i will fix you

when you’re a parent, your world revolves around caring for your kids. you pick them up when they fall. wipe their tears when they cry. hold them close when they’re scared. raise them up when they're down. hold their hand. heal their heart.

it seems an awfully imbalanced relationship—a one way street of complete dependency.

but then i’m reminded how far from the truth that is.

recently i lost a friend unexpectedly. when the news sunk in, there was sadness. anger at the inexplicable circumstances. the inability to do anything about it. but a simple hug from two sweet little boys was comfort. perspective. love. support.

i was restored.

ever notice how, when something sad happens, people always say “go hug your kids today.” what is that all about? well, as much as you give the world to them, your kids give it right back to you in return. they are walking, talking, giggling reminders of what truly matters.

love in a pot

for italians, it’s pasta sauce. for jews, it’s matzo ball. for southerners and sports fans, it’s chili. and for filipinos, it’s sinagang (pronounced “sin-ee-gung”), a sour tamarind-based soup that is the country’s quintessential comfort food. what is it about these dishes, cooked in a pot, bubbling on the stovetop, that makes us swoon? why, when we bite into them, do we experience so much more than mere flavors and textures, but also warmth, togetherness, security, sustenance—the visceral, irresistible taste of home?

recently i went on a trip to LA to visit family. much like the midwest, they’ve been going through a nasty heat wave, and our first few days there were scorchers. to deal with the blistering temperatures, we consumed lots of salads, fresh fruit, coconut water, pinkberry, and more than a few glasses of sauvignon blanc.

yet when my parents arrived, the culinary conversation took a 180 degree turn. they gathered their luggage from the car, flung open the door, and my son, bursting with anticipation, ran to my dad. he stretched out his arms and squeezed.

“lolo [a term that means ‘grandpa’ in filipino]! can you please make sinagang?!”

there, in the 110-degree, sweat-inducing oven that was the san fernando valley, my son was begging for a bowl of hot soup.

and, as scalding as we were, we jumped right on the bandwagon. it was no-brainer. “fire it up, dad! we went to the farmers market and got all the ingredients. all you need to do is cook it!”

you might think it cruel that the poor guy, now in his 70s, flew 4.5 hours to get here to be with his family, only to be told he had to step on over to the kitchen to start cooking…but you’d be wrong. dad is “the man” in the kitchen and there is no place he’d rather be than with his family stirring up a big piping pot of sinigang.

it’s a “kitchen-sink” kind of soup, chock full of ingredients and simple to prepare; yet for some reason it never quite tastes the same as when dad makes it. he starts by trimming the meat—usually short ribs but sometimes oxtail or chuck. then he slices the vegetables: chinese eggplant, broccoli, cabbage, green beans, okra, parsnips and a bit of ginger. he throws it all into the pot (the biggest one he can find) and sprinkles in the knorr sinigang seasoning, which gives it a delicious sour flavor similar to thai tom yum soup. for more nuance (and also to preserve his status as the best sinigang maker in our family), he always throws in a couple extra mystery ingredients at the end when we’re not looking: a squeeze of calamansi, filipino lime, to infuse a hint of acidity, a dash of patis (fish sauce) for a bit more saltiness. he brings it all to a boil, occasionally lifting up the lid to make sure every veggie and piece of meat soaks up the flavor. delicious steam rises into the air. and then he drops it down to a simmer.

flavors are extracted. aromas start to permeate. we all breathe in deeply…love is in the air.

we love it. and we love him. and all of that love goes straight into the pot…and down into our bellies. we sit together at the table, and for a rare few minutes in our boisterous household, it’s quiet—save for the clinking of spoons and forks as we shovel in the “sabaw” or broth-soaked rice and fight for the last pieces of broccoli. the table inevitably erupts into giggles when my brother, as he has been doing since we were little kids, gets up for a third plate of rice and scrapes the bottom of the pot for any remaining morsels.

no matter what it’s called, this kind of meal is so much more than food—it’s love in a pot. it’s rituals passed on from generation to generation. like chicken soup for the soul, it’s healing. it’s warmth. it’s sustenance. it’s comfort and connectedness. it’s your history. your family. it’s home.

hitting bedrock

after a particularly grueling week of stress, unexpected surprises and shifting priorities, i ran into a friend in the hallway.

we half-smiled at each other. "how are you?"

it was really a rhetorical question as i could tell from her body language that her week was pretty much the same as mine. "oh you know...fine."

after we exchanged obligatory pleasantries, it was time to cut to the chase. like an episode of west wing, there we were, walking and talking in rapid fire succession. there was frustration about this. uncertainty about that. and a general sense of anxiety about our respective situations.

more often than not, with venting comes relief. whatever you're struggling with, simply talking about it, getting if off your chest, helps ease the burden...and of course sometimes, it only makes it worse.

on this particular day, it was the latter.  i was tapped out. fried. crusty. and to top it off, i had to race like a bat out of hell to get to a parent teacher conference for which i was late. in the middle of rush hour.

when i got to the school, i was a mess. trenchcoat belt dragging on the floor. hair disheveled. heels clicking frantically on the shiny polished floors as i ran down to the hallway to the classroom.

the door flung open. "sorry i'm late!"  my voice was breathy from the 40-yard stiletto sprint. "it's been a crazy day."

warm smiling faces looked back at me from the little table where they were seated. a stack of report cards lay on one corner and a box of kleenex sat right smack dab in the center of the table. i took a seat in one of the small red chairs.

"so what can we say about your son. not sure if you saw his report card."

i did.  pretty much all 1s from top to bottom. over the years, we've been incredibly fortunate to have a kid who loves learning and soaks up new concepts and experiences like a sponge. we'd grown accustomed to glowing reports. i presumed this would be no different.

i was right...sort of.

they ran through the usual list of aptitudes: math, science, spelling check. he was doing great in all.

"well isn't there anything we should watch out for or be aware of?"

the teachers looked at each other. and then turned to me.

"mrs. jones, no. you guys should be proud of yourselves. not only does your son love school, he's just a nice guy. he is kind, has empathy, he helps friends out if they're struggling, without being condescending. we can put him in any group and he interacts seamlessly. he could earn an allowance with how much he helps tidy up the classroom...i guess if we had to say anything, he does sometimes need to be reminded to keep quiet during independent activities--but that's only because he LOVES to chat and tell stories. he is a special kid."

as i listened, i could feel the pools welling up in my eyes. if you know me at all, you know that it doesn't take much...but this was an epiphany. all of a sudden, on my long list of goals and priorities, one thing rose straight up to the top. have i raised my child to be a good person? have i equipped him with the skills to succeed in life, to have a positive outlook, to hopefully share his talents and brightness (both intellect and heart) with others? for this moment in time, the answer was yes. on this goal, i had earned an EE: exceeds expectations.

they pushed the kleenex box toward me. "now these are the kind of tears we like!"

sitting in the mini-chairs, surrounded by the word wall and artwork and maps and books, i learned an invaluable lesson...and all the other angst from earlier in the day dissipated.

we all have bad days, weeks, even months. when it feels like the shit is rolling downhill, building momentum, hurdling forward with no ability to stop it. but eventually it hits bedrock. reaches solid ground. it may wear on the foundation, but it can't move it. it can't move you.

i was reminded that my family is my foundation. the core. what matters most. they are my touchstones. nothing in life is more true. pure. or restorative.

letting go

when you reach your mid-30's, you start to experience what i call "grown up" moments. times when you're struck by the blinding realization that the light, carefree days of your youth are over, and the constructs by which you live your life have changed.

buying a home. landing a job. having a baby. losing a parent. facing an illness.

when you experience these moments—whether good or bad—you are reminded that life can be heavy. lightness, optimism, invincibility give way to responsibility, uncertainty, fear...of the future, what comes next, and where it leaves you.

my recent "grown up" moment happened on a trip home to visit my parents. after living in and taking care of our house, alone, for six years after my mom's passing, my dad informed us that he was ready to sell the house. the house that he and my mom built from the ground up. the house that embodied who they were as people—warm, casual, welcoming, and most often the centering point for both friends and family. the house that i spent 26 years calling "home."

rationally, i completely supported the move. too big to maintain, too full of clutter, and too much of the past to allow my dad to fully move on. he needed—and deserved—a clean break.

but it was strange that this would be my first time "home" since he had moved all the furniture out of the house. how would i feel? sad? betrayed? empty?

teary-eyed throughout the weekend thinking of this monumental change—of letting go of something that was so much a part of my connection to my mom—i dreaded stepping through the door.

"ok, brace yourself."

i took a deep breath. when i walked in, i felt...shockingly...nothing. the a/c was off. the air was dank. the rooms were empty. there were dust bunnies strewn across the floor.

this lack of emotion wasn't stoicism, an unconscious barrier that my psyche constructed to protect me from the trauma. instead, it was the discovery that this house was no longer "my home."

my parents had picked out every brick, every tile—and each texture was seared into my brain. i looked around and could remember vividly the times spent in each room.

the large blue family room: friends and cousins crashed out on the couch, only to be awakened by my dad, clanging pots and pans while drumming up a delicious breakfast. my brother, banging out off-kilter melodies on the piano while i tried to watch soaps. the room packed to the gills with family members belting out christmas carols before opening presents at midnight.

the kitchen: filled with songs and aromas and good old home cooking sprinkled with secret ingredients that only my dad knew. never clean enough for my mom, who would get down on hands and knees to wipe away the oil splatters surrounding the kitchen stove. untold hours spent, knives in hand, peeling, dicing, marinating, gossiping—until we all sat down to share the meal.

outside: the garden lush with vibrant fruits and vegetables, sunny flowers surrounding the entire perimeter, and my dad outside watering, perspiring, but always with a smile on his face. and our sweet, fluffy, loyal, ever-grateful-to-be-rescued dog, "penny patawaran," following behind my dad in complete contentment.

upstairs: hilarious memories of screaming matches and doors slamming as my brother and i duked it out during angst-ridden teenage years. hiding under my bed with my cousins (all 5 of us) when our alarm accidentally went off, armed with kitchen utensils, preparing to meet our doom. laying in bed and wondering where and how we'd end up someday.

and here i was saying goodbye to this house. so why did it feel so natural? my "grown up" revelation was this: try as we might to hold onto things—especially physical ones—so tangible, in our sight, in our grasp—they aren't where meaning lies. the memories reside in our heads, in our hearts. they stay with us long after we say goodbye to the physical.

we can't prevent circumstances from changing. we all must move on. move forward. but things like "home"—they're not a place in the physical sense, but rather a place within—that anchors us, gives a sense of history, makes us who we are.

...before we left, we took one last walk around the yard. as we stood there, taking it all in, a striking blue butterfly fluttered by our heads. she landed on a branch of evergreen, and even when we moved close to snap some pictures, she didn't move. she just sat there, perched in the tree, as still as can be.

when i think about home, i realize it's not about letting go at all. it's about clinging to and cherishing that place.

hands on a miracle

having kids is one of the most earth-shattering, life-altering, turn-your-world-upside-down kind of experiences. it inspires this crazy dichotomy of feelings and emotions: utter amazement from something so innate, natural. intense pride while being humbled every single day. going from worrying about everything to caring about nothing else. having blinding hope for these little peoples' future, yet a longing to hold onto each precious moment now.

when dave grohl of the foo fighters had his first kid, he penned this song in honor of violet, his "miracle." i love the ultimate contrast of this indie rocker with a penchant for gutteral screams and spitting (we've seen them twice, and yes, i do swoon when he does both) singing poetically about how this baby changed his entire perspective on life.

"miracle"

crazy, but i believe this time

begging for sweet relief

a blessing in disguise

i'm dying behind these tired eyes

i've been losing sleep

please come to me tonight

hands on a miracle

i got my hands on a miracle

believe it or not

hands on a miracle

and there ain't no way, that you take it away

everything that we've survived

it's gonna be alright

just lucky we're alive

got no vision

i've been blind

searching everywhere

you're right there in my sight

hands on a miracle

i got my hands on a miracle

believe it or not

hands on a miracle

and there ain't no way, that you take it away

hands on a miracle

i got my hands on a miracle

believe it or not

hands on a miracle

i got my, hands on a miracle

and there ain't no way, that you take it away

take it away

kids.

reflections of us. yet different. unique. individuals. brilliant. silly. sponges. chatty. pure. sweetness. full of life. and light.

mine. to mold. to have. to hold. to fashion. to teach. to learn from. to squeeze. to grab onto. to pick up. to let go of...and to never let go.

a reflection on motherhood

portrait of cecilia

a rock. a touchstone. a centering point. an enabler of dreams. a say-what-you-think, be who you are, no pretense, no fluff, no nonsense woman.

my mom. real. strong. generous. beautiful. a genuine example of loving family above all else.

finding your inner zen

a portrait of domingo

they say "eyes are the window to the soul." if that old adage is true, my dad must know a secret that many of us would love to be let in on.

in my mind's eye, and in every picture i have ever seen of him, he has what can only be described as "smiling eyes." from major milestones to mundane events, whether he's singing pavarotti-esque nursery rhymes to his grandkids or slaving away in the kitchen for hours on end or emceeing the umpteen weddings, funerals and fundraisers in his local community or tending to his garden in the blazing summer heat, his eyes—and in fact, his entire face—exude peace, inner contentment.

if someone cuts him off while driving, that's okay. he's  probably going slow anyway, stopping to admire the neighbors' landscaping  or practicing his best rendition of andrea bocelli. if someone gossips  or gives him the cold shoulder, he shrugs and says "well, you know how  people are" (while i think to myself "yeah, i do" and fantasize about  the list of expletives i'd shower upon them). when "friends" take  vegetables from his garden (without even informing him of their  impromptu harvesting sessions), he says "oh i hope they remembered to  grab some tomatoes too."

don't get me wrong. dad is far from perfect: he can be stubborn, even obstinate. sometimes his political views lean a bit too right of center. and, truth be told, he even has a touch of hubris (his biggest fan—in the mirror and on the microphone—just happens to be himself!).

but the dreaded "crow's feet" that hollywood a-listers pay millions to eradicate, my dad wears like the stripes of a heroic general—battle-tested, with a wisdom gained through decades of living, and yet with a quiet honor and dignity that can make anyone feel at ease. or in my case, in awe.

during a random visit home to cleveland, i made a remarkable discovery. tucked away in the basement, in a tattered shoebox, was the photo above: an amazing image of a group of buddhist monks, robes artfully draped like a valentino fall collection, and right smack in the middle of the group, was my dad.

he taught english in laos at the beginning of his career and i'm tickled at the thought of these fine monks giving him a course on "zen 101" in exchange for pointers on pronouns and punctuation. instructing him on how to detach from desire and unhappiness  by “turning the eye inward” and through meditation and mindfulness letting go of the logical way we order the world and developing insight and wisdom to see the true nature of things (enlightenment).

in reality, i think my dad was born with it: a joie de vivre. the gift of gratitude for life and every moment, large and small. of seeing the good in people, not the bad. in being generous of heart and humble in spirit. to him, the glass is not only half full, he's happy to fill it for you, with songs, stories, laughter, and a heaping serving of sinagang (his signature filipino dish).

my dad has always been an endless font of knowledge (...and when i say endless, i mean endless!). but in realm of character, he leads by example. a perpetual student of philosophy. a modern day renaissance man. a chef du cuisine. a poet. a troubador. a master at finding his inner zen.