Prayer

It’s gonna be alright,

It’s gonna be alright.

Dunno how I know

But it’s all I have tonight.

Music and lyrics by my daughter, who I believe will rock the music scene soon. Don’t know how I know, but it’s all I have tonight.

About Pain

I have an injury on my right hand.   Doctor says there’s nothing wrong with the bones, so it’s either a sprain or a strain on my hand muscles, ligaments or tendon.  I don’t know exactly how I incurred it but it’s been there for half a year.   I have been reading up on it and I learned that a strain or sprain happens when the body is forced out of its normal position.  That plainly means that I must have injured it while opening a bottle cap, squeezing a plastic toothpaste tube (which, if you haven’t tried, requires much force when supply runs out), or tearing open a sachet.  I was surprised at the prospect of possessing that much strength, but I digress.

Back to the injury, it started causing pain again last November, so much so that daily chores became huge tasks–opening door knobs, brushing my teeth, shampooing, turning the car ignition, and writing.   As it is imperative to go on with life despite the inconvenience, I would accidentally hit it while moving around, forgetfully bend it too much, or have others who are unaware of my predicament trample on it.

So I went back to my doctor, asking him for another steroid shot (first one was in July), a quick relief to get rid of the pain and move on.  He was hesitant at first and tried again to convince me to nurse it and go into physical therapy.  I politely said it was out of the question because resting it would mean my world had to stop when so many depended on its revolution — my children had to be nourished and nurtured, students needed their lessons taught, the community waited for me to drop by, and my self thirsty for its own life.  I won, the steroid shot was given.  The doctor warned that my hand will be sore for a while because it got a good beating from the injection.

Hurt it did, that even the anti-inflammatory painkiller surrendered to its power.   A friend of mine suggested to “sit with the pain,” I remembering from a book I had read to “befriend your pain.”    So I sat with it, hot compress and all, trying to put mindfulness into all my movements, something I continue to learn from my yoga practice.   Because there is no manual on how to operationally do it, I came up with my own.  I sought what was causing the pain, what angles effected the least and the most hurts, when to weep in silence, when to wail in company, when to seek help, how to forget about the past and not worry about the future, and to just be present with the pain.   Be conscious of my in-breath, accepting all that is given to me, and be aware of my out-breath, freeing myself of my attachments.

The true test came when I decided to practice yoga despite the pain.  I can do this.  It’s easier to deal with the pain on the yoga mat when you are almost 100% focused on the task before you, than on the mat of life where you move without attention.   And so I danced with the pain, recognizing which poses I could do for the moment, and which to sit out.  I was doing well with all this sitting with the pain, albeit standing, lying, kneeling.

We got to the peak posture, the challenge for the session — crow pose, a balancing act wherein the weight of the body rests on the hands.

Bakasana by Elisabeth Scherer on Flickr

With faith in what I know about making friends with pain, I got into the pose, conquering the fear of falling on my face, or worse, inflicting more injury on my hand.  And I did it, for five breaths.  I sat with my pain.

As a bonus for myself, I went the extra mile of jumping back from crow pose to low push-up, something I have always resisted doing because I felt I wasn’t strong enough.  But jump back I did, bravely, uncomfortably and imperfectly.  I knew then that I was ready to jump back home, in spite of not knowing when the pain would last, or if it will ever go away.  I knew then that I had to sit with my pain, perhaps for as long as I live, and embrace it the same way I would joy.

Postcards From Home

Speaking of landforms, have you visited the scenic destinations in my beloved country, the Philippines?  Don’t take my word for it, though.  Here are literary and art works of our proud Filipinos.

Mom, Dad, I love you. Hello! Love, Shea! Mom, Dad, I’m here in Chocolate Hills.

Grounded Like A Mountain

There’s a child in school who is in awe of landforms.  From day one, she could identify all the landforms based on pictures or words (“That’s an island”), describe each one (“A plateau is a flat land between mountains”), make hand gestures to depict every one of them (“Round the top and make it smaller to make it a hill”), and illustrate them on paper (“I’m going to put lava on my volcano.”).  She would join physical games like teacher’s made-up “Touch the Plain,” embark on experiments to witness their volcano erupt, immerse herself with books during silent reading time, and marvel at the God-given beauty before her.   The six-year-old has a doctorate degree in landforms!

As per usual, the child gets pumped up easily with the lessons, talks incessantly about it, and is challenged with having to relax and settle down.  In school, children are taught the important lesson that there is a time for everything.  During work periods, they are encouraged to get their hands dirty and make noise, the productive kind, that is.  But in the real world, there is day and night, one and many, wet and dry, bright and dark, play and rest, active and quiet.  So must their class life be a reflection of what is truly out there, beyond the school gates.

The sensitive teacher knows what the child needs and has the class seated on the classroom mat, legs criss-crossed, and arms resting on the knees.  She lets them close their eyes and invites them to imagine themselves being on a mountain-top.  What do you see above you, in front of you, and below you?  What is the air like? How do you feel?  When they open their eyes, they talk about their imagined experience.

On another day, still during relaxation time, the teacher has the children on mountain pose, a standing position.  Steady as the landform, they lightly ground their feet on the floor, stand in all majesty, feel their inhales and exhales, and try to keep still, mind, body and heart.  Like this isn’t difficult enough, teacher offers a challenge for the willing: mountain pose with their eyes closed.   For less than a minute, there is pure silence in the room.

In hushed tones, teacher announces that it is time to break free from the pose, and instantly, everyone pleads, Again!  Smiles and laughter fill the room.

There is happiness in stillness, even for the very young and super active expert on landforms.

On Holding Hands

Without saying a word, he props a chair beside me and I instantly know of the need to hold hands. Amidst the noise around the classroom, I reach out to him and take his. His gestures speak of what cannot be said out loud. The compulsion to feel safe, to connect, to hold on.

I carefully stroke his hands, his back, and his head, massaging and messaging him a sense of calm.

In a few, he returns to me the same gift of comfort as he squeezes my hand.  Teacher, I can see your bones (veins, actually).  You’re getting old.  You’re dying.  He says it with subtle humor and straightforward surrender.  It has no makings of a question but rather a definitive statement.

In defence, I quickly attempt to retract my hand, self-conscious, shy, open.  But he insists on holding it.

Today, of all days, I have to be brave about sharing my story, this blog, to the world, even if I am a bit shaken and vulnerable. I’m not sure, I don’t know.  But I’ve got support.  I have a little voice beside me saying It’s alright, you’ll be fine, I got you.  

For someone who is deemed old and dying, why do I feel so alive?

Ready, set, let go.

Christmas Everyday

Missing Christmas but remembering its messages every day of the year. Hand-made with love by the children of Creative Explorers for the survivors of typhoon Haiyan, 2013.

Quote of the Day

I don’t like you but I love you.

I was dumbfounded when I heard him utter those words.   It didn’t make sense in the beginning.  Thirty seconds later, I knew exactly what he meant.

Love, regardless.  Love, in spite of.  Unconditional love.

Such eloquence coming from a kindergartener.

Superheroes, Welcome

I have a secret.  I am friends with superheroes.  Some of them I have known for four years or longer, some just seven months back.  I see them quite often, work with them, and play with them daily. Despite their common appearance, capeless get-up, short height, and young age, they have an extraordinary mission in front of them — to save the day.

I still remember the first time I met them.  It was on their initial visit to the school, their guardian wanting to know more about the program, our superheroes showing their hesitant smile (a possible disguise), eyes scanning the room (maybe with their x-ray vision), body almost hiding behind their adult companion (contortionism at its finest), but their hearts raring to fly (their ultimate power).   The adult sidekick continues to ask if there is a test required for their superhero to be accepted, a sort of display of tricks wherein they can be judged as worthy of being residents of the Hall of Justice.   I answer that there is no exam, only a meet-and-greet wherein the teacher finds out about the language they speak, their interests, what makes them laugh, their family life, impactful experiences, skills that need honing, and yes, super powers.  I reiterate that all superheroes, veterans or newbies, are welcome here.

And so in our small universe called preschool, our young protagonists conquer their world by exploring, asking, trying, failing, wondering, fighting, rising, flying, training, failing some more, but always, learning.  It is a world of ups and downs, highs and lows, wins and losses. The teacher is there to guide them through their whole process of self-discovery, leaving them ample playground space to do just that.

Their ability to survive comes from their yearning to learn.  They have been given the gift of curiosity about the world and how it ticks, and the understanding that their life is a story that they themselves create and star in.  In the graduating class alone, the ones who will brave first grade in June, we have our amazing success stories of how they have come to be worthy of being considered legendary characters.

We have Batman in our midst, one who used to prefer being alone or in the company of a few, but now boldly raises his hand to recite, and speaks out in a loud voice so he can be heard.

There is Wonder Woman who played it cool despite having challenges with matching letters and their sounds in the beginning, but who is now reading simple words.

Iron Man is in the house, this intelligent, quick-witted, funny word factory who found ways to understand about patience, a word that was not in his vocabulary list initially.

You can’t miss Incredible Hulk, who, despite his chunky physique, is now able to sit for longer periods of time in class and play gently with his classmates.

We have Invisible Girl who seemed to want to fade in the background when in front of a crowd, but now smiles as she walks on stage to say her lines.

Don’t forget about our Captain America, a true leader despite his speech difficulties. He has developed a way to make his presence known and be respected by everyone.

Spider-Man is here, the relatable superhero who realizes that he must use his great power of intelligence for, um, love.

What a wonderful cast of superheroes in my universe alone, but in three months, they will be flying off to another galaxy, leave their well-loved superfriends behind, and  continue their journey — in the big school.  My wish is that, wherever they may be, they will be allowed to just be themselves, be accepted for who they really are, and to let their superpowers shine through, letting that be their light.  With love in their hearts, may they use their special powers to make the world a better place by staying true to themselves.   In the end, they save the day by saving themselves and becoming an inspiration to others to do the same.

What does one give as a send-off to superheroes who seem to have it all? A cape coated in courage, weapon that runs on love, and the ability to fly confidently to what’s in front of them.  To my superhero friends, may you always be welcome wherever you go.

First, Let Me Draw A Smiley

I cannot draw.  For a preschool teacher, that could be a little disconcerting because children somehow expect you to be good at it.  Will you draw a great white shark for me?  The one with the teeth showing please?  Thank you.

There is one thing though that I have mastered drawing in my years of teaching, one that children do not need to ask for, because with understanding, I willingly, gladly, and lavishly do it for them — a smiley.

I love how you paid close attention to what teacher was saying.   Here’s a smiley.  

I’m just too happy you decided to try doing this today,  Let me draw a smiley.

I knew you could draw it yourself.  High five! Smiley.  

The smiley, the honest-to-goodness, made-by-hand kind, despite it being an extrinsic reward, does wonders to boost the child’s spirit and lift the soul.  We know our children well because we work and play with them everyday.  We see their gifts and their difficulties, we listen to them speak of what’s inside their hearts, we feel their joys and pains, we witness their brazen moves, their tiny steps, even their holding back and their holding tight.   Because of our solid understanding of who they are, we can trust ourselves with how far we should go with our smileys, and with how we offer it to them.   How many smileys do I draw? Should it occupy the whole corner?  Do I draw the smiley first and then follow it up with a real smile?  Should I forget about the smiley and just give her a tight hug and a warm smile?   

There are no hard and fast rules here, only loving understanding and pure intentions.  Children see through it all and remember.  I know this because I have a strong memory of how my second year high school teacher put complete faith in me every time she called me to give my solution in math, my perceived Achilles’ heel.   To this day, I could still remember the knowing smile and the gentle acceptance.

In class today, a student made a giant leap by getting his notebook, sitting on his chair, copying the date, drawing his favorite landform, the volcano, and spelling the word all by himself.   I am so proud of you, embracing him and his courage to just be.   Here’s your smiley, the real smile on his face bigger and brighter than any smiley I have ever drawn.

A Quick Lesson on Verbs

On the first school day of 2015, our five-year-old children were asked by their teacher what they did during the holidays.  There was a lesson to be taught here on verbs, just the regular kind, where you add ed or d to make them in their past tense.

As is quite common among kindergarteners in the Philippines, the children were rushing to tell their own stories, albeit using the present tense of verbs.  Teacher, being sensitive to the children’s ideas, lovingly corrected them.

I open my gifts.  Great! Opened.

My family rest in the hotel.  Wow! Rested.

We watch a horror movie.  Really? Watched.

I cover my eyes because it’s scary.  What? Covered.

As I just assist in this lovely class,  I was amused with their verbalisations, my mind racing with thoughts, no, actions,  however irregular they were.   Being one of the adults in the room, I most definitely knew about verbs, the past form and especially the future.

I sure as tried to sleep more.  I will try to do that still.

I saw my loved ones, lots of them and a lot of times.   I will see them more often.

I spent time for my yoga practice.  I will spend precious time with and for myself.

I was truly happy.   I will be forever joyous.

In hindsight, and this is the real lesson here, the present is all we have.  This unique, irregular kind of mindset is just slowly creeping its way into the mainstream, with our generation having been programmed to plan, to dream, to hope, to look forward.  Absolutely nothing wrong with that except that we do not know what tomorrow holds for us, not even later.

So we hang on to what is here, now.

I am.  Present.  Irregular.