. Only I can see this wall and only I can detach myself from this shelter.

It is good to sometimes make a hasty retreat, and in solitude you will discover yourself.

Summer is Here

After 9 months of living in Christchurch, there are some words that I have not the liberty of using and have been completely erased from my consciousness. But one of them have suddenly sprouted back into my brain. It is like inadvertently stepping on a rake and it suddenly springs up and hits you right on the nose. You are quickly reminded that it is there on the ground and that you must be wary of what it can do to you.

I am talking of the word 'heat'. After all, it is already summer in this part of the hemisphere. It is that time of the year when you "dream of a white Christmas" and "folks dress up like eskimos", but you see Santa perspiring profusely as he is hurrying down the street to buy some ice cream from the corner dairy. It is like being back in that little coconut island by the great sea.

Alas, the white Christmas remains a dream for this brownie after being transplanted into the land where the water flushes in the opposite direction (or so they say, but I have not made an official study on that yet). But don't get me wrong. After almost a year of being in a white Christmasy climate, you begin to be thankful that there is such a thing as global warming. Of course I am against mass destruction, and I wholeheartedly support self preservation, but sometimes I get distracted and wander from my path. Then prolonged exposure to heat snaps me back to reality like being violently nudged by my wife after almost falling asleep on a boring speaker. And then you wish for Autumn to come long before you have opened your Christmas presents!