Chewing The Bacon Fat In Iowa

Shared Loss

2011-12-03T07:39:00.003-06:00

His grandmother heard it on the radio while lying in bed two Saturdays ago. Bombo Radio announced- her grandson's body was found under a bridge. That's my grandson's name. It can't be. What happened? Why?

They call the radio station and the police to make sure.

His father, my brother, identifies his body lying in the morgue. Yes, that's my son but he wasn't born with that bruise on his chest. Or those broken legs. Yes, I will sign that paper. My brother's tears fall between the lines of the death certificate, mixes with the ink of the ballpoint pen.

They let me know. My stomach heavy, I ask the same questions. Say the same things. What? What happened? But he is only 20...? Why? When?

We don't know, they say. The police is investigating with questions of their own.

But here we are, they say, disbelieving. He lies right in front of us in a casket. So many young people, lining up outside on the sidewalk near the funeral home, like Cory Aquino's wake.

My cousin in Saudi Arabia burns a candle for my brother and his son. I light my own.

I wish I could be there, put my arms around my brother and my nephew's mother. Put my arms around everyone. Find comfort in being with my family. I make a shirt but my mind and heart are not watching the stitches of the sewing machine.

I met him when he was a chubby 3 or 4 years old. Saw his pictures before and after that. We were friends on facebook, chatted sometimes. Last time, he was thinking about learning another language. Like my other nephews and nieces, I know more about him from his posts on facebook. Unlike the others, I know I will not see him again.

The candle makes the air in my studio feel like a chapel. I share the grief. I share the loss of their son, my nephew.

I wish him a good journey.

Bye, dear Kelsey.

El Rompecabezas

2011-11-14T16:08:00.001-06:00

El rompecabezas. A puzzle in Spanish. Two words combined: "romper" is to break and "cabezas" is heads.

I kept thinking about "el rompecabezas" while sewing my shirt. It was like putting a puzzle together. Each piece had to be sewn correctly to fit into another. The edges of the collar stand should be sewn flush to the front to get a crisp finish.

Each step lead to another. The back and front parts should be attached and finished before the collar was sewn to the neck.

My el rompecabezas for the past two weekends had the following pieces. The pattern was from the book Sew U by Wendy Mullin. From 2 1/2 yards of cotton fabric, I cut the following:

2 collar pieces
2 collar stands
1 shirt back
2 shirt half fronts
2 front facings
2 sleeves
4 cuffs
2 bias strips for placket

To keep from going crazy, I took each step slowly. I forced myself to take breaks when the pieces were not fitting right. I took time between ironing the fabric, laying out the pattern pieces, cutting out the pieces, sewing parts together, finishing the seams, making button holes, and attaching the buttons.

I allowed for mistakes. If I had to, I ripped out seams and re-sewed. Cussing was also allowed, alternating five different words or any combination as needed.

Voila! A wearable puzzle.

Coming Soon

2011-11-10T20:46:00.004-06:00

More cards. I'm experimenting with the shiny fabric swatches a friend gave me.

A shirt. I'm sewing my 3rd shirt which will be better than my second, and more finished than my first. My sewing machine is cooperating with less thread snagging and breaking. Picture to follow.

A novel. I've been writing almost everyday and most of the weekends. I'm learning how to focus and make scenes interesting. My fourth character decided to tell me his story and stopped being moody. If I finish two chapters a month I should have the first draft in the spring.

A better Spanish learner. I'm still teaching myself Spanish and learning with my co-workers. I try to do something Spanish- related everyday. Watch BBC Mundo videos, listen to a song, read a children's book, have a simple conversation with one of my fellow learners, learn a new word, or do some exercises in my workbook.

A person at home in Iowa. Although I still wish for sunny and warm weather, I'm learning to handle the change of seasons. Not to get caught up in the cold and cloudy days of fall and let winter come when it does. I still miss the Philippines but I claim the spaces I have now. Digging into the dirt in our backyard to bury bricks for our labyrinth must have helped. Yesterday at work, I decided I'm privileged to have a key when I unlocked our office at 7:30 in the morning and made my way to my gray cubicle.

I'm truly understanding what "glass half-full" means. It's that one small effort everyday. One new word. One part of the puzzle piece. One sentence. One paragraph. A drop. A thought.

Awake at 2 a.m.

2011-09-03T05:03:00.001-05:00

I woke up from a dream, a friend was visiting with his wife and they decided to leave while I was getting a card and some presents ready for them. I ran to the living room before they go, talking with my mouth full of bread, and gave them their share. They stayed and stood eating the bread as fast as they can. Their mouths greasy, crumbs on their faces, worse than Cookie Monster's mess. I could not figure out why they wanted to leave so soon. There was a pain on my side, I had to pee. I was glad to wake up.

I went back to bed, hoping to get back to sleep. The AC was running but its noise could not silence the monkeys in my head that got excited to realize it was Saturday. So after about half an hour of trying to lie quietly while my mind roamed through the weekend and rehearsed what I should write in my application for a writing residency at a place in Washington State. I decided to get up and look at the application guidelines. The questions require some thought: writing influences and inspirations, possible contribution as an alumna, project plan during the residency, and writing sample. I worked on my writing sample last week, a chapter in my novel. I will get my application done by Monday (deadline is September 8th). The residency is a 2-6 week period next year.

I want to go back to sleep but I'm not feeling tired enough. I hear the crickets through the closed windows. There might be a nap in my future, probably after we get back from the Farmer's Market to pick up some corn, watermelon, and veggies for the brunch this weekend. From month to month, we are unsure who and how many are coming. I guess that's how it is with recurring events (the brunches are on the first Sunday of the month). One time, we had 23 people in the house, other times we only had 5. After our August brunch, we ate left-over bagels and cream cheese for a week. We enjoyed the company of those who made it. We decided we were going to end our brunches in December. We'll find another way to get together with friends (without having to clean the house and get ready for a monthly party).

My mind jumps to other projects. On Tuesday, which I took off, I might start sewing a shirt. I will at least get the pattern and fabric ready. I had been thinking of going shopping and reminding myself how hard it is for me to find clothes that fit.

I realize something pulls me out of bed early in the mornings. I compensate because I could not be in my studio during the day, unless its the weekend or my day off. I'm taking some writing time before I go to work.

I wish, though, that I could at least sleep in on the weekends.

Happy weekend!

Sewing, Writing, and T'ai Chi

2011-07-25T05:56:00.001-05:00

Sewed this skirt over the July 4th weekend, after trying three times to make my own pattern from instructions I got from the internet.

I bought the blue and yellow calico fabric at a store in Boston's China Town when we visited my in-laws a few weeks ago. I got two more fabrics to play with. The book I ordered on pattern making arrived. I'm tempted to jump into making shirts and blouses but need to be more patient and make another skirt. Make easy projects to feel success.

Two weeks ago, I attended a week-long writing workshop at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival. I learned how to edit, remembering to be original, clear, specific, and put just enough to make a good story. I'm more motivated to keep writing every day.

Like in t'ai chi, it's the doing that counts.

Keeping It Simple

2011-05-29T18:40:00.000-05:00

I've had six months of thinking about sewing pants because other projects took precedence: making scarves for holiday gifts, 20 sets of cards for my mother-in-law's fundraising donation, the ambitious backyard labyrinth project, planning and having our monthly brunches, and weeding the labyrinth. But what really set me back was my frustration over not succeeding to sew the perfect pair of pants. The back and front pieces, fly guard, zipper, and waistband from my last attempt sat on my sewing table for months. But picking up from where I stopped, figuring out how to sew the parts together from my last fitting and adjustments became intimidating. Though I was proud to sew my previous practice pants, I didn't want to add to the pile I don't wear because they were loose or tight around the wrong places. Their waistlines gaped, hips and thighs a little tight, zippers did not lie flat.
Feeling of failure kept me from starting my Janome again. I haven't given up on sewing but making pants might be way over my skills. For now.

So I decided to build on success and start simply. At my job, I suggest to use what kids already know and can do to build up their skills. Could the same principle apply to sewing? Sewing books hinted on starting with easy projects, building up skills to higher level and more complex ones. From skirts to shirts to pants.
Step by step.
Slow by slow.
So today, as the thunderstorm brought lightning, thunder, and rain that went down the street faster than the speed limit in our neighborhood, I kept it simple. I made two pillow cases from cotton fabrics I bought a few years ago from an antique shop downtown. I practiced measuring at least twice before cutting the fabrics, deciding on the simple design, sewing the pieces together, seaming, ironing the seams flat, and handsewing the closure. My sewing lines stayed straight and clean. My foot controlled the machine evenly. It was easy. I nearly sang while I sewed.
The pillows turned out pretty. I feel successful and motivated to sew more.
Next project: more pillowcases or skirts.

Auntie Cian

2011-05-08T09:26:00.000-05:00

Auntie was Papa's half-sister. She lived with us and took care of the household while my parents worked as full time teachers. She took care of the children while doing chores. I was usually by her side, which meant I was doing whatever she was doing. My hands in the laundry water with hers, rubbing snot off Papa's hankies as she commented on how slippery they were, we laughed how it made us cringe. We bleached whites under the sun on top of gumamela bushes until we were ready to rinse them.

She taught me how to use the first crease of my middle finger to measure rice water. I learned how to arrange firewood to build the best fire for the pot of rice. I followed her in the garden when she picked Queen Anne's lace. She bundled a dozen together and sold them to the flower vendors in the market.

I went to her when I got hurt or scared. She worried as she dug out an ant from my ear. She inspected my head when I fell from the steps, my hair and face wet with sweat and tears. During an earthquake, she looked for me, walking with her hands on the walls to keep her steady. Over my sobbing, she cussed out the boy who stepped on my toe when I came home from school, my foot bleeding in my shoe. I cried not because I got hurt but because I had a crush on that boy she was mad at.

When I was a teenager, I pouted, argued, and dragged my feet, even when she pleaded for my help. I pretended to sleep when it was time to do the dishes, or when I did I banged them and made as much noise as I could. I argued against scrubbing soot off pots because they will get dirty again anyway. I was envious of my older sister, who she didn't ask to do chores. She had standards I could not seem to meet, and I told her so. But she was patient with me.

One time, I went with her to the market but refused to carry the shabby woven market bags. She said something in the sense of "it isn't what you're carrying but what you have in your heart that matters."

Through the years, I wondered what made her stay. Was it imposed upon her, an extension from her taking care of my father when he went to college? She got stuck with him so his family became her own. What would she have done if she had the chance to go to college herself? Was she happy devoting her life to us? Had she wanted to be with someone?

Because I moved away, I couldn't make up for my selfishness but I suspect she did not hold it against me. I also didn't get the chance to ask her my questions.

She passed away a few years ago. I think about her every time I cook rice

Auntie, my heart now feels secure enough for me to carry a shabby market bag.

Happy Mother's Day, Auntie Cian!

Repost for Mother's Day: Happy Birthday, Mama!

2011-05-06T06:20:00.000-05:00

May 2011: Mother's Day. I wanted to write something about my mother and remembered this post I wrote for her birthday last year. It's still true today.

Happy Mother's Day to all mothers, honorary mothers, and mothers-to-be!

******************************************************

It's my mother's birthday today. She does not hide her age, proud that she is healthy and still active. I make sure to call her early before she goes to her t'ai chi classes in the mornings. She is the president of the Seniors Citizens Association. She gets invited to give inspirational talks and opening remarks at different programs. She is articulate and has wisdom to share. When I asked if she gets nervous when she speaks in public, she answered that she is past being nervous.

She is good with remembering details about her children and grandchildren. She has nine children, many grandkids, and one great-grandchild. I rely on her to tell me how many nephews and nieces I have. She remembers their birthdays, who is going to what school, their majors, and their graduation dates.

She was a teacher, long retired but remembered by her students. Walking in the school campus with her made me proud when they respectfully greeted her. She encouraged her students and was understanding of their circumstances, but expected them to do their best. Some of her students called her 'mother' and considered her the grandmother of their own children. She had taught 2 or 3 generations of students at her school.

She is generous and would give her last peso to buy treats or to help someone in need. She buys ice cream and snacks for the little ones. She encourages her 'scholars,' grandkids in elementary and high school, by giving them allowances and rewards for high grades.

We hear stories about her and Papa helping their students at critical times. One of her former students told us that they had loaned him money to pay his tuition so he could finish his last semester and graduate.

She was a proud mother and bragged about us to her friends. But as a teenager, I was embarrassed and I stood covering my face, wishing she would stop as I protested with an, 'Issshhhh, Mama.' I regret that and understand that her pride was not really all about me but was about her accomplishment as a parent. So if she is still proud of me, I'll let her brag.

As I grow older myself, I have been understanding my mother. She is more of a person to me now, less of an ideal figure. There are many things I don't know about her but I know that she has been consistent throughout my life. She is generous and caring to all and may feel frustrated when she does not have the means to help.

My Mama, the mother to all.

Backyard Labyrinth

2011-05-03T21:45:00.003-05:00

Dreaming about a labyrinth in our backyard through the winter, we looked out the window over the steam from our tea or coffee. We drew imaginary lines on the snow, through the raspberry bushes close to the middle of the yard.

The snow melted. Dave cleared the yard and transplanted the raspberry canes. The cardinals watched us measure and pretend-walk through the imaginary paths. Still in our winter coats, I blew on my cold hands through my gloves. For a few more days, we were inside, looking out the window, drinking our tea, imagining, and waiting for a warm day.

Then the warm day came. We sketched the design with spray paint and wood from the maple tree we just cut down. Nine rings around a 5- foot diameter center. Each ring 2 feet wide. A 41- foot diameter labyrinth. We finished just before a thunderstorm that sent us to the basement. We hoped the wind wasn't strong enough to blow the wood away.

To line the paths, we decided on bricks buried flush with the ground so we could also practice t'ai chi on it. I didn't realize how ambitious a project it was until the 1000 bricks were delivered on two pallets toour driveway by forklift.

We laid the first brick three weeks ago, on a Saturday. We carved the dark soil with a steak knife, moist and soft like chocolate brownies. Robins hopped around, close enough to eat worms off our hands. The labor, long johns, and layers kept me warm. My legs, arms, and back not used to digging and being close to the ground ached and got stronger from day to day.

A friend of Dave's drove from Ohio to help us with what he considered a 'wonderfully unnecessary project'. He saved me from a third weekend of burying bricks. It took us at least 60 hours from the first brick to the last. We buried the last brick, the neighbor's magnolia tree perfumed the air around us.

At last, we have a labyrinth in our backyard.

We invite friends to come walk in it.

Meditate.

Relax.

Find peace.

March On

2011-04-18T08:53:00.003-05:00

Selfish grief

quieted feelings,

emptied out my heart.

Selfish grief

questioned why, but knew there was no answer.

Quiet heart reminded me

to keep laughing,

walking,

living.

To take the time to let go.

Last month was full of activities, though I felt stillness inside me from the death of Fermin.
March was more active than our usual month:

-We had our first Sunday of the month brunch. Neighbors and friends came. A high school friend from Chicago came Saturday night, brought us Filipino treats and her lumpia for our brunch.

-We drove 10-11 hours each way to Ohio to visit our friend in her monastery. She is a cloistered nun. We spent the 4 days there having our own quiet time- writing, relaxing, and visiting with her. We didn't go to the Football Hall of Fame.

-My brother-in-law and his 3 kids came to visit us for a week. They ran around in the house and the yard. Our own monastery was glad for their energy.

-I finished and packaged up 20 packs of cards for my mother-in-law.

-We started our backyard labyrinth project.

These activities were reminders of what I have, not distractions from my grief. Many times, I went to sleep, talked to the Dream Weavers to let Fermin sit with me for the night. He didn't come and I woke up still disbelieving. Pictures of his memorial, the urn of his ashes, flowers, and memories posted by his friends on his facebook page told me his death was real.

Goodbye, Fermin.

2011-02-28T15:14:00.001-06:00

Fermin, my good friend, died. Suddenly. Unexpectedly.

Shocked, I wanted it to be a bad joke when one of our friends called me last night. I held off on grieving until I heard from more people this morning. Someone asked me where we could send cards or our sympathies, I felt the flowers and condolences should be sent to me.

This morning, I paced around the house, not knowing what to do from halfway across the world. I felt like I should be somewhere but I don't know where to go. So here I am. I feel I should write something here, he would have liked me to.

I've known him since college and we kept in touch through the years. We saw each other every few years and picked up where we left off. We laughed about howling at the moon in front of the dorms in college. Funny that I think I can hang out with him anytime now, just by thinking about him.

Well, Fermin, dear friend have fun wherever you are. I know you enjoyed your life. You have touched many lives.

I miss you.

Awoooo!!!

Memories in Cobwebs

2011-02-23T20:19:00.001-06:00

I'm listening to some song by America on YouTube after a high school friend posted Sister Golden Hair on facebook. It made me go back to remember, way back to the '80s in a small classroom in the heart of the city, overlooking the market. When the smell of dried fish and sewer sat between us. And loud country songs from the restaurants blended in with the angles of our Geometry lessons.

I see myself learning to play the guitar from one of the boys between classes. One of them showing me where to put my fingers to make the C chord or the more complicated B minor. Another showing me how to strum or pick the strings. I try to reach the frets, my nose close enough to smell the guitar's lacquer and wood. I feel the chords on my chest through its hollow body, my fingers getting sore and dark from pressing on the strings. There are others in the circle, each one strumming and singing A Horse With No Name. La la la la la la la la la la la.

Finding old friends is like shining light under old furniture to find treasures forgotten or ignored. In reminiscing, we tried to piece together cobwebs of memories to make sense of events and our relationships. They remembered what I didn't. Saw what I didn't see. Their version of events different or supplementing mine.

We remembered walking together through the streets of the city, under the pine trees, bouncing a basketball. We had sat drinking a six pack watching the sunset. We looked at the night sky, a fire beside us, because we decided to sleep outdoors at one of our reunions. At Burnham Park, we ate green mangoes and karmay in vinegar. We danced with the kids in the other high school because dancing with our classmates seemed incestuous.

We shared many years together then we dispersed, went our many different ways. They were in my thoughts, though their presence was outside the circle of my conscious practical life. But being in touch with them now, finding old friends, I'm finding pieces of myself.

Not Much

2011-02-21T17:25:00.001-06:00

Sunset. The sky is pale gold with dark gray strokes of clouds.

Smoke from our neighbor's chimney weave into naked tree branches. I miss the maple tree we used to have in our front yard. Woodpeckers dined on it, while squirrels ran up and around its trunk. It had to be cut down or it would go down on its own. We counted its rings, about 50, might be as old as our house.

A wet day, the cold seeped through the fabric of my jeans into my skin on the short walk from our car to the grocery store. We picked up some tropical fruits - a papaya and pomelo, dreamt about warm sweet sunshine on my tongue.

We wait for the sweet potatoes to bake in the oven.

Watching The Simpsons, Dave's laughter is muffled by the quilt and his hood. I am wearing a hat and not worrying about getting hat head.

I'm glad it's still bright at 5 p.m.

The Glass Is Spilled

2011-01-31T17:19:00.004-06:00

The blanket of anxiety that used to cover my face and made my body light as I swam in yellow haze, is tucked away on my lap. It still threatens to creep up and keep me from breathing.

Anxiety is my natural state, even as a young child. Thoughts play over and over in my head and writing them down, capturing them with ink on paper, eases my mind. I could forget about them, tucked away between the pages of the spiral notebook I keep by my bedside. For many years, I wrote about what makes my shoulders touch my ears and my chest still.

I still write about what bothers me. And added a "Thank You" list I fill a page with what I am thankful for that day.

I've been on a long journey. I'm still on that road.

Years ago, I was diagnosed with depression. One of my friends asked me, why I was depressed when things seemed to be going well for me. I didn't have an answer for her. I could not find a single cause. But there I was crying with the blanket over my head. Sleeping for hours. Feeling ineffective at work.

Antidepressants cleared my head enough for me to realize that my mind was wrapped in a cottony cloudy white haze that inhibited my thinking, even when I was a young child. But my body did not like them. I had side effects on top of side effects.

I decided to stop taking medications when my psychiatrist gave me pills to counteract the side effects of the others. One was supposed to make me sleep better because the other kept me up, but I ended up with vivid dreams that woke me up anyway. There were too many adjustments, combinations, and schedules to keep track of. And I kept track of them well.

Talking to a professional helped a little. But her style was not what I needed. She talked about bird watching, which got lost on me. Maybe she meant for me to just relax. One day, as I sat in her dim office lit by a single floor lamp, she looked more depressed than I felt, so I stopped seeing her.

So without the pills and my counselor, I was aware that depression was just around the corner. One of our friends wrote me a long letter about her own experience with it. She talked about being creative as therapeutic. I crocheted afghans and scarves. Feeling the power of making something, a product, was somewhat helpful.

My ex-husband and I agreed that I should tell him if I ever think about committing suicide. But it didn't keep me from planning it. It wasn't about killing myself, but about wanting things to stop so I could catch up. I was exhausted, imagining the smell of gunpowder.

Through the stress of getting divorced, depression was my companion.

I went to a better counselor. I did not take any more medications but was ready for them, if I needed to. My body does not take medications well, even Tylenol.

Dave helped me look at the other side of my what-ifs. To my 'what if something will go wrong', he asks, 'what if it will go right.' What a radical idea for someone who was used to thinking only about the catastrophes!

Depression and anxiety made me blind to the glass that people see as half-empty or half-full. I didn't even think I had a glass to look at. My glass was full of anxiety worms that swam around between the spaces in my brain.

So, as I get stronger and healthier, I spilled the glass.

There's more room in my mind because I'm finding a balance. I'm keeping my body and mind healthier by doing little things like my projects, keeping in touch with family and friends, being thankful, eating my fruits and vegetables, sleeping at least 5 hours, being a little less hard on myself, being forgiving. I could make a list.

And once in a while, I'm surprised that there are empty spaces in my mind I could fill with a breath.

I'm surprised to feel relaxed, even happy.

How Bad Do I Want It?

2011-01-24T05:59:00.002-06:00

4:00 a.m. I've been waking up early about 2 weeks before I meet with my writing tutor. Something way inside me knows I haven't done my assignment. This time it is finishing a draft of Chapters 2 and 3 of my novel. I already have pre -drafts of these chapters so writing 10 pages of each seemed doable when we met 3 weeks ago.

I have to remember that last time we met, I did not finish Chapter 2 even when I crammed the week before. His motivational thought for me was something about how bad do I want to be a writer?

But wanting it bad enough is not the same as doing it.

And there were other things I wanted badly enough. Things I said I wanted to do for years. I credit myself for getting started. Writing. Sewing. This year I started learning Spanish so I could use it for work (been talking about doing this for 5 years!).

The catch is sustaining the effort and finding the time and energy. I have spent concentrated time on one and not get the others done. For example, I sewed a lot over the holidays and did not write much, which left a void somewhere.

I might have found a solution after we got a Christmas letter from one of Dave's friend. In their family letter they talked about many activities each family member was involved in. Their lives seemed balanced. They did not seem overwhelmed. It looked like they did what they wanted to do- sports, family time, time with friends, and time for themselves.

How could they do all that and have a balanced life? The secret might be in scheduling and taking small amounts of time for different activities. So I tried to take 30-60 minutes to do a little of what I want. For example, during the week, I learn some Spanish while waiting for supper and write some notes before going to bed. On the weekends, I write in the mornings then sew or make cards after.

My schedule is not strict but when I'm feeling lazy, I answers the question, "How bad do I want it?"

So how bad do I want to make a pair of pants that fit me? How bad do I want to learn Spanish? How bad do I want to write?

Bad enough.

So I better get my chapters done. I don't want to feel like how I did in college after writing a term paper overnight with embarrassing results. I don't waste time anymore thinking about what I wanted to do.

Here's to this experiment. Doing small amounts of what I want to do.

Happy new year!

Navy Blue Pants by PenaLynn

2010-10-25T16:41:00.001-05:00

So proud of myself. Again!
Navy blue pants fresh from the sewing machine.
They're technically more sound than the first and they fit me better.

I'm understanding how to attach zippers and waist bands.
This zipper now lays flat.
I also got the buttonhole on the first try.
No belt loops yet, I was just interested in finishing a pair.
And I don't wear belts anyway.

The pants sit well. I'm wearing them while writing here.
Maybe I'll take them out for a walk, see how they move.

Lesson learned: Be precise, small mistakes get magnified.
There was a small kink in the crotch but I kept going, attaching the back and front legs.
I decided to stop and undo the seams I have finished and topstitched (meaning 3 rows of stitches and about 1 hour of ripping) because the small kink became a huge mountain.

Brown Denim Pants by PenaLynn

2010-10-18T08:53:00.001-05:00

About two years ago, I was in a fitting room of one of the stores at the mall looking at the stack of pants I just tried. Not one of them fit me. The khaki pants I was wearing did not fit me either but had to be replaced, its hems and waistband fraying, with faint stains from a yellow shirt on one leg. Frustrated and wiping the sweat off my nose, I decided then to make my own pair of pants.

So, I bought several books on sewing, one had a pants pattern and instructions that looked easy but as it turned out, making a pair of pants was harder than I thought. I made a pair that looked like two long bags because I could not figure out the instructions. I gave up. Put the cover on my sewing machine and used my sewing table for storage.

Last month, I decided to go for it again after being to the mall many more times and going home with two pairs that did not fit me. Again. I could get pants made to order through the internet but I had said I will make my own.

And I already have what I need in my studio: the sewing machine Dave gave me for my birthday 3 years ago; muslin for practice; real pants materials; pattern and book of instructions; several sewing books for reference; cutting table; scissors pins, tape measure, thread, zippers, buttons, etc.

It was still hard, I was a beginner tackling an intermediate project. But I was a more motivated beginner.

It took 7 weekends of concentrated work to get to this first pair of real pants. I had 3 sewing books opened at one time to clarify instructions. I watched video instructions on line to figure out zipper placement.

I made many mistakes. The three muslin practice pants I made before the denim, showed different mistakes on the the zipper placement, yoke placement, and waistband assembly. Used the seam ripper to rip off yards of thread.

Through many trials and errors, I understood the how the different parts of pants work and how to put the puzzle pieces together. I felt satisfaction from the power of the creative process.

I felt satisfaction from finally doing what I had wanted to do and have been putting off for years.

So here it is!

The pants could use a little less fabric. So for my next pair, I will use the smaller pattern size.

The button hole was tricky because the feed dog could not handle the thick doubled up fabric on the waistband. I found a way to make it by combining different techniques in the button hole making process. It was crude but it worked.

The zipper placement, the hardest part for me, still needed refinement. I had to rip and hand sew the zipper and hope to get it better for my next pair.

This is not the perfect pair I had hoped it would be. But it is perfect for what it is- my first pair of pants. I gained patience and satisfaction from doing something I've wanted to do.

Here's to more projects and to getting the right fit.

So proud of myself!

Papa

2010-09-06T19:23:00.004-05:00

He woke me up from my afternoon naps or interrupted my reading, "It's time to bake bread." This must have been through a summer break when I was in high school.

I grumbled but went to the kitchen anyway to join my younger sister, my fellow captive pupil. On the pink formica top with rose patterns were things we needed - a bag of flour, measuring cups and spoons, a scale, salt, yeast, eggs, raisins, nuts, rolling pins, and baking sheets he had made.

With us, he practiced what he had learned from his baking class in Manila the week before- braided bread, raisin bread, bread sticks, plain bread, etc. I learned to read recipes, get ingredients together, measure or weigh them, follow directions, mix them, knead, bake, etc.

The smell of bread baking invited the younger kids to come to the kitchen. There was plenty to try. Everything tasted good.

I've been thinking about our baking 'classes' with Papa because I've spent most of the weekend learning to sew.

I remember Papa as a learner. On top of his master and doctorate courses, he took other classes. He tried oil painting. He learned to sew- took tailoring and dressmaking classes. He made our clothes- dresses, shorts, elephant pants, suits, etc. He taught my older sisters to sew. I must have been too young, probably elementary school age.

At separate times, he grew mushrooms, roses, and violets. He raised ducks, rabbits, and chickens. I remember him teaching me how to graft roses. I watched (maybe helped) him prepare mushroom spores to grow in gelatin. (I ate some of the Karo syrup.)

He built our house and made the tables and chairs. He carved wood- a chess set, the Last Supper, and small statues around the house. He made boomerangs. He smelled of wood shavings.

Before I left for the US, he was making a manual washing machine.

I recognize many classical music because of him. He had a collection of long-playing albums that might still be sitting back home.

This weekend, I honor my Papa's memory. Honor the genes I got from him that make me curious and creative.

And hope to make me a pair of pants that fit me.

Jobs! Jobs! Jobs!

2010-08-31T18:17:00.006-05:00

Last week, I read the book Nickle and Dimed by Barbara Ehrenreich. Her experiment was to take low paying or minimum wage jobs to find out how people lived within that income. She found that it is challenging, even for people working two jobs, to live decently- to eat healthy meals, take care of themselves and others, get around, find decent and safe places to live, get healthcare, etc. (Please click on the link to get more information. )

Reading it made me appreciate where I work and what I do. Though, like others in this economy, my workplace also experiences the money-crunch. We need to make money to get paid. Because insurance companies are reimbursing less, we see more patients to make the budget. Less time is available to spend on the complex cases we see. We do the best we can and I often feel unsatisfied with my own service.

I want time to do my job. Time to do what I need to do- see a patient, talk to other therapists so we could come up with a diagnosis and answer concerns, do the report and all the needed paperwork, etc.

Work could become frustrating and stressful. So to appreciate what I do and where I work, I have kept a list of jobs I'm glad I don't do because of one reason or another- noisy working conditions, my aptitude, my interest, work with heavy machinery, etc, etc.

So my list include, but not limited to the following:

1. any public office

2. law enforcement officer

3. repetitive jobs- meat packing, factory jobs

4. fire fighter

5. president of a country

6. biologist dealing with large animals

7. doctor

8. nurse

9. soldier

10. telemarketer

11. cashier at a grocery store

12. flight attendant

13. security officer at the airport

14. school bus driver

15. coal miner

16. construction worker

17. astronaut

18. garbage collector

19. receptionist

20. elementary school teacher

21. heavy machine operator

and on and on....

And my list takes me back to appreciating my job and where I work.

Home and Heart

2010-08-23T15:10:00.013-05:00

I once knew a Peace Corps volunteer who said, "If home is where the heart is, then I have two half-hearted homes." I thought he meant he was at home in the Philippines and the US. Or he was just playing with words and did not mean it.

Home to me is here but not here. Part of me is at my mother's house, longing for the company of my family in the Philippines. Part of my is here, looking out the window to our garden. Waiting for Dave to ride his bike home from work.

Something keeps me from belonging, or from claiming this country, the state of Iowa, as my home. Even after 22 years.

Next to asking my friends about the meaning of life, I ask them about their concept of home. What home means to them. Their idea of home. If they feel at home where they live, I pump them for their secret. Some share my longing for another place, even for another time.

Going to the Philippines for 4 weeks did not make me feel less homesick. It has been 34 days since we got back. Part of me regrets the trip because I'm going through the cycle of missing everyone, the food, and the place. I know it will ease through time. Still, the thought of not being there brings a heaviness in my heart.

Time and distance cure home sickness. I have to start over, until the next trip.

My heart is divided between two places.

What makes it hard for me to stay, for my mind to decide to stay in a place? This spot in the world does not seem suitable, for one reason or another. I suspect that I will have this feeling, even if I moved back to the Philippines tomorrow.

I heard that a wise t'ai chi teacher said to "occupy the space you occupy" when practicing t'ai chi. Maybe this idea is similar to claiming my place in the world.

I have had a history of not claiming my space.

For example, during the first two years at my job, my cubicle only had work-related things- my computer, my pens, notebook, and test protocols. No personal stuff, while my co-workers' desks were crowded with framed pictures of their families, smiling back at them while they typed away at their desks. My concession was to pin a picture of a stranger I found on the hallway, an Asian man wearing a blue polo, black hair parted to the right side. A stranger stood for my family.

For those two years I had an excuse. I was going through divorce and could move anytime. But I could not say the same for my job before this. The only personal item I had with me when I worked at a nursing home for 4 years was my Parker Jotter pen. I did not even have a plant.

Feeling at home is a long process for me. I have to find it, even through force of will, because unless I feel whole-heartedly at home here I would not feel at home anywhere else.

Back In My Studio, Dreaming

2010-08-16T07:22:00.004-05:00

Hot darjeeling tea steeping.

Sting singing his Brand New Day CD just for me.

My table full of papers. Different colors, designs, sizes. Some littering the floor, waiting to be salvaged. Dreaming of many different card designs. Consulting my color wheel.

My computer warming up under my fingers. Dreaming of words to craft together. Tell stories of my trip to the Philippines. Of reunions, feasts, jet lag. Familiar yet unfamiliar worlds. And get my novel going.

Dreaming of other things to do with my hands. Sew a pair of pants. A quilt from fabrics stored in plastic boxes.

Back to my place, inspiring me to create. Cut paper. Write. Maybe sew.

Abstract Grief

2010-05-11T22:26:00.009-05:00

I have lost the chance of being a parent. A biological mother.

If having unsuccessful pregnancies was because of my age, I was angry that I did not have a chance to try when I was younger. Although, my ex-husband and I could not get our acts together, I still stand by my choice that it should be a mutual decision. I was tempted by the advice of one of my friends to 'forget' taking my pills. If I could go back, I might give the same advice to my younger self. But who knows what other heartaches that would have caused.

Having remarried and excited about starting a family, I became pregnant twice. It was not pleasant but I was glad to finally get to experience the changes associated with it- the all day morning sickness, the changes in my body, buying maternity pants, and dreaming about how I could be a good and capable mother with my experience as the nanny to my nephews and nieces.

Because of something that was not my fault, I was reassured by the doctor and nurses, I had lost my pregnancies. A miscarriage at 4 weeks. And then a molar pregnancy discovered at 3 months. A ghost baby. The ultrasound showed only cells, no fetus or even a promise of one like those in fuzzy pictures I had seen posted on friends' cubicles or refrigerator doors. Those cells had to be vacuumed out of me. Because molar pregnancy may cause cancer, I had to have blood drawn weekly then monthly for about 8 months until my hCG level dropped to zero. After the repeated pokes in my arms, I dreaded the needle, the emotional pain worse than the physical. I was adviced not to get pregnant for a year because it would be hard to monitor the hCG level if I get cancer.

Dave and I decided we were done trying. It was traumatic for both of us. I"m glad that I don't have to worry about developmental delays and possible chromosomal abnormalities anymore.

No regrets. I'm glad to come home tired from work and I don't have to take care of anyone else except myself and Dave.

But I feel a little sad when my co-worker talks about her 3-year old granddaughter who would have been the same age as our ghost baby. I let her share her happiness and amusement about what her granddaughter says and does.

I felt a little sad when our next door neighbors' little girl told Dave that she is going to be a big sister. I felt a little sad when I got the news that one of my friends got pregnant by accident.

I did not even want to hold a co-worker's week old baby when she came to introduce her. But I did anyway because I knew that her visit was not about me.

And Mother's Day came. I'm happy for all the mothers though I felt left out.

I know I'm not a mother. It wasn't my day. And I was touched to get a greeting from Jeni, a daughter of our friends, who acknowledged my presence in her life as she was growing up.

I'm writing this because I've been ruminating about these feelings for a month now. I recognize that I could feel little sadness though I share the happiness of others in their parenthood.

My Dave

2010-04-03T07:07:00.009-05:00

His even breathing grounds me in the middle of the night. I can relax. Protected from my movie dreams that play in the darkness of sleep. Thoughts and worries that delay sleep are lies that I could send away.

Our love is happiness that lifts me from difficult and stressful days. I have a spot that is safe despite death, sickness, wars, crimes, abuses, and poverty in the world. I have a model to show me that I could make some difference. Cans of fruits and vegetables for the food bank. Saying hi and looking at the eyes of the cashier at the grocery store.

I am nourished by the lunches that he fixes and packs for me everyday. Less migraines caused by low blood sugar. My personal chef who will cook whatever I want. Salads. Roasted chicken with veggies and rice. Cheese sandwiches with lactose free cheese. And Pinoy food- adobo, tinolang manok, and his favorite pinakbet with his own variations. The more dishes I wash, the better I eat.

He owns his love. Consistent and positive, probably close to unconditional. Puts me at ease, especially when I feel grumpy, stressed, unloveable, and unloving.

Lessons he paid attention to made him his own person sooner than most. He says that it was because he practices t'ai chi twice a day. He maintains a flexible structure within his daily routine. He takes care of himself then takes care of others.

He puts his intention and concentration to whatever he does like a child who is just learning to put his socks on. Gardening, Drawing. Cooking. Watching TV. Hanging out. Fooling around.

Being with him is easy. In that love and place of acceptance, I could relax, pass gas, say 'Pardon me,' then light an incense.

But First...

2010-03-22T07:12:00.004-05:00

I'm going to write today. Revise first drafts of two chapters of my novel.

But first...

I heat up some water for a hot cup of darjeeling tea. Practice t'ai chi sword until I hear the water molecules bouncing around against the kettle. Take my tea to my studio. Get organized. Glasses on. Computer on my lap.

Open my documents to my novel. I take a sip from my cup. Hot. Tea not fully brewed yet.

Better do some laundry while I'm writing. I go to the basement. Sort dirty clothes into five piles. Whites, brights, darks, fleeces, and sweaters. Start a load of darks.

Go back to my computer. Scroll down to the first line of a chapter. I wonder what happened to people overnight. I turn on my internet connection. Log on to facebook. No one is available to chat. Good. I could write now.

But first...

I'll read through the 300+ Top News from my friends. Dreams. Pictures. One funeral. A baby visiting his great grandma. Advice for one to think hard if one wants to be a nurse. The hours count of a friend who quit smoking.

Get up to open the blinds. Gray branches are highlighted with gold. Birds are flying around and singing. The bus goes by. I don't have to work today.

Go back to facebook. Check on Status Updates. Sometimes I miss something on News Feed. Found some sound effects from friends: uhm? BLARGH! Grrrrrr!!!!!

The radio says health care reform bill was passed. Something about texting while driving.

My tea is cold. Maybe another cup. I get up to heat up more water. Balance my cup as I go back to my computer. Click on my chapter. Stay logged on to facebook in case someone wants to chat with me.

I'm ready to write my novel but maybe I'll write another post for my Chewing The Bacon Fat In Iowa blog before I'll revise a chapter of my novel.

But first I'll check the laundry. Time to put the first load in the dryer.

24-1=23 hours

2010-03-15T07:44:00.014-05:00

I lost an hour yesterday but was promised that I will gain it back sometime in the fall.

I'm crabby about the time change.

I'm sure someone made up all sorts of rational explanations for it.

But I just don't get it and wish we did not have to do it.

I want it back right now!

My stomach and dreams only care about keeping things on schedule, just like the toddlers I took care of at the daycare where I worked many moons ago. Diaper checks, snacks, lunches, and naps were kept on schedule. Springing ahead or falling back one hour messed them up. Of course, they were not hungry when we fed them an hour ahead. Or they were crying to be fed, but the clock said that it was not time yet. Their bodies knew but they did not understand why they were being force-fed or starved. It was misery for the first weeks of the time changes in the spring and in the fall. I forget now if we even gave them a little bite to ease their hunger. I might have been crying with them.

I had musings about time and its implications. Something about attending to the moment.

I had something intelligent to say about children growing up exponentially faster than adults.

I was even trying to remember Dave's explanation about why time seems to fly and the years bleed into each other. Something about the decreasing proportion between a year and our increasing age.

But I can't think straight, momentarily defeated by losing my hour of sleep.

Wah wah wah!

SPAM Me

2010-03-07T06:42:00.013-06:00

My Auntie liked to tell this story.

A long time ago in a barrio in the Philippines, a farmer and his wife had unexpected guests just before lunch. Their guests looked hungry so they caught one of their chickens that was running around in their yard, dressed it, and cooked it with vegetables from their garden in ginger broth. As they sat around the table with steam rising from the bowls of chicken and rice, they apologized that they could not have anything better, "We're sorry we're having only chicken. We would have had sardines but we haven't been to town yet."

I laughed every time she told this story. I preferred the chicken over the sardines. But I suspected that rich people ate canned goods. Rich people served sardines to their guests. Rich people ate SPAM.

I knew we were not rich. We rarely had SPAM when I was growing up.

But I had SPAM when friends invited me to their houses. We had fried slices of SPAM with crispy edges, served with rice and a can of Coke with USA label. I knew they were rich because they had canned goods from the US, they spoke English to their dogs, and had matching furniture sets. At home, we cursed our dogs in Ilocano, ate vegetables and fish, and sat on chairs handmade by my Papa.

Though I'm in the US, I'm not rich but I keep a can of SPAM in the cupboard. To celebrate when I get there.

Lighter mood, lighter mind

2010-03-01T14:19:00.006-06:00

19 days before the official first day of spring!

The weather forecast is in the 30's to low 40's this week. Around or above freezing. The mounds of ice are slowly thawing, rims outlined by brown dirt, like shadows in mountains far away.

This morning, I drank the golden sun with my first glass of water while I looked east through our kitchen window.

Though the brown branches are still bare, there are signs of life. Birds are singing in the yard. The magnolia tree on our neighbor's front yard has velvety gray buds like rabbit's fur. That tree will have pink and white giant flowers soon.

Soon we'll see our neighbors outside, chat with them longer. We'll hear children shouting and playing, riding their bikes on the street.

Soon we'll start planning our garden. Beans, okra, tomatoes, eggplants, and flowers will inspire us.

Soon there will be shadows from the maple trees.

The grass will be green.

The yellow daffodils and purple crocuses will line the edge of the yard.

We'll stay outside longer and breathe in spring.

Look At Me Look At You

2010-02-13T07:08:00.004-06:00

It is not just hair. It's identity. It's an obsession. I have done things to my hair against its will. Permed, brushed, styled, gelled, clipped, and moussed it.

One Saturday night in 2001, I decided, after years of deliberation and imaginings, to shave my hair. My skull felt symmetrical and I looked okay when I simulated being bald by pulling and slicking my hair back. So with the help of my husband then, bangs and layers that reached just below my shoulder fell to the bathroom floor. Thick black hair gone, replaced by stubbly scalp, grey-white unexposed to the sun.

Life got simpler. The shower got uncluttered, freed from the line of five different brands of shampoos and conditioners. Hair clips, hair twists, head bands, ribbons, hair dryer, gel, mousse, hairbrushes, combs, and anything that had to do with hair were put away. Mornings before work was easier. Shower, towel dry, then go!

I went to work the next week wearing a bandanna. My co-workers gave me that friendly smile reserved for people they didn't know, until they realized it was just me. Then they were shocked. I got worried I might get fired but my supervisor was thrilled, to the point of tears. Assured that I wouldn't get fired because I was bald and female, I did not wear my bandanna at work, unless my head got cold.

Aside from the shock, there were many different reactions. There were more votes for my new hair style, or my preference lead me to remember favorable votes. If I listened to those who disapproved, I would have not felt comfortable with my head.

Strangers stared, curious. Some reacted with pleasure and amazement. One woman said, she wished she could do what I did. Her hair was shoulder length.

A 50-something male co-worker, teased me, repeatedly asked why. His head was naturally balding and was envious that I have a say on what happened to mine.

Another male co-worker with buzzed hair compared notes on how often we cut our hair but encouraged me to grow my hair back. Double standard.

Women who liked my new hairstyle went to do something they had been thinking about. One got her hair cut short and colored red. Two others got tattoos. One went home and smoked a cigar.

Others worried and asked around if I was sick. Cancer came to their minds.

Young patients asked me, "Are you a boy?" or "You're a girl, aren't you?" And once established that I'm a girl, they sat and worked with me. Young 2-3 year- olds already recognized gender conventions. I was careful not to inspire young ones to go home and take scissors to their heads. A 10-year old girl told me that she wants her hair just like mine.

Thinking through people's reactions, I realized that it had more to do with their values and point of view than with me.

I'm at a decision point now. It's been 4 months since I had it buzzed cut by my hairstylist, Davio. I feel it is an imperative to cut my hair. I feel at home in it, though a little cold.

So I have a question.

Your answer will reveal something about you.

Not to buzz or buzz?

Miami is Sunnier

2010-02-08T06:45:00.040-06:00

Getting in touch and getting to know old friends through facebook has brought out some of my monsters. There were many reasons why I have not been in touch. One of these was the need to reinvent myself, become someone different. But I kept meeting the same person over and over again, no matter where I am or who I became friends with.

I meet the same part of me with the propensity for envy. I envy other people's money, jobs, intelligence, outgoingness, maturity, children, and where they live.

Memories come back, snippets that get replayed until they become movies in my mind. I remember tagging along with one of my high school friends while she shopped for a pair of Levi's jeans. I only had 5 pesos in my wallet. She had money and could afford a pair of pants. Her confidence and well-applied blue eye shadow made her look older and gained the salesperson's attention. She was waited on while I roamed around the store, fingering the new clothes I could not afford while wearing the blouse that I borrowed from my sister. I felt poor.

I envy friends who are having and raising kids. A long time ago, I wanted to have many children but circumstances and biology kept me from being a mother. I know that it is a hard job to raise kids. One of my friends once told me that her three kids are the 'joys of my life' right after she complained how they were lazy and disrespectful. Among my 8 brothers and sisters, I'm the only one in my family who is childless. Ironic because I was the nanny for my nephews and nieces, the closest I could come to motherhood. I like that they still call me 'Nanny.'

I envy where people live, especially on days like today, when a winter storm is passing through the state. White, cloudy, and cold. The only sun I will see today is from my Happy Lite sunshine simulator. I envy those who are living in the Philippines. I wonder why people want to get out of there when I have been plotting to go back. My friends and family who live there send me pictures to satisfy my homesickness. It's sunnier and warmer elsewhere. A friend planned to fly a kite in Miami, while Iowa was freezing and cloudy.

I envy people who seem to have their act together. My t'ai chi teacher teaches part-time and practices t'ai chi full time. A friend has published three novels and working on another. My husband has found a balance in his life. A friend is surrounded by her family in Chicago, her home now.

I even envy the long silky hair of the women in the Pantene shampoo commercials!

So Envy visits me. Instead of ignoring her as usual, I invite her in. Serve her a cup of hot jasmine tea, look into her grass green eyes as we sit face to face. We get to know each other. Envy tells me that she comes with my dissatisfactions and frustrations. So it's easy, I say, I could get rid of her by appreciating what I already have! She laughs, sending steam from her cup to me. The scent of jasmine is not enough to make her breath smell better. She tells me it only seems easy to not be envious. She knows it's seductive to be with her because she lets me complain and feel sorry for myself. She tells me to keep hot tea water boiling. She likes the jasmine tea and she'll hang around just to keep me vigilant, to keep trying to be satisfied.

Ay ay ay!

Career Paths

2010-02-01T06:31:00.049-06:00

I was 8 years old when I had a glimpse of what writing was to me. It was a Sunday morning after church, just before lunch. The sun shone through dark clouds just above my left shoulder. I was writing a book report at a wooden tablet arm desk in the half-finished extension of our house. The words in pencil made wavy indentations on the paper as I pressed to write against the solid desk. I chewed on the No. 2 Mongol pencil and released its cedar scent through its cracked yellow-orange skin. The coarse rubber eraser dried a spot on my tongue. The act of writing calmed me. I liked it but I did not know exactly what it was that I liked about it.

In high school, I read, wrote in my diary, learned words and practiced them by writing poems. I liked English and Filipino literature classes because we read stories. I liked writing in my journalism class and answering wh-questions: who, what, when, where, why, how.

My mother asked me what I wanted to study in college. I had no idea and I became a Business Economics major because my sister said it was a good field. I stuck with it, did the coursework, and passed. But through it, and even when I took my masters in Business Management, language and writing kept creeping into my life. After college, I taught Ilocano and Tagalog to Peace Corps trainees.

While in college, my friend, Joyce, took me to her sign language classes. Joe, a Peace Corps volunteer, taught the class. She dropped out but I kept going to the weekly classes at Cafe Amapola. Learning signs was easy but I did not know if I could pursue it as a major. There was no coursework available for me or I did not know how to go about changing my major. Joe, who was deaf, gave me a hard-bound journal when I interpreted for him at a meeting. I had an official notebook for writing!

In Diliman, still searching, with business economics as a fall back, I tagged along with my friend, Yasmin, a journalism major. I went with her as she hassled to get a story and the truth. The waiting, traveling at night, finding the right person to interview, and the deadlines were not for me. It was my first conscious decision against something.

I had no other options. I went back to business economics. But going to school was just incidental to spending time with my friends. I looked forward to hanging out with them and drinking at Tong Long after school. I failed a quantitative analysis class and had to stay after a semester ended to take a make-up exam. I wondered about my intelligence, as I should have made better grades. Looking back, I was just not interested.

Through college, I had my journal and wrote more poetry. Writing was an outlet. I was frustrated and unsatisfied, though I did not know why. It did not matter what I wrote. I enjoyed crafting the words together. I followed how meaning changed as words were moved around. But I still I did not seriously think about writing as a study.

And the little girl sat, chewing on that pencil. Waiting.

When I moved to Iowa City, I worked in a daycare. Not wanting to change diapers and wipe runny noses everyday, I thought about going back to school. At least I knew that anything business- or economics-related was not for me. What if I became a doctor because I liked to learn how the human body works? I enrolled and took pre-med classes. My work-study job was washing test tubes, petri dishes, and beakers. One afternoon while into my second hour of doing dishes, my hands in heavy rubber gloves in hot water, I decided that med school was not for me. I was not good at emergencies and I was failing chemistry.

And the little girl sat, chewing on that pencil. Waiting.

Another path. What about signing? Possibly deaf education but it was not offered at the University of Iowa. My masters in speech-language pathology was a compromise. I'm practicing as a clinician but I'm not satisfied.

What about a career change? I eliminated jobs that were obviously not me that involved huge equipment and noise. Construction worker, bus driver, carpenter, or a mechanic.

And the little girl sat, chewing on that pencil. She was becoming more assertive, tapping my shoulder, whispering, and reminding me of that morning. When I write, she lets me feel the stillness within and the deeper breaths.

Finally. I saw and understood that little girl. She was with me through the years, waiting to be acknowledged.

I'm now studying how to write a novel, how to put words together to tell an interesting story.

I don't know where writing is going to take me. I know that I'm enjoying the process.

I feel unburdened, finally.

273 Cards Every Where

2010-01-19T19:19:00.016-06:00

Saturday mornings. I wake up. More eager to get up than the past four days when I have to go to work. I make a cup of hot darjeeling tea, then go to my studio with the big oak dining table. My spot for the morning, where the squares and rectangles find their places.

I like working with paper. Smooth and firm textures between my fingers. Crackles and crinkles as they yield to the sharp scissors. Their smell reminds me of crayons and dust in elementary school classrooms.

Colors and textures combined to profile a design. Inspired by the designs of the Japanese papers, fabrics, colorful tea bags, gift wrappers, and soap wrappers. Sometimes pictures from old calendars.

A piece of petal. A glimpse, an idea of a flower. A small square, bordered with black then white, highlighted by the right shade of blue, of red, of purple. A square on a rectangle. Asymmetrical and balanced. Eyes find the center, take on the whole. It's complete.

How do I know? It's simple. Yummy is good. Design stays, finalize and tape everything together. Yucky, makes me dizzy. It needs more work. Maybe a different shade of color or a different placement of the design.

A card, finished, kept for now. Given away when its time.

Last year, I gave away 253 cards, sold 20. They may still be in their boxes in dark closets, pinned on corkboards in offices, on clear plastic frames hung on walls, or sent to special friends on special occasions.

A practice of letting go.

At A Loss

2010-01-14T18:42:00.039-06:00

Last summer, Dave and I dug up 6 clumps of bee balm roots and planted them in Peggy's yard. This was weeks after she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I had wanted to visit her, drop by her house, which was just down the road from ours. So close, but I hesitated. I did not know what to say to her. And finally, I had something to do. I heard that she liked bee balm and wanted some in her yard. She said, as we were digging in the dirt, she hoped she would see the bee balm flower next summer.

At work, someone organized a card shower, a batch of cards mailed to her every one or two weeks. I added my PenaLynn Cards. But even then, I did not know what to write on the card. My co-workers and I debated over what to tell her. Should we say what we usually tell someone who was sick, "Get well soon!"? But she was in Hospice care, expecting to die from the cancer. Should we say, "Have a good day!" when she was probably in pain and feeling the side effects of chemo?

We wrote different variations of thinking about you and we miss you. Unimaginative, but true. The only messages we had.

But I went through days, searching for the right thing to say or do for her. There were none. Hesitations, fears, and doubts prevented me from picking up the phone to say hi. Something that simple was not even easy to do.

Then I realized that even if I was not the one who was sick, I was sharing the process with her. I was sharing the process with my community of friends and co-workers. I became more engaged as she became sicker. (I know now that I was a little late.)

I asked her closest friend, Anne, what we could do for her. I needed a specific job. I needed to feel useful. Anne asked Peggy what she needed. Peggy needed food and help with her exercises. A sign up sheet was posted at work for us to take turns in cooking Peggy and her husband small meals. I only got one turn, Dave and I made her two kinds of salad: a green salad and a fruit salad.

Peggy asked me to help her with her exercises. We arranged for every Monday at 1 o'clock, my day off. That first time, she was tired but she showed me her routine: leg lifts, ankle rotations, light walking around the house. I did not get to go back because she had some complications and was in and out of the hospital. She also had family to help her over the holidays.

I did what I could, given my fears and doubts. I wish I could have done more but having these concrete jobs helped my own process of dealing with her disease and the possibility of death. Doing something for her was doing something for me.

Peggy died a week ago. Everyone agreed that she was passionate and lived her life fully. She stood for Peace. She joined a group that protested against the war every Friday, every week for years, on a street corner downtown. She wanted the world to be right and was outspoken against the things that she thought were wrong.

Peggy is probably raising hell where ever she is now.

eX-eX-eX

2010-01-11T08:43:00.004-06:00

In the basement sits a box that my ex-husband sent me a few years ago. Dave unearthed it while he was cleaning the basement to get the chi flowing there.

I had forgotten about that box. I resealed it then, not knowing what to do with it.

The box has our wedding-related memorabilia: a stack of cards, guest book, a blue porcelain wedding plate made by his sister, a gold plated picture frame engraved with our names, videotape of the wedding, a vase, and the memories that went with that day and the 14-years I was married to him.

Opening that box and finding those things made me angry. I was angry because he made me in charge of these things. He put everything in a box, sent it to me, and saved himself from dealing with the objects and all the emotions.

Because I initiated the separation and the divorce, I took the blame. He wanted to remain married and work through our differences but I could not see how we could live together anymore. I carried the doubt, 'what if we could have worked it out?'

I ate the pain. I ate the guilt. I ate the sadness.

I thought that having these feelings absolved me. I felt that punishing myself would make me feel better about breaking my marriage vows.

But now I see that I was like the woman who swallowed a fly, then swallowed a spider to kill the fly, then kept swallowing bigger and bigger creatures to kill the one she swallowed before it, until she died.

Seeing what was in that box made me confront these emotions again. Now I know what to do with them. I will burn them in a fire this summer and offer those memories to the pin oak tree in our backyard.

I am in charge of what I feel. And I don't have to suffer anymore.

Let the chi flow!

MUSIC TO MY EARS

2010-01-09T06:39:00.047-06:00

Ilocano and Tagalog are the languages in my heart.

My parents were from different provinces in the Philippines. They courted in English, their language in common. Papa, from La Union, spoke Ilocano and Mama, from Bulacan, spoke Tagalog.

I grew up listening to at least three languages. Ilocano, Tagalog, and English were the main three. Then I learned pieces of Kankana-ey, Ibaloi, Kapampangan and Pangasinan. And of course, I heard more languages as I met more Filipinos: Cebuano, Ilonggo, Chabacano. Each has a different rhythm, intonation pattern, and words. (See this article about how many languages are spoken in the Philippines .)

Ilocano was my first spoken language. I remember talking to my mother in Ilocano while she answered me in Tagalog. We understood each other. My 2- or 3- year- old brain did not make a distinction. The words flowed naturally into my ears and out of my mouth.

Though still a young child, I learned the differences among the languages. There were political forces I did not know about. But I learned who spoke what. I learned what was spoken where. I learned what language was acceptable in certain situations.

English was dominant at school, spoken by our teachers, principal, and school supervisor. It was a given that we had to talk them in English. But in the playground, as we ran around under the sun and on the grass, we conversed in any language of our choice, usually Ilocano.

Ilocano was the language at our church, the United Church of Christ in the Philippines. I went to church because I had to. I was to learn about God but got distracted. Pastor Almazan's words and the rhythm of his sentences flowed through the calla lilies and around the cross on the altar. I was filled by the words, not the spirit.

Ilocano tickled me.

Emotions in Ilocano are deeper. Ladingit is sorrow. Ragsak is joy. Ayat is love.

Cuss words in Ilocano turn my gut green. Ukin inam (your mother's vagina) is more offensive than son of a bitch in English.

Ilocano is my language through my ears, not my eyes. I have to read it out loud. I have to hear it to understand it. Deep words used by poets, such as my facebook friend, Nelson, send me to the dictionary.

Ilocano is music to my ears.

KRAZEE ENGLISH!

2010-01-07T05:39:00.025-06:00

I love English. I love its rules and their exceptions. I love the way it mangles borrowed words from other languages. "Boondocks" does not sound or mean like the Tagalog, bundok (mountain) anymore.

English is my writing language because of my history, and the history of the Philippines.

I started learning English formally in kindergarten in a room in the Episcopalian Church near our house. The floors were shiny under the rows of heavy desks where we laid our heads down for a nap. I always peeked and saw our teacher reading at her desk in front of the room. Behind her was the blackboard and above it was a strip of the alphabet chart.

Our kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Omengan, pointed to the letters and the pictures on the alphabet chart with a long stick. She lead us through the sounds of the different letters. I went along with the recitation but felt ignorant that the pictures did not mean anything to me. I learned that "A is for Apple" long before I tasted the fruit.

We spoke Ilocano and Tagalog at home. English was the natural next language when we went to school. It was the classroom language for most of our subjects- math, science, social studies, current events, PE, home economics, etc.

Our high school director drilled us that while we were at school, "The Official Language is English." We accepted it as a given but talked to each other in Tagalog or Ilocano when he was not around.

It was natural for me to claim English as my writing language because I read more English books than Ilocano or Tagalog. My sister, Marvi, introduced me to the concept of a diary. I learned to start with, "Dear Diary" like a letter, a confession of what I did that day.

In high school, I decided to expand my English vocabulary. On a 3x5 index card, I wrote a word, its definitions, synonyms and antonyms. I posted a card a week on the wall in our bathroom, right in front of the toilet seat. I was doing my public service. No one complained, anyway. I wrote awkward poetry using my new words. I promise I won't share them here.

Now, I'm in the part of the US that speaks Standard American English, the kind that you hear on the news or movies. I had to figure out and learned to make many adjustments to my English so people could understand me better. I learned to say my vowels a little longer. I practiced the vowels sounds that I did not use. That "A" sound in apple still haunts me because I slip and say it as "AH". I learned to make that puff of air after the /p/ sound when I say my name so it does not sound like "Bena". I learned not to translate Filipino idioms into English unless I had the time to explain. These were just a few of the things I changed or tried to be aware of. (Now I'm married to someone who talks Boston to me, so I'm having fun learning how to say the /r/ sounds. This will be another story.)

I have claimed English as my own. But this ownership gets threatened when people see me and hear my accent. When I get asked what language I think with or dream in, I get defensive. People I meet in the clinic say that I speak "good English." I just say thank you.

I have worked hard to learn it. And I'm still learning.

Why chew the bacon fat?

2010-01-05T06:49:00.046-06:00

Why chew the bacon fat?

Why not?

I have long stood in the sidelines, an appreciative audience, while others shared their works. Read their novels and their stories. Listened to their poetry. Marveled at what they saw when they composed a picture. I nodded. Encouraged. Celebrated with them.

AND smiled through my envy.

I wondered how they had the courage to create and share their coherent compositions.

Their works are out there, decorating the walls and hallways of the world. While mine are unformed and buried in Rubbermaid plastic bins in my dark closet. I have about 50 spiral notebooks with junk and potential material - my journals with thoughts, ideas for stories, character sketches, and story attempts.

But now I have found inspiration.

Joining facebook has put me more in touch with my family. I'm getting to know my siblings, nephews, and nieces. They are intelligent and talented. They are pursuing their academic fields. They are also writers: Henrik and Mari and visual artists: Jan and Jessica and Boogie. Others do not have websites to share. I recognized that my desire to write and create is not made up but is coded in my chromosomes. It is a part of me and must be honored.

UPDATE: This is Mark's page. He's one of my nephews.

I have friends who are pursuing what they like. Fermin, my long time friend, was the writer for the both of us. We sat and people-watched and made up stories before it became a recognized sport.

I have talked to Bart about writing. He has a disciplined practice. He is consistent in telling his story as a writer so I believed him when he told me that he wrote everyday. He is my writing tutor, well-qualified with three published novels. He talks me through as I'm learning to write my first novel. He makes it sound easy as he spews out many questions about my characters, their motivations, what they are doing, and how to solve structure problems. He talks about abstract concepts like pacing, tension, motivation, and writing everyday.

And the master of doing, Dave. He is the chief elf in our basement, who draws cartoons that he sometimes had to patiently explain to me. He had encouraged me to share my writing and waited until I was ready. He helped me set-up this blog and my PenaLynn Cards.

So why chew the bacon fat?

This is my way of hanging my picture on the wall.

My way of getting over my envy and fear.

My coming out as a writer.

Why Iowa?

2010-01-04T07:27:00.006-06:00

Why Iowa?

I'm in Iowa because of a series of choices and circumstances. I moved to Iowa City to marry my now ex-husband, who is from Iowa. Still here because I'm not ready to be anywhere else. I have remarried and had mostly gotten over the trauma of getting divorced.

So I'm making the best of being here. This is the place for me, warts and all. I have a job. I have friends. I have a house, co-owned with my husband and the bank. I have my studio. I have my health. I have everything I need and don't need.

I'm learning to call this place my home. Believe me, it is taking me a long time. This is the process in my mind: if the Philippines is still my home then I could not be at home here. Maybe this kind of logic does not work when it comes to the feeling of belongingness. Or that laws of matter does not apply when it comes to feelings - two matters could not occupy the same space at the same time. (My apologies to the scientists and physicists.)

I know that feelings co-exist. That's why we get mixed-feelings. That thoughts get soupy in our heads. That's why we get monkey minds.

So I try. I try to belong. I try to be home, to feel at home here in Iowa City. A wise woman gave me tips on how to claim my spot in this world. I have paid her to tell me this but she must be on to something. But what is more valuable for me is to see my husband set the example. He can be at home anywhere, even when spending the night at the airport because of a delayed flight.

I learned that to be an Iowan is to talk about the weather. it was a shock to experience winter for the first time, being from the tropical Philippines. I saw pictures of snow and descriptions of 'snot-freezing cold' weather but these did not capture the reality of Iowa winters as I experienced it through the years. I thought it was going to get better- but this 21st winter is barely bearable- thanks to positive thinking, wool socks, dressing in layers, and hot tea. As I write this, it is -4 degrees F outside.

So I chew the bacon fat in Iowa. Because this is where I am. Right now.