I missed church last Sunday. My macbook, which also serves as my trusty alarm clock, got pulled off its plug and drained off its battery while I was sleeping, and by the time I woke up to realize what happened, it was already too late to get ready for church. Coincidentally, my back-ups (read: wake-up calls from people I expect to occasionally check on me by default) seemed to have forgotten about me, too. Sure, I had two text messages on my mobile phone from curious friends asking me where I was and why I wasn’t in church. Unfortunately, however, text messages can hardly wake up this sleepyhead that I am.

As I mulled over what happened there, just because I live to over-analyze things like that, I couldn’t help but think how I could have died that morning and no one would’ve known [insert sad background music here]. My family and everyone close to me would’ve been in church, I would’ve died alone, and no one would’ve known until my body was cold and decaying.

Yep. Leave it to me to have a minor alarm clock failure and end up thinking about my dead and decaying body.

What I’m really trying to say is, I’m finding more and more reasons to affirm my decision to bid good bye to this *cough* exciting independent life, the most recent reason being, not having someone/something other than an expensive alarm clock to wake you up in the morning and to check if you’re still alive and breathing. However shallow that sounds.

It served me well, this full, life-altering independent life I got to experience in my younger days, the first two years with housemates (what my Dad thought of as a trial period-slash-OJT of sorts) and the last two years on my own. Moving out of the confines of my parents’ house has taught me a lot of things I wouldn’t have learned otherwise, I always say. But now I have arrived at the inevitable reality that one can’t really live on her own too long. I suppose it’s different for everyone as far as the length of time it would take for her to realize she’s done with being solo is concerned, but I do believe that if someone must choose to live by herself, she would eventually need to either (1) share her apartment with friends; (2) get a dog, (3) get married; or (4) move back home. (Notice, of course, my gender bias.)

I won’t in a million years recommend that you get a home-based job while living in isolation and keeping a long-distance relationship at the same time, trust me when I say that these three don’t mesh well together, LOL. Still, under whatever circumstances, I know that independence has done me good. And now, I’m happy to have come to this point in my life where I’ve experienced independence to the fullest that I’m ready (and excited!) to come back home. I’m counting the days.

OAN, I’m selling some of my furnitures. You want? c”,)

Lastly, I really should update this blog more often.

Friday nights are supposed to be spent with someone, I always thought. I call it “Friday night sickness,” the cure for which would be a bunch of friends for company, or, in the absence of companions, an impulsive shopping spree with lots of cash to spend. At one point in my life, I considered being caught dead alone on a Friday night as one of my greatest fears, next to my macbook crashing and not being able to have babies.

But I realize now, as I’ve been spending more and more Friday nights by myself, that it’s not so bad spending nights like this just being quiet, watching droplets of rain trickle down glass windows while cars pass by in the background like little bokehs, and listening to the hushed voices of lovers and friends chatting inside coffee shops.

It’s Friday night, I’m alone, and I’m in love.

In love with life, in love with NOW, in love with the promise of things to come. I want to remember these days, these Fridays I get to spend alone. I want to dry them up, like rose petals placed in between the pages of a hard bound book, and preserve them until they’re old and yellow and forgotten. And then maybe one day, accidentally or on purpose, I’ll come across these memories, remember how it’s like, and laugh at the silliness of it all.

Tonight I realize that I need to chillax and learn to not be so afraid of being alone.

(Thoughts that are too long for twitter. Posted from my mobile phone.)

I like watching movies, often by myself, sometimes in the company of friends. See I’m not that autistic! Like the other night, I watched Sex and the City 2 with Joni and Maemae (don’t you just love repeating one-syllable names twice?), and okay, I confess I already saw SATC2 by myself last week but thought I’d watch it again because I like watching movies more than once like that.

Photograph taken one October day at Universal Studios (LA), 2008.

Anywayy, J, M, and I — we love talking and analyzing movies (and TV series) whenever we get together, among other things. We can dissect Lake House to no end and still have more to discuss the next chance we get. Sometimes, we would talk about fictional characters as if they’re our friends, and contemplate about their fictional lives with a passion. And that’s just the thing with movies. They move us, wimmen (maybe not all, forgive me for generalizing), into feeling as if we’re somehow involved, making us analyze our own lives in comparison.

But what really makes me sad (or frustrated) about watching movies is the element of time.

In movies, 20 years is something that can be jammed into a 4-minute video montage ala music video. (Think Ellie & Carl’s life together, my most favorite 4 minutes in the history of Pixar). In movies, you only have to endure 2 hours to know what’s going to come out of a story. Letters sent back and forth over a period of three years while trying to keep a long distance affair (ala Dear John) are made to look endurable. Ten years in Carrie Bradshaw’s life becomes a mere 2-minute narration.

In movies, it’s easy to just insert a blank screen with the words “after [so-and-so number of] years”, and conveniently leave out those years off the story altogether. But truth is, that transition, that part which gets cut off from the movie, is the most agonizing of all.

I kinda feel like I’m in that part of my life right now — that blank screen. I know I’m heading towards my “somewhere, someday,” but waiting and working for it is soo agonizing that I sometimes wish I have a golden thread so I can skip through parts, or, just like the movies, pull out that transitional blank screen. Except that this is real life, and one life can’t be all defining moments happening one after another, it has to have the long monotonous moments in between too. I mean, sure I don’t want to skip through 10 years of my life and miss out on actually living it. It’s really just the transitions that make me anxious and impatient.

It’s like.. Blahblahblah, zzzzz, blahblah, WOW! Blahblahblah, zzz, blahblah, WOW! Rinse, repeat. Meh, that’s some seriously disturbing alien talk right there, but you do get what I’m saying right? Can we just skip to the WOWs? :)

And this, my friends, is what I mean by Hollywood’s way of making me over analyze things. And frankly, I’m quite not sure yet if that’s a good thing or not.

Also, I blame this to the hormones, poor defenseless hormones. And the coffee.

I’ve been meaning to post an obligatory birthday blog. It has been a tradition I didn’t realize I was doing, documenting my birthday year after year after year since 2003 (and no, I’m not going to link back to my tabulas and blogspot days anymore because the older birthday posts are just too embarrassing).

I did write a birthday blog two weeks ago, but I posted it on a more discrete place, and well, maybe I’ll link back to it next year when I’m ready. Right now I just want an excuse to post these photos, hee.

I guess what set this year apart from the other birthdays was, this time, I wanted to lie low on the celebrations. And yes, contrary to the photos you’re seeing, I really did plan on just having a quiet day at home where I can work and contemplate on the past 27 years of my life (srsly), my only wish being that baby Isaac spent the day with me. But then my Mom, being the mother that she is (why thank you, mother!), couldn’t stop herself from preparing a surprise (and quick) birthday lunch for me, before she went out-of-town with some of our balikbayan relatives. Other highlights include dinner with Kuya Nate, Ate Imy & Isaac, the usual after-dinner coffee with Xai & Ivy, a bouquet of balloons delivered by Mark the latte boy, a pair of Nike slippers from my New Yorker cousin, a happy birthday serenade via Skype, and a humiliating photo album posted by Kuya Nikos in Facebook.

I can’t think of anything else I haven’t said already in my past birthdays, about growing one year older, leaving the past behind, being thankful for what you have, and how, when you turn a certain age, it would feel like your life is never going to be the same again. (Reading my old birthday posts, I find it funny now that I would say those very words every year!)

But ahh, a word to those who are turning 27, just.. keep it cool. When you reach this age, you will feel all sorts of pressure. See, your age is closer to 30 now, and if you’re like me who still doesn’t have a kid at this age, everyone will keep reminding you of your biological clock. Be ready to answer questions like, ‘when are you getting married?’ or ‘do you have a boyfriend?’, or ‘what are you waiting for?’, you’ll encounter lots of those on a daily basis. Prepare a standard answer, practice your smile. Keep your composure, there’s no need to feel anxious.

By this time you would have experienced how it’s like to have your heart broken, found success (or failure) in your career, enjoyed your independence, made countless of mistakes. That’s fine, what doesn’t kill you will only make you stronger, we often hear and say. At 27, you will always find yourself drawing strength from your past experiences and realizing that with God’s grace, you have, indeed, become a better person.

Sure, you will have to make decisions that will alter your life forever, but what I’ve come to realize is, whatever choice you make, or wherever God places you when you turn 27, you will be okay. Whether you choose to pursue your career, or settle down and start a family (or whether you’re already raising a family!), know that not one choice is better than the other. You will do fine, either way. And God.. God will remain faithful no matter what, you’ll just have to keep trusting and believing that He’s got the rest of your life in His hands.

There was this moment the other night, at a family get-together, that’s still stuck in my head until now. My mom and her sisters, Nanay Maura and Tita Aida, talked with hushed voices as they watched over Isaac sleeping in the sofa with them. A bunch of cousins were in the dining area feasting over ice cream and bibingka. One of my nieces, Daphne, sat at the foot of the couch where I was, drawing on her sketchbook, oblivious to me watching her from over her back. Tito Ben was by the piano, softly playing Somewhere in Time. Kids ran around all over the place. It almost felt like Christmas.

And there I was by the couch, breathing it all in, enveloped by the comfort of the familiar, the peace that comes with being around family, love that needs no words.

Going home to an empty apartment, on the same night, was the perfect contrast. I dropped my bag by the couch where a bunch of other bags start to pile up. I stopped by the kitchen sink to wash dishes that accumulated over the past, okay, 3 days. I took out the garbage, checked if the doors were locked, turned off the lights. Finally, I dressed down to get ready for bed, and carried my laptop with me as I went. I knew then that it was going to be one of those nights I would lie awake in the dark wondering, “why am I living by myself again?”

I think this is my elaborate way of saying, I don’t want to be alone anymore.

Yep, that’s it. I could’ve just twitted that, huh, seeing that it’s under 140 characters anyway. But I somehow feel the need to explain that line to myself, hence this blog. (Sometimes, things become clearer when you think out loud.)

I feel like I’m starting to outgrow this independence already. Of course I’ll never trade the past 5 years that I lived on my own for anything. God has blessed me so much during this time — I enjoyed my independence to the fullest, found fulfillment in my career, traveled in places I never thought I’d see in my lifetime, learned to be accountable to myself.

But I think it’s time to come back home and spend time with my family now. I miss living with siblings I fight with, and my mom’s cooking, and the chaos that is our neighborhood in Caloocan. And I’m missing out on Isaac’s growing up, too! Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself by saying this, after all, I’m still not sure how I’m going to do it, I don’t even have a room there anymore, but oh well, I’ll deal with the logistics later on.

The countdown to my homecoming begins. (Got that, Mom? I’m coming home.)

Two, three years ago, I made a firm declaration in front of some friends that I was never going to leave the Philippines in this lifetime. That’s not to say that I don’t want to travel and explore the world, I do, I’d love to travel as much as my resources would allow me, but leaving Pinas for good to settle somewhere else was, to me, non-negotiable.

And then New York happened in this life of mine. Shortly after, Sydney.

That’s me with my cousin Dots and my godson, Jonah,
on a hill overlooking the Sydney Harbor. November, 2008.

Just now I came across this post Ala Paredes wrote on her tumblr:

In the mornings, when I join the mad rush of people commuting to work, and I’ve been on the train for an hour on my long journey from Western Sydney to the North, I feel uplifted when my train makes its slow crawl across the Harbour Bridge as if it were holding it’s breath.

I see the metropolitan sprawl beneath me, see the Opera House, the ships coming in, and wide expanse of sparkling blue ocean kissing the horizon and think,” Wow, I live and work in this city. You’ve come a long way from day one, baby”.

..and I can’t help but siiiigh and wish I could write the same expression of love. I fell in love with Sydney when I was there in 2008. (New York was a very close second, ‘just thought I’d add.) And I can imagine how it’s like, that morning that Ala so eloquently described, walking around Circular Quay and seeing the Opera House as part of a normal day and not just some touristy thing to do.

I just.. sigh.. I want to live in a city I’m in love with and constantly falling in love with. And no, please don’t look at me like I’m betraying my own country. I don’t like feeling like this, too. I wish I’m not struggling choosing between loyalty to this city God placed me in and the curiosity that maybe He planted this aching desire in my heart and I’ve got to at least do something to pursue it.. It’s a daily struggle that’s tearing me apart every single day.

Please tell me I’m not the only one who feels this way. /rant

You know how we sometimes get heartbroken over closed doors and how it feels like it’s the end of the world when God answers us with a “NO”? The ironic thing about closed doors is, while they, more often than not, leave us heartbroken, disoriented and empty-handed, they’re actually some of the best things that can ever happen to our young, stubborn, and reckless lives. In essence, in spite of all the seemingly bad things that they come with, closed doors actually make decision-making a whole lot easier.

When I was in Sydney in 2008, my cousin and I took a drive one Sunday afternoon to this quaint little town called Wollongong, an hour’s drive south of the city. (Wollongong is, by the way, one of my most, if not the most, favorite places in New South Wales.) We reached Wollongong that day alright, but going back to the city we missed a turn, so we ended up driving around in circles for more than 2 hours finding our way home. Amazingly enough, it was the “NO ENTRY” signs that brought us back on track.

It’s simple logic. When there’s a “NO ENTRY” sign, you have no choice but to not take that route. When God closes a door, you don’t push your way through that closed door, you wait on Him to open another one. When God answers your questions and prayers with a resounding”NO”, you trust and acknowledge that He wants something else for you.

Such is life.

And I know it’s easier said than done, but I’ve learned in my 26 (almost 27) years of existence that God’s NOs in my life ultimately took me back where I’m supposed to be, especially during those times when I became too stubborn to admit that I lost my way, or times when I deluded myself into thinking that I was on the right track that I stopped relying and asking Him for directions. “Closed doors are God’s way of directing us on the path He wants us to walk on,” I read somewhere. I couldn’t agree more.

Four months ago God closed a door to my face, and took me out of a place that was clearly not His will for me. And now, I can’t help but heave a sigh of relief, thanking God for being more stubborn than I am, and for loving me so much that He closed all the other doors except for this one that He so lovingly left open for me.

+ OAN, I was at the Darlene Zschech and Hillsong Team’s Worship Concert last week, and it was made of awesome. :)