life

You cannot rush a painting

/ RCRuiz / 3 Comments

Soon after I completed my short course in painting portraits with acrylics, I got my first commission to make one. As it was commissioned by close family, I’m not sure if it qualifies as proper commission, but I agreed to make one for the equivalent of another course on painting portraits with watercolours. I don’t know why I had the idea that I could complete a portrait in a week when it took me almost five weeks to work on my class assignment, but hey–time is like an accordion to the neurodivergent mind. So, I delayed starting on the portrait. I did a couple of studies and for some reason my brain registered this as: I have completed the assignment (which of course is far from true).

Anyway, the start of watercolour class was announced and in the lead up to it, I found myself completely immersed in this completely new to me medium. Of course, I had played with watercolours as a child. But I never quite liked it. I found out that it wasn’t my fault, but it was because I didn’t have the proper tools for making good watercolours. Ha! I find myself wondering how many children give up on artmaking because they just don’t have the right tools. Of course–as people say–artists will find ways and means to make art and when I look back, I realise that I was always making art. It wasn’t art in the conventional/traditional sense of how people in my surroundings defined art (art=painting). I wasn’t painting, but I was constantly busy with cutting and pasting and layering things. I was curious about things that were discarded and what could be done with them. When I was a teen, I started using threads and cast away materials. I dried weeds and made cards. I collected pieces of thrown away marble flooring and tried writing on them. Eventually, I combined these with other things and the small projects I started in my parents’ garage bloomed into quite a hectic business. (I confess, I didn’t like it as much once it became hectic business and that probably says a lot about me.)

So anyway, back to the title of this blogpost.

The reason why I was asked to make this portrait was because the portrait I made in class came out so well. Getting it there took me sitting at the easel almost everyday. Carefully observing my reference photos and decided which colours were best. It was me also remembering the way my cousin’s smile looked and what it was about her character that I wanted to capture on the canvas. And the portrait succeeded because I knew my subject really really well. I could close my eyes and see the way she walks, the way she tilts her face to the side, the way shadows play across her face and most of all, I could see the gentleness and the joy shining through her eyes. And that’s what I put on the canvas. As one of my classmates said: she makes me want to smile back at her.

Back to this portrait. On the first day, I did the drawing and filled in light and dark hues. I had my colour palette, and yet somehow it wasn’t working. At the end of day one, I had a stern looking figure on my canvas and another figure who looked like an alien. Skin tone was nowhere near anything human. I stared at the portrait and thought: I think I’ll just go back to using pastels and watercolours. Those are more fun.

Second day: I’m one day away from my self-set deadline. Anything I layer on makes my figures look even more alien. They no longer look anything like the reference picture. Even worst, the main figure looks so unlikeable and scary, I want to throw my brushes on the floor and burn the canvas. I don’t do these things, but I admit I was pretty close.

Self-set deadline day: The portrait is not finished. I don’t know how I’ve managed to turn two humans into beings who look like they’ve come from Mars. I no longer think of them as people. I think of them as subjects–characters who refuse to bend to my will. My paints and brushes keep going, but good grief, my instruments are not making magic happen.

Thankfully, I’m given a reprieve. I don’t have to deliver the portrait just yet. But the person would like to see an in-progress work.

I’m crying. I can’t show this horrible canvas to anyone.

I go to bed and pray. Dear God, I say. Please (please please) I know this is such a tiny ping in all the important things happening around the world, but if you could send me a dream–something that will help me resolve this, I would be ever so grateful.

Here is a detail I remember from my dream. I’m a child crying over this portrait and I’m sitting at the feet of this big person. You need time to make a painting, the big person says. Each layer makes a painting richer, this is why you can’t rush a painting. Look, you should try using yellow ochre and don’t be afraid to mix your colours with white.

I don’t know if there was more, but when I wake up, that remains with me.

I head up to the attic and start squeezing colours onto my palette. Yellow ochre and white and my basic colours. I decide to not use the flesh coloured paint that I’d used previously. I don’t know if it will work, but I start painting. And somehow, things just click into place. The main character now looks kinder and more approachable–just like the person I see when I leaf through the album in my head. The second character looks kind and inquiring–and his skin looks human. I mix in some cadmium yellow, a bit of red…it’s coming together. Burnt sienna and ultramarine blue and some of that white for my shadows. It’s intense, but looks natural. I’m not quite there, but now the painting has more flow.

I think of how the things worth bringing into the world cost time and effort and energy. The act of creating something asks something from us and gives something to us as well. Maybe AI could make a painting much faster than I could, but I wouldn’t be getting the same insights I get from making this painting myself. Everything worth bringing into the world is worth the journey that it takes to bring it into being. And this is why we can’t rush art. We can’t rush stories. And I can’t rush a painting.

To you who have taken the time to stop by and read this, I hope you find something to inspire you on your own journey. Thank you for reading and may you be blessed.

The study I made in preparation for the painting. 🙂

All the things and how do I choose?

/ RCRuiz

In my previous life, goal setting was a little bit like this thing I would do in intervals. Like at the start of the year, I might set a couple of things for myself and at a certain point a sense of panic would creep in when I realised there were still things I hadn’t done.

Yesterday, as I was reading through the life after treatment module, the goal setting part of it had me thinking. For instance, if I say I want to travel more. What exactly do I mean when I say that? If I say I want to spend more time with my family, what do I really mean by that? And what about getting back to writing and finally finishing that work in progress? What about leaving a legacy and creating space for others? How and where do I even start? That familiar sense of panic came over me–that sense of I’m not sure I have enough time to do all the things.

To be honest, I didn’t actually think about these things when I first listed things down. I basically just filled in whatever and went on my merry way. But yesterday, I realised that I had a rather long list of things I want to do and it’s probably one of the reasons why I’m feeling a bit out of breath because how does one choose and where do I even start?

Thankfully, the module provides the following questions in support, some of which are:

How far along are you in regard to this goal?

What do you need to accomplish this goal?

Do you have all you need to get there?

One of the things on my list is to plan at least one weekend every year when all of us spend time as a family in one house. Last year, we went to Spa in Belgium. We are rather fond of Formula One and I’ve always wanted to visit a race track. Not only is the Spa circuit legendary, it’s also a beautiful track surrounded by lots of nature.

As I was in treatment at the time, my youngest spent most of our visit to the famous Spa circuit pushing me in the wheelchair. I didn’t get to climb up to the viewpoint tower but I loved that the kids got to do that and see it for themselves. It was only for a weekend, but we had a lot of fun with time together as well as time separately.

This year, I’m thinking of a place closer to home with more possibilities for going out into nature and taking walks because I’m more mobile than I was last year and I have more energy than I had.

But while I can plan things and organise things, while music and artmaking and teaching are proving to be quite friendly and within my grasp, I’ve discovered that getting back to writing is a lot more challenging than I had imagined.

Do I struggle with the writing because my brain isn’t quite up to it yet? Or do I struggle with the writing because writing (even when it’s fiction) feels very close somehow and I’m not yet ready to go there? It’s telling that I’m writing about not being ready because that’s actually probably what it is. Will I be ready to go there?

Writing even when it’s fiction has often been a way for me to work through whatever is weighing on my mind at the moment. I doubt that my work is commercially appealing because writing to an audience has probably been the last thing I’ve thought about. I’m not sure if that makes me a bad writer–but basically I write things that tug at me and call to me and make me take that deep dive and a lot of times the dive is personal and involved with the body and how the body moves through society and navigates all these questions that arise. What impact does space have on the body? How does society impact the body? And can one body have an impact or influence in the space they occupy? If so, in what way? (Yep, that’s one example of the process my brain goes through and maybe it’s helpful that I’m writing about it because this is probably a step towards getting there.)

I wish that answers were easy, but often answers are complex and require time and patience and a lot of times solutions to problems are never easy. The concept of good or bad and black and white is simplistic when we live in a nuanced world where many different shades go into what we imagine is one color.

So, this leads me back to goal setting and the objective of it.

Perhaps it’s so we don’t get this feeling of empty hours or days that we must feel. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s to give us a sense of purpose. Perhaps it’s to make us feel useful or accomplished. Oh hey, I did this task and that. I cleaned the bathroom without breaking down and I still had the energy to iron some clothes. That’s a win.

Now that I think about it, this sense of time running out is an illusion. We get caught up in the rush of “I must do this” and “I have to accomplish this” or “I must be useful” or whatever narrative we say to ourselves.

I think that we all have the time we need/ to do what we need to do/ and /time never runs out/. We may think that time runs out when we close our eyes in final sleep, but actually time keeps on running and what we accomplish as warm bodies reverberates even after our bodies are gone from the timeline.

Writing about this has helped me shed the rush. What needs to be done will be done and if it’s not done perfectly or as exactly as I imagine it could be, it will be enough. When I look at the timeline, I realise that actually what matters is now. From a minute ago to this minute to the minute that follows after this one. These are the moments that I can make count. Maybe I can give my son a hug or by practice my brush strokes (I’m learning how to use watercolour), or I can go out and find rocks to use for an exercise with the group. Maybe it’s something else. There’s no rush, there’s no panic. Time isn’t running out. I am moving exactly as I am meant to move within the time I occupy.

As usual, this is me thinking out loud on the page. I hope that it’s helpful to someone. Take time to do what matters to you now and if you’re feeling rushed, breathe.

Thank you for taking time to read this. I wish you blessings and peace. Maraming Salamat.

Oh hey! It’s another Tuesday post

/ RCRuiz

Sometimes the words just flow and sometimes they don’t. Today, I was working on the module that comes with the a new program from the physiotherapy class that I signed up for. This class is an intensive three month program which usually is offered after active treatment and it includes not only the physical rehabilitation part of things, but it also offers a module which walks you through a process of reflecting on what’s happened and what you would like to happen moving forward. It’s a module divided into six sessions and signing up for the module includes a page where you list down everything from the moment of diagnosis up to your last active treatment.

It was rather something to look back and realise that from 2022 up to the end of 2024, I was in constant treatment and my days were marked by hospital visits. It’s also good to recognise that I’ve been out of active treatment for five months.

I find myself no longer planning in terms of “if treatment will allow” to thinking in terms of “Oh hey, I can do that thing and take that course and I can play together with the band and go to workshop”. It seems like a small change, but it is actually a huge change from not knowing to some sort of knowing and where planning can now occur in two month stages instead of the one week when I feel good stage. I actually had this idea that I’d dealt with the stages of grief during those three years, but having looked at the dates reminds me that it wasn’t nothing. So here I am thinking on it and feeling thankful that I made it through all those treatments. I am thankful that I’m still here.

I’ve learned that even when we think we can’t, we still can and there is nothing more precious than today and if there’s something worth doing, there’s no sense in delaying the doing of that something.

There was a short period after treatment when I had a sense of “Oh, my days are stretching out now” and “so what do I do?”

Lately, I’ve been filling my days with watercolour practice. As I said to my therapy mates, I didn’t have the opportunity to learn how to use all these different materials when I was young, but I’m learning them now and it’s like a world has opened up in front of me. I didn’t know, for instance, that getting a good result in watercolours has a lot to do with the materials that you use. Of course, it’s the same for all other things, but watercolours are pickier than pastels and acrylics and if you use bad paper, it’s a given that your watercolours will look more grisly than if you used something that’s a better grade. I’m practicing on Aquapad paper which is thick enough and satisfying enough. (Arches are the best, but I feel like I need to get to that point where I can justify spending lots of cash on Arches.)

I’m happy that I have art making to keep me company, because it seems my fiction brain isn’t quite ready yet. I did the thing last week where I decided to just grit my teeth and open the work in progress and after reading the first page, I just had no idea. The sense of overwhelm was such that I decided to close the document and re-think my strategy. Maybe I’m not ready yet to face a work I left at 70k words. Maybe I need to section it up into smaller units that my brain can focus on in small bursts. I’m not sure yet. The work is niggling on the edges of my awareness, it’s just getting down to it that costs more than I can spend at the moment.

In the meantime, the watercolours are spread open on my desk. Brushes and pens and paper with some grisly attempts at portraiture. For the first time, I did manage a reasonable study in values. Not bad, I thought. I put a date at the top. Maybe I’ll look back at it in a hundred days and say: Oh wow. I started there, huh.

For you who have taken the time to drop by and read this, I want to say thank you. Blessings and peace and may your days be filled with good things.

I’ve fallen quite in love with Daniel Smith’s Green Apatite Genuine.

Today is my sister’s birthday

/ RCRuiz

I’ve been thinking about my sister in the in-between hours, all throughout the day. Perhaps it’s one reason why I felt somewhat agitated. It’s not until I took the time to sit down and think about the day that I realised it’s because I didn’t get to talk to my sister.

My sister and I were born almost exactly a year apart. Both of our birthdays fall in April. Hers falls earlier in the month and mine closer to the end of it. I think about my sister and the unexpectedness of her passing and what a gift it was that she was able to come to us and spend time with us in the months after Jan passed away. Little did we know that she would leave us too.

For a long time, I couldn’t put a name to what it was that I felt when my sister died. I was able to carry on after Jan’s passing, I was able to push through and still keep going, but when my sister died it was like the world stopped and I sank into a deep dark place. I’m not exactly sure how I got out of there, but time helps a lot and it helps when someone picks you up and says: you don’t have to do anything for a while, you just have to keep on living.

In the days when I was going through treatment, when chemo was rough and I didn’t want to even get out of bed, I thought of my sister saying: Come on, Rochita. Don’t just lie there. Fight.

And I would get up and I would make myself go downstairs and eat breakfast even if I didn’t feel like eating. I decided I wouldn’t die, but I would live.

Because there was so little of a gap between us, my sister and I were often mistaken as twins when we were kids. And my Mom liked to dress us up in twin clothing. There are loads of black and white pictures of the two of us twinning. For a long time, there was just me and my sister. We had to wait another seven years before the first of my brothers was born. My sister and I were each other’s best friends and confidantes. We could fight like cats and dogs, but we were each others’ allies. (It’s kind of impossible to remain hostile when you’re sharing a room.)

I want to honour my sister today. To remember the sound of her voice and the way she smiled. I’m thankful my sons have memories of her. That they know who I’m talking about when I talk about Tita Weng.

In 2022, when I was preparing for surgery, I had a dream about my sister. We were playing together under a big tree in the garden, and I was so preoccupied with what I was doing that I didn’t notice that she’d stood up and walked away.

Today, I remember my sister whose light I carry with me.

(Collage made in 2022)

It’s only Tuesday and yet . . .

/ RCRuiz

Not that I post with any kind of regularity or schedule, but here I am on a Tuesday. I’ve enrolled in a five session course on portraits with acrylics and the first session went pretty well. The advantage of acrylics is the drying time and how it’s much easier to take it home to continue work on it. Compared to pastels where the work has to be carefully transported, acrylics are easy. I’m enjoying these courses which are in series of five sessions each time focusing on a particular medium as I feel like I want to understand how different mediums work.

I do enjoy portraits a lot and I want to try and see what different things I can do with it once I get the basics down.

When I was a young girl, my mother once showed my notebook of writings to the daughter of a friend of hers. I think my Mom was proud that I was writing, but I was quite embarassed because her friend’s daughter was (at that time) already playing the violin for a big orchestra. I was like: Eh…Mom. Why?

But instead of dismissing my work, this young woman looked at it carefully, then she said something to me which I’ve carried around much like a puzzle that I keep trying to unfold.

“An artist,” she said. “Can see beyond the leaf.”

I never got around to asking her what she meant because soon after that this violinist went abroad to play with other orchestras and our paths never crossed again.

I think of her words every now and then, though.

Today, those words came bubbling up again and I thought of the following reply:

“Beyond the leaf is a world (maybe more than one)

Lives are lived. Not all are told or written down in story.

Not one is insignificant.“

To you who read these words, may you be surprised by small moments of daily joy. Thank you for stopping by.

Here’s one of my favorite exercises from this week. On a background of sennelier soft pastel, an impression of branch and leaf.

Finally, an update…

/ RCRuiz / 2 Comments

It’s taken time for me to get around to updating this online journal. There was a season when I felt as if I was inside a time capsule, watching the world go by, observing, doing, moving in some direction but always within that capsule. I had my last treatment right before December and since that time the capsule enclosure has become quite porous. At times, it feels as if a wild and eager rush pushes outward from inside me–a wanting to do and to go and to undertake so many things.

My oncologist says: we don’t know. We can’t say or predict how things will turn out. But the chemo has done what it’s supposed to do, and for now I have been moved to the list of people who are under observation.

It took me a good number of minutes to process what my oncologist said. I keep going back to that moment and checking in with myself. There are still things in my body–a nodule and a lymph node are mentioned in the scan report–things that can’t be easily removed through surgery. And yet, my oncologist isn’t worried. All I can feel is relief that chemo has ended.

I think to myself: There are more people walking around with things in their bodies, living lives and just being and doing and staying in the now. The length of our life spans is not something we can control, so why worry about that?

If you can let go of worrying, my physiotherapist says, then it’s already a win.

Why worry about something I can’t control? I reply. This, I can control. I can train my body to be physically fit. I can work to become stronger. Instead of obsessing about weight, I make sure to eat a balanced diet. As for the rest, I leave it in the hands of God. (So very Pinoy. Yes.)

I’ve decided that I’m going to keep living and keep doing things that I love and things that give me joy. I’ve decided to hold on to faith and to this knowledge that we do what we can do in the time allotted to us and life is about living one day at a time.

It’s going to take some time to find a new balance and I am thankful that time is being made so that I can find that new balance. Where people talk about spoons, our physiotherapists talk about buckets. You only have so much energy in your bucket and some things will deplete your bucket quicker than other things. You can empty your bucket in one go, but recovery is better when your bucket isn’t completely empty at the end of the day. Brain work, thinking work, social interactions, new situations can empty your bucket faster than doing the laundry and vacuuming your house. You’ve been in a space of time where for a long while, you’ve had to do all you can to just get through it. Once you’re no longer in treatment, it’s tempting to succumb to demands we imagine are being placed on us. But, it’s okay to say: no, I cannot or no, I don’t have the energy for that. It’s okay to pick and choose and to say: I can only do one or two things in a day.

And then, my physiotherapist says with a laugh. Of course, it’s in pushing ourselves that we discover our limits. And once we find those limits, we know how far we can go. If we go about it the right way, those limits expand as time passes.

I think of how the state of being in a limbo is one that allows us to become rooted in the present. In this now. In this moment. Tomorrow will come. Tomorrow’s worries are for tomorrow. Today, I am doing what I can to the best of my ability. I am here in this moment and I am thankful.

I didn’t have the brain space to write about LIMBO, but our December celebration was lovely.

Blessings and peace to you who read and may 2025 bring good things your way. Maraming Salamat for stopping by.

A note for readers who might be going through cancer treatment: if it’s possible and doable, oncological physiotherapy is a big help. I am thankful for the person who posted about it on a forum somewhere because it’s not standard at the hospital I go to. I found out that it’s standard for some hospitals though.

On my mind today

/ RCRuiz

One of the marks of a good leader, my father said, was the capacity to encourage others to make full use of their talents and to make others grow into their gifts. It’s not about having the loudest voice or being the most visible, it’s about thinking on how we can help others discover and become their best selves.

My Mom also used to tell me that the sign of being a good teacher was when your student outgrows you and no longer needs you.

I think about these things because one of the writers who came to attend the six week workshop I gave for Other Futures (and who I’ve been mentoring a bit since then), was accepted to the Clarion Workshop. It is quite a milestone moment and I feel like a proud mama bird watching a fledgling spread their wings.

Last Saturday, I got to do one of the things that brings me joy. I got to work with young people again. This is a thank you to Lana Jelenjev and the Neurodiversity Foundation for inviting me to give a workshop to young people between the ages of 11-17 as part of celebrating Neurodiversity pride day.

There’s something about the way young people approach the act of creating together that makes me so hopeful. I saw the will to encourage one another, the willingness to compromise and make space for each other, and the readiness to help when the other person gets stuck. As Lana’s husband said afterwards, we could all learn a lot just by watching the kids work together.

It makes me think of how we all have that capacity to create and work together within us. Maybe it’s just that some of us didn’t know that we could just go about it, or we’ve been so programmed with this idea of individualism (mine is mine and yours is yours), we’ve been trained to think so much in boxes that we forget the joy of collaborating. And then, there is this soul-killing thing which I’ve sometimes observed in the grown up world where people think the important thing is to be better than someone else, win the most awards, have the most fans, make the most money, sell the most books…that sort of thing.

Life and art and the creation of story are not a competition. It’s not about having the best words or the coolest ideas, it’s about feeling safe enough to share what you love that make life and art and creation beautiful. What I loved about Saturday’s workshop was how I got to see young people bounce ideas off of one another in a space where they feel safe from being judged or found wanting, they just went ahead and talked about things they loved or were passionate about and they made space for each other to include those things in the worlds they were creating.

This method of creating together is a practice not only in worldbuilding but also a practice in bridge-building, in compromise and collaboration.

We could certainly do with more bridge-building and collaborating in these turbulent times, because it often feels like we have forgotten concepts like meeting each other halfway and compromise. We think we have waited a long time for change to happen and we would really like for change to have happened yesterday. The problem is, we live in a world that’s run by systems and systems are slow and resistant to change. As a good friend said to me: “you think maybe by being in the system, you can change the system, but it’s such a complex thing because by being in the system, you somehow become part of it.” I really don’t know what the answer is. We can only do what we can to the best of our abilities and hope that the little that we do will create some change no matter how small.

This week, I was in conversation with a dear friend, we also talked about this same thing. She told me about how she learned to think in terms of “good enough”. Perhaps it’s not the ideal change, perhaps it’s not the big change that we wanted, but maybe it’s good enough for now. How change happens in increments of time, by checking in and finding out whether a recalibration is needed. Maybe we can move forward a little bit more or it could be that we have to just be satisfied with good enough until the next check in moment.

I think about the words “good enough” when I have the conversation with my oncologist later in the day. I ask my questions and she patiently explains her interpretation of the data. It’s not yet where we want to be, but it’s good enough for now. And while the ideal would be to be completely rid of all the tumors, nodules, lesions and bad cells floating around, a stable or chronic state for a long period of time would be good enough.

It may sound like a strange comparison but I make these jumps in my head because that’s how the brain works. I think: it’s okay to not achieve the ideal all in one go. It’s okay to take it step by step. The important thing is to remain open and curious, interested and ready to look into options and points of compromise. Yep. I’m making the body and world parallel again.

Today, I’m speaking to my body. I’m thankful because I have a strong and sturdy body that has withstood a massive operation and all the treatments so well. I am thankful that I am able to work at regaining the strength and fitness that I had before it all started. I am thankful for the spirit that lives in me, that reminds me to take it one day at a time. I am thankful for today. Thankful that I can hug my son and tell him how proud I am of him (he’s having a bit of a tough time atm). I am thankful for friends who have reached out to me, for loved ones and for people from surprising places who tell me they are sending healing thoughts or praying for me. There’s always something to be thankful and joyful about.

As long as we have life in us, we are not without purpose. We are here to make as much of a difference as we can make. Sharing our stories, passing on our experience, strengthening and encouraging others to spread their wings and fly–discovering things, making memories (all those other things) remind us we are alive. As long as we are in the world, we can make every moment count.

Agyamanac Unay for stopping by. Blessings and peace to you who read these words.

memorials

/ RCRuiz

Today is my elder sister’s death anniversary. I considered posting about it on FaceBook which is the social media thing for a lot of Filipinos, but something in me rebels at the thought of remembering my Ate and having people put likes on the post. I know the intention is always good, but my insides just don’t feel in tune with doing that. (But still I’m writing this post because I didn’t want this day to pass without remembering her in some way.)

For a long while, I blamed myself for my sister’s passing. I thought: how could I not have seen it? She was here with me in the months after my husband died. How could I not have seen it? I blamed myself for being so preoccupied with my life and my sorrows at that time–if I hadn’t been so self-absorbed, I might have been able to do something. I don’t know what I blamed myself for not seeing. She spent three months with us and one month after she arrived back in The Philippines, I got a phone call telling me she was gone.

It wasn’t until about a year ago that I had the courage to ask my brother what the diagnosis was. It turns out my sister had sepsis. Something had entered her bloodstream and poisoned her. Sepsis goes so quickly that by the time it manifests, it can be too late.

The cancer I was diagnosed with is also something that doesn’t manifest. It doesn’t show up on blood tests unless you’re looking for it, and because I was pre-menopausal, what might have been warning signs could just as easily be pre-menopausal stuff. That it was found came about because I remembered my sister had a non-cancerous fibroid that was causing her some trouble and I wondered if that might be the same for me. When we sent the test away, we were perfectly confident it would be nothing–but it was something after all. A part of me wonders if it was still my Ate, looking out for me.

We measure grief in moments of time. How many days has it been? How many years? We light candles or we carry out rites of remembrance. We post pictures on social media, we try to find words for our grief.

And yet, for all that she’s no longer physically here, my sister is with me. When I am on the verge of giving up, it’s her voice I hear scolding me. She was really strict with me about not giving up. Ano ka ba? She would say. Okay, if that’s how you want to end up as. (The implication being that if I give up, it’s not her fault if I get called someone who gave up.) Even though she’s no longer here, she still remains my number one cheerleader.

Losing my sister was painful because of how sudden it was. It was painful because there was so much still left unspoken and undone. (We were still going to Paris. We were going to travel together. We were going to grow old and talk about all the books we had read.)

Sister relations are never simple. My relationship with my sister was complex. We were at times adversaries. I remember her banging on our shared bedroom door while I listened to Queen or to David Bowie–and I remember her telling on me. ‘Mom, Rochita’s listening to rock music again.’

But even so, she was also my staunchest ally and my most trusted friend.

Grief softens with time (they say). And it’s true, it does. The sharp edges are gentled. But the missing remains. When I think of my sister, I no longer feel as if I am held fast in that dark moment where the world has lost all meaning or context. I think of how she would want me to walk forward and to take on life and live it as ferociously as I can with as much courage as I can.

Today, as I remember my Ate, I make the decision once again to keep embracing life. Everyday, I make the choice to embrace life and live life. I am present here and I am present now. Now is when I can do what I need to do. Tomorrow will take care of itself.

Blessings and peace to you who read this. Agyamanac Unay for passing by.

Fluidity and freedom

/ RCRuiz

After the first LIMBO of 2024, I find myself eager to see how future LIMBO’s will unfold. We started the first LIMBO with some discussion and reading and from that discussion and reading we went on to write our own letters inspired by some readings from The Letter Q: Queer Writers Notes to their Younger Selves. For those interested, some of these letters are available on poets.org.

The letter writing was a divergence from the workshop theme/plan which I had in mind, but in coming to LIMBO, I felt what was important was to find out first where the discussion would lead us. Every announced aspect of the session was a placeholder for what might come up as being more important or beneficial to the participants at the moment. I think the fluidity of conducting meetings in this way might be more helpful/fruitful than creating a set program with activities we nudge participants towards. I think of how participants might come up and say: can we do this instead? Or can we work together on something? I’m curious as to that last part as I do want to try something at a future meeting.

For me, LIMBO is an ongoing process and it’s one that I find quite joyful. I do wonder how workshop culture would change if we shifted our approach and started asking ourselves: what is it that those coming to the workshop need in this moment? Is it be possible to make room for a different approach and would a consumer-minded society be willing to embrace a workshop that doesn’t clearly label itself from the get-go?

For all the complexity that comes with it, I find LIMBO to be freeing. No doubt there will be difficult moments but LIMBO is about working together to hold and keep this space wherein we can all just be (as one of the participants so beautifully put it) just be human.

Here’s a challenge that mirrors what we did: Read one or two letters from the Letter Q out loud. Give yourself 30 minutes and write a letter to yourself: could be your younger self, your present self or your future self. No editing. No passing judgment on yourself. Just write. Afterwards, read out loud. Ask yourself: what surprised you?

Blessings and peace to you who read and may you find yourself joyfully surprised.

Bucketlist

/ RCRuiz

There was a time when I was a struggling university student that I used to go with a girlfriend to one of the high-end shops in Ayala. My girlfriend was tiny and fair-skinned and looked like a princess and while she had to make do with her allowance (just like I had to) it was quite obvious that she was from a well-to-do family. In the Philippines, fairness is associated with wealth and my darker complexion as well as my non-fairylike appearance made that people tended to associate me as coming from a lower economic bracket. Not that I cared. But well…anyway…my girlfriend liked window-shopping and so we would window-shop at those high-end stores.

We had a planned dialogue, my girlfriend and I. She would try something on, come out of the changing room and ask me what I thought and I was supposed to say that I wasn’t quite sure if it was really her thing. Of course, she would later on squee about how much she liked it but as we were struggling students, just being able to see what it looked like on her was just as good as buying things.

During one of these outings, she proposed making a list of things to buy. She showed me her list and said I should write one too. To humor her, I also made a list of things which included a watch from some upscale brand. We later parted ways and as tends to happen, we lost touch.

I have to laugh today because I just sat down to write a bucket list (entirely different from the list of things to buy…but it had me thinking of her). She had a pretty long list by the end of one year and I never found out if she went back to buy anything.

The bucket list I’m making seems to keep on growing and I find myself wondering how many people have bucket lists and what happens to those lists should they go uncompleted?

Just this week, I had a long talk with my GP. It was a great talk because we talked about my diagnosis and the implications of where I am in right now. One of the things she said to me was that I had the happy characteristic of being someone who was able to see the good in life no matter the circumstance. I suppose it’s true. I can’t control or change the circumstances, so I don’t really see the point or the use of crying or complaining about it (although I do sometimes grumble about it).

In the meantime, I’ve started on my bucket list and it’s already got thirty things on it. I think of something someone said to me–this is someone who went through a cancer scare and had the works and is now clean. He told me that his partner made a portrait of him while he was in hospital. It was a portrait in pencil, but his eyes staring out from the portrait are striking and full of life. He said to me that his partner had said: Oh, your eyes are good. They’re full of life. You’re going to be okay. I think to myself: but look, I am still full of life, aren’t I? And I think: I am still okay.

Today, I am preparing for tomorrow. Today, I am writing a list. Today, I have the energy to go out and bring things away. Today, I can pick up groceries and cook and prepare for the weekend. Today, I can be present for my youngest son who is still at home. Today, is full of possibility and there is still a lot of today left.

So, today I decided to share on here a close-up detail from one of my paintings. I liked this unexpected detail because it made me think of how while we only see the now moment, we don’t know how today affects everything that unfolds around us. So, let’s just keep on living and doing all that we can today.

Blessings and peace and Agyamanac Unay for reading.