So Much for Pride.

Today I swallowed my pride. I'm not so sure I like the way it tastes, but I have to admit, I'm not so sure I don't like it either. For the longest time, I swore I would never bow down to capitalism...I would not waste a thousand bucks for a pair of tsinelas, kahit anong tatak pa man yan. But today, lo and behold, the call of the credit card was louder than ever.

And so I gave in.

So here I am, contemplating the consequences of my actions. I got to thinking, does this mean I've really lost all sense of paninindigan? Or did I once again fall prey to my unconscious need for control and affirmation?

The very first pair of Havianas I owned was a flowery purple pair. It was a gift from my best friend Cookie. Everytime my brother asks me to get him a pair of Havianas (or any branded item for that matter) I give him this whole litany of how brands are just brands and that we shouldn't get so caught up in it. He always would throw the fact of my owning purple Havianas to my face. I would retort I didn't buy it naman e!

But now, I have no more excuse.

Oh crap.

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Beyond Determination

Sometimes there comes a point in time when one has to accept defeat. In this case, I wouldn't say defeat was a bad thing....

I used to to believe giving up or accepting defeat was a sign of weakness. I often equated it to being a loser, or something of that sort. However, the other day I had to admit to myself that this time, taking a step back is wiser than forcing my way through such a difficult task in the face of time constraints.

So even though this means goodbye Italy, I have to say, maybe next time. At this present moment, dogged determination is not enough to pave my way to that dream destination.

Sometime ago I came across an invitation to a convention in Italy on Health Psychology. As I browsed the flyer, I saw that the theme, more succinctly, one of the areas for presentation, was about my thesis topic, which I successfully defended earlier this year. I admit that I have lost steam with the thesis, and once again I put it on hold, but when I saw the flyer, I started getting excited again, and motivated to work through it.

However, as my adviser so aptly said, sh** happens, and things kinda got piled up and the thesis got pushed to the back-burner. And because I only decided to buckle up and do it so recently, I have to face the facts that no matter how determined I am to make it to Italy, time does not permit it.

I guess the lesson here really isn't giving up, but maybe to really stop putting things off till tomorrow. Many times, though, it is so much easier said than done.

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It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Oh yes, it is beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Christmas carols playing every now and then, the rush of shoppers starting to invade the stores, and yes, Christmas decors plastered all over. I recently went to one of my favorite stores, Living Well in MOA and saw a whole bunch of Yuletide cheer scattered around.

There is one thing, however, I am looking most forward to. To me, that is the go-signal that Christmas is indeed upon us:

The Starbucks Planner. Not only do I love (insanely for that matter: I know there are so many more affordable planners but the Starbucks planner, thats a whole other story!) the planner, it comes with my two most favorite drinks: the Peppermint Mocha Frappucino and the Toffee Nut Latte.

Yum!!! So much as Christmas is always a bittersweet holiday for me, I can't help but sing along with Alvin and the Chipmunks...Christmas don't be late!!!!

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Almost Thirty.

In the past few months, I have been facing the fact that in a few days, I will officially be six months away from the big 3-0. For the most part I still feel like I used to, back in the day, and I often forget that I am no longer as young as I used to be. However, on occasion, I do start to feel that I am indeed getting older.

Anyway, with this whole "facing-thirty-psuedo-quarter-life-crisis" crap going on, I got to thinking about the things I want to do before I do turn that cornerstone.

It's not that I have a lot of regrets, albeit it would be a lie to say there are none. But for the next six months, here are some things I want to be able to do:

1. Lose weight. A few years ago, I was down to almost 120pounds. That was a big feat for someone who was almost 220 pounds at one point. However, becoming lax with my diet led to...well...obviously more weight!!!

2. Learn French. The French language has always been an interest of mine. But never had time to learn it. Maybe six months is pushing it to really learn a language, so maybe to be more realistic I'd say I'd like to learn at least some basic phrases in French. Then again, maybe Italian is more like it!

3. Go back to the Beach with Bubba. Oh, this has been a long waiting desire. It's been months since our beach adventure and I would love to do it again. Maybe now that gas prices are lower...but then I still don't have the spare money for it hahaha!

4. Attend another bloggers event. While this may be "babaw", it's been interesting.

5. Meet someone new. I'm not necessarily talking "Mr.Right Forever" here...but maybe some new Mr. would be nice :-)

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Smile even if it kills you..

My tita loves the song "Smile". When things are rough, she always hums it under her breath.

Lately I've been catching myself doing just that. Many times it helps. Occasionally, however, even the hope the song promises makes it difficult to smile. As I try to believe in the power of smiling through crappiness, the taunting whisper of doubt suddenly becomes deafening...it says "yeah right", and goes even further with "sinong niloloko mo diyan"...

But even with that...I'll try to keep on smiling. Even if it kills me!

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Dark Nights of the Soul

If you asked me before what depression was, I would have given you a long list of symptoms. I would have given you some highphaluting explanation of what it was all about and what are possible reasons for it happening. At the back of my head, however, in the deepest creases of my heart, I would have been saying it was a ridiculous construct, a poor excuse for a weak individual who was not making sense. I would have thought to myself that people who were depressed were not trying hard enough to feel better.

It was not until I went met Depression did I actually understand what it was all about.

Depression is not just a state of mind. Unlike my initial assumptions (grossly unfair assumptions I might add, especially given that I am a psychologist), I now know that it is not simply a matter of perspective. When a depressed person says "I can't get out of bed", I know it's true. The emptiness, the loneliness, the irrational thoughts: they are all real to the one experiencing it.

It is a painful and often debilitating illness. When left untreated, it can eat away at the very core of one's being. It tears away at the foundations of one's reality, it beats down the strength and power one has for herself, and it shatters all sense of normalcy one holds on to. Worst of all, it takes away one's ability to believe. To hope. To love.

If you ask me now to describe depression, I can say it is truly like, borrowing Thomas Moore's description of sadness, depression and troubles that come into our lives, a dark night of the soul. It felt to me like one day I woke up and the sun was gone. In it's place was a dark shadow, hanging heavily and ominously over every waking hour. Every day in that period of my life was a long, dark, starless night.

If I were to give you a picture of what my depression was like, I would tell you to imagine a dark, heavy cloud in the sky, just like those sudden rain clouds that come out of nowhere on a bright day sky. It suddenly covers the brightness around and casts a greyness on everything. In the core of the cloud is a dense darkness where not even a sliver of light can pass through. The rest of the cloud is also dark, but of varying shades of gray.

During that dark night of my soul, I could not think or see straight. I stopped being who I was. In the midst of it, it was like standing in the eye of a storm. There was an eerie calmness while everything around spun like mad. The thing is, that calmness was only around when I was curled up in bed, pulled away from the world around me. Then, I finally understood what people with depression were saying. I started to realize it really was more than just mindset, or attitude.

In the beginning, when that darkness first crept in, I tried desperately to make it go away. I rationalized with it. I denied it. I tried to recreate it. But it did not let me win the fight. Once I stopped fighting so hard, and once I listened to it, it let up. It started to let the sun in again. By giving up, I allowed myself to live again.

This 'giving up' was different from the dejected surrender I had felt at the peak of my depression, where I just gave in to the sadness and pain. I began not to struggle against it, but I didn't just sit in passive surrender. I guess it's not really giving up the battle. In essence, I stopped thrashing around in rebellion or frustration. Rather, I sat still and let it happen. I guess by not struggling so desperately I don't get myself tangled up too much. By letting it have some slack, I'm able to remove the knots and unmesh the ball of confusion I ended up with. By letting it hang, so to speak, I allow it space. And with that little bit of space, there is a way out.

It was a long journey back to daylight, but at the end of the day, I cannot say it was not worth the trip. It took a long time for me to realize it, but that dark night of the soul was an important part of my self-development. While it may not be something I'd wish to go through again, I realize that it was an essential part in my soul making.

During that dark night, I said I stopped being who I was. And I never went back to being her. Instead, bestowed with the gifts of my dark night, I began to become a better me. I stopped being who I used to be, or more succinctly, who I thought I was. Now I am a more authentic and real person, not to anyone else, but to myself.

The darkness, while it has dissipated, still comes every now and then. What I realize now is that fearing this darkness, or facing it head-on in battle, is not the solution. Rather, sitting quietly with it, honoring and respecting it's purpose in my life, allows it to be a source of beauty and strength.

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Teacher sa Pinas Po Ako

Yesterday I checked the balance of my ATM account. I had exactly five thousand nine hundred sixty three pesos and sixty centavos. That was it. For a moment, I felt so tiny… almost as tiny as my bank account. Granted I have it better than many of our fellow citizens who are starving and barely making ends meet, I suddenly found myself contemplating my career choice.

I am a proud teacher.


Being able to teach children, both young and old, has been such a tremendous blessing to me. It has changed my life in so many ways. Sometimes though, I have to question the practicality of my choice when I am faced with my dwindling bank account. At the end of the day, however, no matter how much I wish I had a bigger paying job, I can't get myself to leaving the job I have grown to love.
I say ‘grown to love’ because I have to be honest --- teaching was not something I had imagined myself doing as a young child. Back then I envisioned myself as a successful doctor, or perhaps a businesswoman running a lucrative company. I can even remember that early on in my college days, I proudly raised my hand when my block was asked who were planning to shift courses. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined myself where I am today. Due to a series of, as I'd like to believe, fortunate accidents, I found my calling in life. It is the classroom. Whether it is singing and
dancing with my preschoolers or discussing life events with my college students, this is who I am meant to be. It’s as if by being inside those rooms, I find my way to my soul where I find purpose, pleasure and hope.

I have to admit every term I am faced with a bulk of students who make me feel like all my hard work and my pursuit of teaching a waste of time. While being in the classroom is my calling, sometimes it is not an easy task, especially when you have difficult students. Couple this with the knowledge that my sister, who manages a clothing store in the U.S. makes thrice what I make an hour, I begin to question the practicality of my calling. Perhaps even more so, the practicality of my decision to teach here in the Philippines.

My friends and I have had endless conversations about that, especially in the face of the economic woes, political hoopla, and depressing cost of living in our country today. Even our college dean asked me not so long ago when I was planning to follow my sister to the states. I jokingly responded, “hindi na sir, kailangan pa ng La Salle ng magaling na teacher diba”. While I said that in jest, I realized that deep down inside, it wasn't a joke. I do want to keep on teaching here and being part of the lives of tomorrows Filipino youth.

In one of my classes, we discuss career development and awareness. In these sessions, I see how much of our youth envision themselves as earning dollars in the future. What warms my heart, however, is hearing that small minority say they still want to do something for their country. That in itself fans that small flame of hope I hold near and dear to my heart that someday, somehow, our country will become a better place for us to live in, where we can afford to live a good life without needing to work abroad and earn that proverbial dollar.

Staying in the Philippines may not be the most sensible decision. In the same breath, teaching may not also be considered to be a practical career choice, especially in comparison to the range of available higher paying jobs out there. But I will stay. I will stay and draw inspiration from what my very good friend Che simply said once in reference to her decision to become a doctor to the barrio --- why not? So as a new school year starts I say with the same conviction WHY NOT?

Now if only my bank account can say the same thing when I ask for more money :-)

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No longer missing the missing piece

Last Sunday, May 6, my essay was chosen as the weekly winner of Philippine Star and National Bookstore's "My life as a book" contest. To those who couldn't access the link, here's a post of my entry ;-)
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No Longer Missing the Missing Piece

As a preschool teacher I have used many books to teach young children important lessons. From the basics such as the days of the week with Eric Carle’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar, to life lessons like embracing one’s uniqueness with stories like Leo Leonni’s Swimmy and the importance of sharing with Markus Pfisters’ The Rainbow Fish, the books I read to my kids made values more than just an idea. Rather, these life lessons became real to them, in words they understood.

It was no surprise that when I started teaching psychology at the undergraduate level, I took with me stories such as The Giving Tree, Seven Blind Mice and William’s Doll. While my older audience initially scoffed at the thought of their instructor story-telling, they quickly changed their minds. From neuroanatomy to human development and social norms, the once technical concepts became facts they actually remembered.

If my life were a book, it would definitely be a children’s book, not too long, not too short, colorful and simple yet full of lessons that matter most. If there was one, however, that most represents my life, it would be The Missing Piece by Shel Silverstein.

Growing up I always used to feel that my life would be so much better if only I had the missing piece of myself that would have completed me. Very much like the Circle who couldn’t go places quickly because he had a part missing in the story, I felt like there was something wrong with me, that there was something missing which was holding me back from being the best possible me.

While I cannot say I had a bad childhood nor can claim no good opportunities came my way, I always had a nagging feeling that there was something more, that there was a life out there that I did not have because I was not “perfect”. I felt that if only I was prettier and thinner, or perhaps smarter, life would be so much better. I even believed that if only my parents were still together, everything would be great.

In my fantasies I imagined finding what it was that I was missing. I’d close my eyes and live in a make-believe world where I was a princess who knew no sorrow, pain or longing. When morning came, I held on to my dream and tried to make it reality by filling the void I felt with things I thought should be there.
In my quest to find it, I came across different people, places and things that looked like it would fill the vacuum and make me whole. Like the wedges the Circle in the story picked up, these pieces were supposed to complete me. So that’s what I did: I took on these roles, responsibilities and wrappings with the fervent belief that with my missing piece found, I’d be okay.
However, not all these pieces fit perfectly. Nonetheless, I tried to make them fit. After all, you make do with what you’ve got right?

Once I picked up the “be-the-best” piece. This piece held the belief that being the best at something would make me happy, I strove to be in the honor’s list and to have the nicest things in class, and to be everyone’s best friend. However, that didn’t fit right. While I was proud of my accomplishments and recognitions, I grew so tired of trying to outdo myself. With the resolve that I do not need to be the best but to just do my best I let it go.
 
Being a true-blue daddy’s girl, I used to feel that with him around, I’d be whole. So at thirteen, I decided to live with him in the States. I even got a job and earned money a thirteen-year-old in Manila would never be able to. The shopping, the freedom, and the independence…that was great! But then it was too much for the adolescent-me to handle. Pretty soon that wedge felt overwhelmingly large and I was consumed by it. So I took it off, called my mom and came home. 

Back in Manila, I decided to take on the role of the family caretaker: the responsible one and the one who took charge of everything. I went out of my way to provide for my siblings in all possible ways. I took care of my lolo as his health failed and spent many Sundays by his side watching basketball while tending to his needs. But when lolo died and my brother’s stopped needing me, the hole returned and I was left with that lost feeling again.

So I tried filling that empty space with lots of nice things, from beautiful clothes to the coolest trends. When Sweet Valley High was the teen Bible, I had a complete set. Before the cellphone era, I was one of the first to get my own pager. I did love all my nice things, however, these things didn’t love me back.

One day, I finally found it. I was finally whole! The funny thing is, I found it just as I stopped looking for it. 

Out of the blue, I found it there lying in the strangest place: my doctor’s clinic. At first I ignored it, denied I wanted to try it on and went on with life as I knew it. Eventually I caved and tried on that wedge which, to my surprise, fit perfectly. With newfound confidence, I went off and loved every moment of it. Life was good! And yes, I was perfect! I lost eighty pounds, got a new job I loved, went to graduate school and aced it. I even made amends with my father. More so I finally felt secure enough to let my guard down and let others see the real me. To top it off, I fell madly in love with a guy I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with. For once in my life, I felt complete.

Now that I was whole, the world seemed brighter. I was finally traveling at speeds once unknown and seeing sights once unseen.

The trouble with speed, however, is it leaves no room for control. No time to, as the Circle puts it, stop and smell the roses. Soon, the values and beliefs I held on to began to slip away. I never realized that all the time I thought something was missing I was enjoying a beautiful life. I got so caught up with what wasn’t there that I didn’t appreciate what was actually there.

In the end, the piece I thought had been perfect was actually not. By the time I knew it, though, it was too late. It was stuck and I was going too fast. I lost touch of my thoughts, feelings, and most importantly, to what was essential. I began to do things I swore I wouldn’t, like attach my worth to someone else. My sense of happiness and identity became correlated to a phone call or a text message, or what people thought about me. Worst of all, I suddenly did not know who I was anymore.

It was difficult to let go of that piece, for it seemed to be so right. But eventually I had to. And it was when I gave it up that I realized that I was okay just the way I was. Maybe there wasn’t really a “perfect” me, but a “me” that was perfect. With that, I embraced my being incomplete…from not being thin and pretty enough, to not knowing all the answers, and to still not having a husband, the two and a half children, a station wagon and a house with a white picket fence. It was only then that I truly understood what being whole meant: it wasn’t having all my pieces together; it came with loving what I’ve got right now. It isn’t always easy, I admit. Times still do come when the feeling creeps up, but that’s what life is about right?

And so if my life were a book, it would be amongst my favorite authors in the kiddie section, picked up by preschool teachers just like me. Underneath a brightly colored cover with big, animated drawings, my story will hold it’s own lesson, encrypted in simple text to be read during story time. While they underlying values may not immediately be grasped at age four or five, my story will hold values they will take with them for the rest of their lives. After all, is really where all life’s lessons are truly learned: in kindergarten.

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Band-aids

When I was a young girl, I used to believe that band-aids were magical. Not only did it seem to take away whatever hurt I felt, it also covered up the scratches and cuts on my skin. Maybe it was not seeing the cut flesh or the angry red line of blood that comforted me, but whatever it was by simply putting on a band-aid, everything became better. Like magic, all the pain, fear or hurt I was feeling would go away as soon as my mommy would stick on a band-aid. She always used to say “let the wound breathe”. She’d tell me to not to keep it covered up all the time. While I may have obeyed many times, I never used to get what it meant. I still insisted on putting on that band-aid so I did not need to see the imperfection the wound brought along with it.

When checkered band-aids came out, it was exhilarating because not only did that mark of imperfection on my skin disappear, I could even match it to my outfits. Even when I got too old for the cartoon character band-aids, I had fun getting them, albeit I never did like the reason behind needing one.

As I got older, wounds progressed from scrapped knees, to paper cuts, and eventually, they moved on to fears and insecurities, bitter disappointments, and even broken hearts. By then, the band-aids I used started taking on different forms, depending on the wound I needed to cover-up. Sometimes, my band-aid could come in the form of a tall, no whip, mocha frapuccino. Sometimes it was a shot or two (or more) of tequila. At times a bit of make-up and a whole lot of attitude worked wonders. For bigger wounds, a new dress or a new pair of stilettos were the perfect answers. When those wouldn’t work, it would be a splurge: a new “toy”, whether it be an ipod, a pocket PC or laptop, even a new car. Some called for impromptu weekends in Boracay, or instant road trips to Tagaytay. But for the really big ones, those wounds that cut so deep and way down to the core, the best band-aids came in the form of chocolates, ice cream and cake…these were the magic band-aids covering my wounds. Those magic strips, in whatever size, shape or form, soon became something I held on to tightly and grabbed at the slightest twinge of pain.

One day, during one of my Grey’s Anatomy marathons, it hit me what “letting it breathe” meant. It meant letting the pain and fear take over, for the time being. I suppose to some extent it also meant allowing myself to cry and be hurt, even for a while.

The thing with band-aids, it seems, is that it stifles the wound. By covering it up all the time, it does not have the chance to really breathe. While it does offer protection against further infections, it does not allow the wound to dry out and really heal.

While I will admit I am blessed to have so many band-aids at my disposal because not everybody is able to afford such necessities and I have an abundance, all they really do is cover up the wound. It puts on the pretext that it doesn’t hurt and that everything is fine and dandy. Healing, however, apparently takes more than just slapping on a band-aid. It should be allowed to bleed and be given patient attention and cleaned with antiseptic. While it may sting and hurt, it allows for healing to begin. However, what it needs more than anything, I learned, is admitting that it hurts.

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Invisible?

In an episode of Grey's Anatomy, one of the characters asked, "If I went missing, would anyone notice? ". When I first heard it, I disregarded it and claimed it was cheesy. However lately, I've kinda been asking that question. Maybe it was the birthday blues (or should I now call it post-birthday blues?), but for the past month, I've had this overwhelming feeling of being invisible.



While I will admit that I'm not a very sociable, extroverted individual, I couldn't help but feel that my social circles were shrinking to almost non-exisistent. It's like if I vanished, no one, except probably my dog, would notice. Sure, people see me, but they only see the me on the outside. They see me as an extension of my things, my accomplishments....but not as me. It's like I've been existing in my own world, taking care of myself and facing everything independently.

While I do value that independence and, dare I say, power, I can't help but wish sometimes, someone would be there with me. Not necessarily to do things for me, but to do things with me. I'm not talking about a "knight-in-shining-whatever" here --- I just mean I'm tired of doing things alone. While I do have friends, it often feels that I am doing things FOR them. Further, I feel like an old nightshirt that is stuffed at the back of the closet, drawn out occasionally. Admittedly, it's not that I'm asked to do things for others, and its perhaps my absurd need to please others all the time, but sometimes I wish I could see that I do have some degree of value or importance. I wish that people made an effort for me sometimes. More importantly, I wish they saw me more for who I really am, and not WHAT I am. That I do have feelings, and although they may not understand where it comes from, its there.

While it was said in jest a long time ago that I was not asked to be bridesmaid at someone's wedding because it would cost more to have a dress made for me compared to having one made for someone skinnier, it cut me to the core. It was as if, in my perception, that I was just not good enough.Similarly, someone at work jokingly said that I'd have to live a love life vicariously because I'd probably never get married, I felt like I was simple not worth much. As immature as it is, it hurt so badly that I spent my birthday alone, even though I did recieve text messages and birthday greetings. It's selfish, sure, but it just felt that to the people who mattered to me, I was on the back-burner and that there were just too many things more important than I was. Even though I know it was unintentional, when I was not included in transportation plans for a recent event, I felt terrible. Again, it was assumed that I would be okay on my own. Put it this way, when I said I was feeling down and depresseed recently, someone retorted "This coming from someone who just bought a new car AND a mac". Yes, I am lucky I was able to do that and that I could afford it. But what hurt was being told this with so much sarcasm, as if because I had things come more easily than others do, I had no right to feel sad. It felt like a slap on the face; a total invalidation of my feelings.

Cognitively I know it's irrational, but feelings-wise, it's been hard to reconcile. In my head I know it's my unconscious need for affirmation, or perhaps attention, and a need to be liked by others. It's difficult to understand, even for myself, and yes, I know to many extents its so childish and pathetic. Maybe it's the inner child in me, or perhaps the wounded soul...but I need someone to take care of me too. I need to know I'm not invisible, and that I'm not simply remembered in passing. It's not necessarily being TOLD that I am remembered, I just wish I could see that I am appreciated and wanted. As someone once said, the best conversations you could have would be those with a friend, sitting on a bench, without saying a word at all. You just know you're not invisible.

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Gluing back the pieces

Gluing back the pieces when life falls apart is never easy. It's a painful, messy mess that leaves you chipped, cracked and broken. Even if you are successful gluing it back together, it's never ever gonna be the same. While supposedly these cracks or chips add character, it isn't always welcome.

Of all the pieces that are hardest to put back together, it's a broken heart. Mistakes at work, it's simple, just do a better job. Arguments with friends, flared tempers and petty "tampuhans", an apology and the renewed respect for the value of the friendship is the cure. With embarassments, some time, some tequila, a few laughs: it's all better. But a broken heart...no amount of superglue or even duct tape can really put it back together again.

In an episode of Sex and the City, Carrie ended by saying “No matter who broke your heart or how long it takes to heal, you'll never get through it without your friends”. I guess Carrie's right, you can't get through it without your friends. Without them, who'll help you put the piece in the right place, or carefully pinch the tube of glue with out getting you more messed up?

But what do you do when your friends get sick of it, or worse, don’t get that despite the passage of time and sincere efforts you put into putting back the pieces of your once perfectly managed life you're not okay? It's as if no matter how much glue I use, it's never enough to put me back together again...especially when all you want to do is to say how much I miss him.

So what do you do when as pathetic as it is, the only glue that I can't think of right now is him?

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Home Improvement

About a week and a half ago, I finally gathered up enough will to get out of my room and grab a cup of coffee. I had spent the entire day in bed nursing a little headache and a huge heartache while watching episode after episode of Ally McBeal. In many of the episodes, Ally would be sippig a cup of coffee from Starbucks, hence the craving for coffee. So I got up, brushed my hair and put on a clean outfit then got in my car and drove the five minute drive to "my" Starbucks.

When I got there, I was devastated!!! It was boarded up and a sign hung saying they were closed for renovation. Talk about bitin!!!

Anyway, yesterday I drove by the area and saw that they had resumed business already and so at the spur of a moment, I decided to park my car and hang out while working on a report I was writing. Although the renovations were minor, the place felt spruced up and more vibrant. As I sat with my laptop in front of me, I remembered all the times I had spent studying, working or just whiling away time there. A few years ago, when it first opened accross the street from my mothers house, I spent about 4 out of 7 afternoons there for hours! I started reminicsing about friends now gone, moments passed by, and yes, aches and pains made better over a cup of coffee.

I sat there, somewhat wiser than I was when I first set foot in the doors of that Starbucks branch, and realized that things really have changed. I no longer am just a student trying to study for my comps, or a lonely young girl mending a broken heart. I was not the sick, skinnier version of myself, and though the weight gain may not be something I appreciate, I realized that it wasn't so bad.

Just like walls that need fresh coat of paint, or couches that need new upholstery, even old spaces that just need to be moved around, we need some home improvement ourselves. At least for myself. For example, I was whining recently about how I just couldn't get things done the way I used to do it. I guess it was all the grime and dirt cluttering up my system. The anger, resentment, disappointments...all of these became stains on my wall of optimism. Because of it, there was no brightness and pleasure around.

While it may not be as easy to clean up my act as it was in Starbucks, I am inspired to at least try. Slowly, I guess, I will find a renewed brightness. But for now, I'll start with throwing out my trash. Let's see how that spruces up my personal rooms.

Things do change. And change is good. It may not be easy, but then again, who ever said life was easy?

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