Love Simply Is

Love is a universal language. Children and adults alike have their own unique concept of love. However we define it, there is no right or wrong, because love can be a thousand words all at the same time – a totality of every ounce of our being, infused with all of our sweet and bitter experiences brought about by this supposed complication. Love can be described in all sorts of adjectives ranging from the first letter of the alphabet to the last. Love is amazing, boundless, complex, dependable, enigmatic, and fascinating. Love is golden, humble, integral, joyful, knowing and loyal. Love can also be mysterious, noble, ostensible, poetic, quintessential, and romantic. Love is also superlative, tender, ubiquitous, valiant, warm, yielding and zealous. Love can do all sorts of things. Love absorbs, beguiles, cheers, and desires. It energizes and fascinates. Love gambles, hopes, and also it inspires. Love also joins, keeps, and also lavishes. Love can merge, numb, occupy, and provide. At the same time love can quench and rave. Love can scorch, tantalize, understand, and validate. Love wins. Love yearns. Love can be compared to thousands of things. Love is like an amalgam, a buffer, a circus. It could be a drug, electricity or even fire. Love is like a grenade, a hazard, an impulse. Love is a joyride. Love can sometimes be a killer. Love is a legacy. It is magic. Love is like nimbus clouds, or an oracle, a path to salvation. Love is a question. It is like a river, the sun, a train. Love is an umbrella, a vacuum, a waterfall, an x-ray. Love is like yoga. Love is like the zoo. Indeed our personal definition of love could prove to be the sum of all our own experiences and the words we choose to use. We try to define love as an attempt to understand and verify what we feel. But, in the greater scope of things, love is too precious to ever be limited into words that could make it tangible. Words may never be enough, and when words wouldn’t suffice, one thing is for sure – as Paolo Coelho simply states in his book The Witch of Portobello. . . love simply is.

From Hate to Indifference

There is this person that I won’t care to even name, who has hurt me more than any human being alive. He has inflicted the kind of hurt that surpasses the pain you get from an operation, and this hurt would take years to heal or maybe even never. At first, his despicable acts were just dismissed as immaturity. I forgave. I let him be. But the forgiveness of humans ends, and I have come to a saturation point - I have nothing more to give. I once regarded this person highly. I have mistaken his self-righteousness as dignity, his immaturity as logical reasoning, and his bribery as generosity. The little ounce of respect that I have for him has diminished into a speck. If he pushes me to the limit, the speck might even be reduced into nothingness. Heaven forbid that I lose myself and unleash to him all the resentment that is just deep within me – written in my heart like it was a piece of paper, a short novel of his shortcomings – ready to be recounted and etched to his soul until the end of his days. Sometimes when I close my eyes and picture him in my mind, I see only a pig wallowing in the mud. That is how he disgusts me. I now compare him to a filthy animal – a close to perfect representation of what he is now. Actually, a pig doesn’t even come close. He is scum. No – not scum, but the fungus that feeds on the scum. Ugh! The thought of him just makes me nauseous. I have come to the point of hating him. But soon I realized that hating him is not worth my energy. A friend told me that the reason why I hate him is because I love him. That’s true. The reason I was beyond furious with him is because I cared. How could I not care? In me runs the same blood. Because of his vile acts, I have come to a decision to renounce him and figuratively wash his blood away from my veins with the mighty name of someone higher. I have decided to cross from hate to indifference. At least when I am indifferent, I wouldn’t give a damn anymore. It is easier than hating, because I don’t have to invest feelings. Slowly I am unlearning the process of hating. Now I am just trying to be numb. When he walks around, I pretend that I don’t see him. When he talks I pretend that I don’t hear him. It’s easier to pretend that he doesn’t exist. Maybe if I wait long enough, I don’t need to pretend anymore.

25 Random Things About Me

1. I have two dimples. 2. I was a lead singer in a band called Sepia's Whirl. 3. I am a grade school English teacher in Morning Star Montessori School Inc. 4. I hate Breaking Dawn by Stephenie Meyer. I think it is the suckiest book ever! 5. I play the guitar and the piano (but only a little). 6. I love to sing . . . 7. Right now, my favorite song is Take a Bow by Rihanna. I can't get enough of it. I could actually relate. 8. I am already a non-catholic. I don't believe in religion. But I am not an atheist. 9. I love going to school! School rocks! 10. My favorite CGI animated movie is Happy Feet. 11. My blog site is www.rhosel.blogspot.com 12. I want to meet an American Indian someday. 13. I once wrote to Santa Claus when I was a kid. I had my mom mail it and I got a reply. 14. I have managed to smoke 4 sticks of cigarrette out of anger. Those were the first and last four cigarrettes that I would ever touch. 15. I am allergic to beer. It makes me itch. 16. I have a relatively high lexile score of 1344. 17. I love to collect keychains. 18. I dream of writing a children's book someday. 19. I am a fan of Sandra Boynton's books. 20. In Sesame Street, I am annoyed at Bert. He is so uptight! 21. I had a crush on my Chemistry teacher when I was still in college. His name is EJ. Haha. 22. I had an imaginary friend named Ricky when I was young. 23. The first thing that I want to unlearn is hating. 24. Sometimes I could be so emo. 25. I can solve the rubix cube in 2 minutes. There . . . 25 random things. I didn't think about them so I don't if it made sense. Maybe I will ad 25 more in the future. For now, these would have to do.

Bedtime Stories

As far as I could recall, I don’t think I could remember my parents reading me a bedtime story before I went to sleep. What I do remember is that I used to watch a lot of TV at night until I felt the fatigue slowly crumble by defenses and leave me knocked out in minutes. Bedtime stories aren’t really part of my culture. At a young age of three, I already knew how to read. I was the one who picked my own bedtime story, and then I read the book myself. However, books never made me sleepy, nor had they affected my dreams when I was young. Whatever I know about bedtime stories, I learned it from the boob tube and through reading. No one really told me anything, nor did anyone sing me a mere lullaby. My parents were both busy with their work. I never got to hear any bed time story from them. I have no bitterness, whatsoever, but it would have been nice to at least remember being tucked in by either my mom or my dad, and at least recall a bedtime story they told me before I went to sleep. They could object to my sentiments if their memory hasn’t yet failed them and they could prove that I have infantile amnesia. However, that is not the case. Even if I try hard to backtrack the events in my childhood, I can’t remember any bedtime story. Not even one. I watched Walt Disney’s Bedtime Stories (starring: Adam Sandler, Keri Russel) with my kid last Sunday and both of us enjoyed the movie. Skeeter (Adam Sandler), a hotel handyman, was asked by his sister to babysit for his nephew and niece for a week. He has been a handyman for the hotel for 25 years and he yearned nothing more but be recognized for his efforts and be rewarded by the tycoon to be the manager of the hotel. During his stay with his sister’s kids, he told them bedtime stories closely related to his life. Skeeter would use fictional characters and storybook-kind of settings to give color to his stories. The children modified some parts of his stories and by some strange coincidence, the bedtime stories he told the kids would come true the next day. At the end of the film, Skeeter got what he wanted and lived the life that he was supposed to live. The film showed the concept of positive visualization. Through stories, we could bring to life all the hidden desires of our heart. By believing the stories we made, we unconsciously make our own wishes come true. Skeeter has done that through creating bedtime stories for the kids. Although in real life, our positive visualization doesn’t really happen in a too uncanny way, there are some instances that what we wish for happens to us unexpectedly through weird circumstances. I guess my parents didn’t tell me bedtime stories from their own experiences because they are way too accomplished to ever dream of anything else. Positive visualization wouldn’t work on my mom because she has always been a doer and not a dreamer. I have never seen any literary creativity from them so it was understandable. Now I have my own son to worry about. One day, he will ask me to read him a bed time story. Being an English teacher, and being someone who supports reading literacy, I hope I will not fail him. I pray that I wouldn’t be too busy preparing my lessons for the next day or too tired to even tuck my son in bed and read him a goodnight story. If ever I have memory gap and that my parents would contest that they did really tell me a bedtime story when I was young, I would take this as a challenge to make the bedtime stories that I’m going to tell Ken be memorable so he would not forget them.

The American Dream

When I was still a kid, and when I still had no sense of Philippine nationalism, I have always wanted to go to America. I was told that all the good stuff was in that country, and being another nationality other than being American is second rate. People around me have influenced me to have the American dream - my father being the biggest promoter. He would usually talk to me in a tone with suggestive materialism. His words betrayed the envy his heart concealed. Out of respect, I wanted to fulfill his desire by making the American dream also my own. My father said to me one time, “Wow! Your cousin in North Carolina has already her own house! She also has her own car and even has her own apartment.” He said that with the obvious intent of making me crave the material blessings my cousin is now enjoying. When he said that, his purpose was to tug at my materialistic human nature and hope that I would strive to have the same amount of wealth. And then, my father would add, “Your cousin has given her parents free plane tickets to visit her at North Carolina. . . I wonder when I would be able to go to United States of America.” Sometimes my father says things with a great deal of insensitivity. Maybe by saying his wishes out loud, by some miracle, I just might make it come true for him. Life in the United States is very promising indeed. Who wouldn’t want to live in America? The salary you would get is ten times bigger than what you get here. After graduation, I thought of a thousand and one ways on how to get there. Some of my ideas were actually feasible and reasonable. Some were just plain stupid and insane. If I just exerted an enormous amount of effort into any of those workable solutions, I might have been in America right after I graduated. First option was getting a scholarship. The second was finding an agency to help me find a teaching career in any of the states. Third was getting my cousin to help me with my applications. The most desperate option was finding an American guy to love me and marry me. However, I didn’t push through to any one of them, because sooner, I realized that I wouldn’t be happy fulfilling somebody else’s dream. When I tried to assess my present situation here, I had an epiphany - Not all the world is America. The world is where you are. These are famous words from a Filipino National Artist. It’s true. The grass is no more greener than the other side. I have decided to follow my mother’s advice that I should be thankful with what I already have. Right now, I could say that I am lucky to have a job close to home. I am lucky that I am not desperate enough for money to leave my Filipino identity just to make a living. I guess I am a big disappointment to my father who hopes that I could somehow fulfill his dream for him. I don’t regret not being able to go to America. I have no desire for it anymore. The cold temperature is discouragement enough. Discrimination makes it even worse. If ever I would go there, it would be for leisure and not for work. I would rather stay in my homeland with a meager salary than slave-off in a different country without my family. Better yet, I would rather be a first rate Filipino, than a second rate American wannabe.

Dreamcatcher

My Navajo friend will send me a dreamcatcher through the mail and I am really excited about it. Although there are dreamcatchers available in the mall, it is not the same as having a real American Native give one to you.

I learned about dreamcatchers from what I read about American Indians. Below is the definition of a dreamcatcher from Wikipedia:

Dreamcatchers originated from the Ojibwa Nation, during the Pan- Indian Movement of the 1960s and 1970s. They were adopted by Native Americans of a number of different Nations. They came to be seen by some as a symbol of unity among the various Indian Nations, and as a general symbol of identification with Native American or First Nations cultures.

Traditionally, the Ojibwa construct dreamcatchers by tying sinew strands in a web around a small round or tear-shaped frame of willow. The resulting "dream-catcher", hung above the bed, is then used as a charm to protect sleeping children from nightmares. Dreamcatchers made of willow and sinew are not meant to last forever but instead are intended to dry out and collapse over time as the child enters the age of adulthood.

The Ojibwa believe that a dreamcatcher changes a person's dreams. According to Terri J. Andrews in the article "Living by the Dream," about the Ojibwa nation in the magazine World & I, Nov. 1998 page 204, "Only good dreams would be allowed to filter through . . . Bad dreams would stay in the net, disappearing with the light of day."

It's recommended to hang the dream catcher above someone sleeping to guard against bad dreams. Good dreams pass through and slide down the feathers to the sleeper. Another legend "Good dreams pass through the center hole to the sleeping person. The bad dreams are trapped in the web, where they perish in the light of dawn."

I am not a superstitious person, so I wouldn't be relying on a dreamcatcher to protect me from my sleep. Bad dreams come even when you're awake. As soon as I receive the dreamcatcher from my Navajo friend, I would hang it right away. Not for decorative purposes, nor for protection. I will hang it for the remembrance of a beautiful culture that is slowly fading away. The dreamcatcher is one of the American Indian's last surviving icon that is accepted by pop culture. By having one, I am imparting awareness to people who don't know that such wonderful culture exist.

Beyond Fury

I have never been so infuriated in my whole life. Although I may not show it outwardly, deep inside, I am burning with raw rage. It will only take a few more days before I explode and let myself shatter to pieces. Infidelity is really a despicable act. Morally, it is extremely abhorrent. People who do such act could be described as vile, disgraceful, rotten, sickening . . . These people think only about their own carnal satisfaction, not realizing the repurcussions of the gravity of such betrayal. I was a victim of such unfaithfulness. First was when my first serious boyfriend left me for my co-teacher. I was so mad at them that I cursed them to the fiery pits of hell. The abandonment has devastated me and I just wanted vengeance. I did a lot of crazy things to hurt them back. Hate was a fiery flavored aftertase that burned deep in my throat right down to my heart. It took me quite some time to move on, but the scar left in my heart is a reminder of such disloyalty. It has been seven years but I remember every detail vividly, like it was just yesterday. Who says time heals all wounds? It doesn't. It only changes us. And because of the hurt, I have made myself numb - apathetic to the pains of others, because I had mine to worry about and I figured, everyone should bleed the same way. So for seven years I have hid under the covers of apathy. I have toughened and roughened my heart to feel accustomed to the freaking pain. As the song goes, big girls don't cry. I am a big girl. I am done with crying. I have already cried a river and I am all cried out. I have made mistakes in my life that has helped me grow up. The treachery done to me by my boyfriend was actually nothing. After months of soul-searching I realized that it wasn't something to be hated, rather it was something to be thankful about. It was Divine Providence as they called it. I am so loved by the Lord that I was saved from total destruction. My life could have been miserable if I ended up with that lying perverted jerk. I am now married to a faithful man whom I love with all my heart. I have been through a bunch of losers before I actually found the right one. If I were to die everytime my heart got broken, I would have more lives than a cat, because that's how life was for me. Experience has taught me a lot and I have been saying this most of the time . . . been there . . . done that. Nothing surprises me anymore . . . or so I thought. Yesterday, was the apocalypse of the "Pleasant Ville" type of life that I knew. I used to think that my father was an honorable man - that he was not capable of infidelity. I was wrong. He has feelings for someone younger than myself. Worse, he wasn't afraid to admit it, and the person he loves was my son's babysitter. When I learned about it I could not put my hatred into words because I am beyond fury and words are not enough to contain all the vile images I have of my now tainted father. I am not just hurting because I am thinking about myself. Other people are involved too, and that makes it worse. My mother is hurting like I am. Maybe even more. I am ashamed to say this, but my father is beyond despicable. He may not have acted on it, but he has entertained the idea in his head and he was ready to leave us for this kind of corporal satisfaction. The idea was so inconceivable that my stomach could only churn with utmost disgust. I thought I could be apathetic about this. I want to, but I couldn't. The shame is just too much to bear. And the little respect that I have for him has diminished into nothingness. Denial can never make things right. I think I hate him. I want to hate him and I would like to curse him to the abysmal depths of the lake of fire where he belongs. But I would not do that . . . yet. Right now, I am beyond fury. My hands are shaking as I type. I don't know what to do yet. I just want him to get out of my face before I totally lose my self-control and kick his freaking ass. There must be a valid reason for his disgraceful act. Temporary insanity? Demon possession? Whatever it is, it still doesn't change the fact that he hurt us. I want to process his justifications in my head - that he was seduced, and that he's only human. The reasons he gave failed to register, and they were rejected by my own common sense. No. Infidelity is unjustifiable. I always thought that my friend was right in saying that all men are scum. Now, I disagree. There are men lower than scum. There are men who are like the fungus that feeds on the scum - and those are the two-timing jerks.

Bolt

I don't think there was ever a time when we didn't have a pet dog at home. We had several and I forgot the names of the others, but the longest time a dog stayed with us was nine years and his name was Bebot - a black half Rottweiler-half Japanese Spitz. He was a very fierce dog, very much protective of us. He was the one we loved the most because he has rendered us a very good service. Bebot was such a good guard dog.

Today I watched Bolt with my son. The animated movie was about a dog named Bolt (John Travolta) who thought he had super powers. Ever since Bolt was young he was brought in to the world of television as the lead role in a series that he thought was real. He and his human Penny did a lot of extraordinary stuff in the set of the production which made Bolt believe that he had powers such as super bark, super strength and a whole lot more.

One day, Bolt got accidentally packed and got shipped to New York. He got separated from his human friend Penny. While he searched for Penny, he met an alley cat and assumed that the cat was an evil minion of The Green-Eyed Man. Bolt threatened the cat and practically forced her to bring him to Penny. The alley cat was so confused but in the end, she went with Bolt because she feared for her own life as well. On their way they met a hamster who was a huge fan of Bolt. Bolt thought that the hamster was clever because he has observed him in everything that he did. Later on, the cat made Bolt realize that he was a product of television. All the powers that he thought was real were just fake. With this realization, he almost gave up looking for Penny but his devotion to her has made him go interstate to finally get to her.

Dogs are really devoted animals. Unlike cats, dogs have such devotion to their masters to point that they become over protective. Bebot was like that with us. No stranger could come near us with Bebot around. He will surely attack. Bolt was also like that. Bolt loved Penny so much that he did all he can to protect her. Dogs are wonderful creatures aren't they? I'm sure my son would soon ask me for a new puppy. I guess he would want someone like Bolt. I can't blame him though. Bolt was so adorable.The movie was very entertaining, and also it tells us the values of friendship, loyalty, dedication and faith in one's ability. Bolt is a film for the whole family. So far, it was one of the best animated movie I have seen.

The Second Bend In The River

The Second Bend In The River by Ann Rinaldi is a story of love between two different people from two different worlds. Rebecca Galoway, a girl raised up in a proper American family, has secretly harbored special feelings towards Tecumseh, a tribal chief of the Shawnee natives. Rebecca first saw Tecumseh when she was seven years old. At first she was afraid of him because she has heard bad things about Indians but Tecumseh proved to be different. She taught him how to speak proper English, while the chief on the other hand taught her things about nature. At the age of sixteen, Rebecca found out that her friendship with the Shawnee leader has developed into love. Tecumseh loved her in return and asked her father her hand in marriage. Sadly though, they lived worlds apart. Not only did they have a big age difference but also their people was always at war with each other. White men were always suspicious about the Indians. Indians were mutually enraged with the white men as well. The two loved each other so badly that they bled with the realization that they could never be united by marriage. Neither of them wanted to be acculturated by the other. Rebecca wanted to remain in her so-called civilized-white-world, completely different from that of Tecumseh's. The Shawnee chief on the other hand couldn't leave his tribe and live like a white man. Rebecca honored Tecumseh's heritage that both of them decided that it was better off to be apart and sacrifice the love they had for each other.

The Second Bend In The River is a story of the beauty of a taboo kind of love. It is a story of love acknowledged, love denied and love lost. In the end, both of them had to make the right decision, not for their own selfish intentions but for the common good. To only think of themselves would bring dishonor, so it was better for them to declare the love they had for each other with nature as their witness but to never speak of it again. Rebecca and Tecumseh shared a passionate kiss to seal their love. They parted ways and Rebecca soon married another person out of practical reasons. Tecumseh never married again and he died in battle. Rebecca was deeply saddened with Tecumseh's death. Deep in her heart she will always love him, just like how Tecumseh loved her deeply in return by declaring his love at the second bend of the river.

"I'm bleeding, I thought. Inside me I'm cut and bleeding because he has come back and the joy of it is so sharp. And I know he'll go away again. And already I feel the pain." - Rebecca

" . . . I was busy thinking that if I had and Indian name it would be Break Into Pieces. Because that's what my heart did every time Tecumseh smiled at me." - Rebecca

"The room seemed to tilt around me. I was sure it wasn't the room's fault. The world was tilting. Marry him? I was flooded with a warm feeling of completeness, of knowing I would never be unsure of anything again." - Rebecca

Addicted to American Indians

I have always loved American Indians. I can't explain why, but I would guess I started this strange kind of fixation after swooning over Atreyu while I watched The Neverending Story when I was a kid. I tried to write a novel, with a Native American as the main character. I remember that the name I gave this character was Karusso - supposedly the native tongue for The Chosen One. But I never got to finish the story. For a while, I forgot about American Indians because other things preoccupied me (my studies and my thesis). College life was so hectic that I never got to think of these Native Americans for a long time. It has only been last year when I was reintroduced to the world of Quileutes. Thanks to two kids who persuaded me to read Twilight by Stephenie Meyer. At first I was hesitant to read it because I had a negative impression about vampire stories. When I read the book and saw how cool Jacob Black is, the love I have for American Indians resurfaced. It may sound a little insane, but I felt like some part of me has been awakened, and I realized that my imagination was again stirred. Now, I am inspired. I actually plan to finish the story of Karusso that I wrote years ago. Good thing I have kept the unfinished manuscript in some old brown box. Hopefully I could think of a better plotline and finish the novel as soon as I can. Right now, I have been doing some research about Native American culture and I have been collecting a lot of books about Native Americans. These would be useful so I could have at least some reference for my story. I don't like to write without any basis. I might get all the details wrong and that would be a disaster. So far, I could say that I am addicted to reading American Indian Literature or any book with a Native American character in it. By devouring these books, I could have vicarious experiences about American Indian culture. Sadly, I am resigned to the fact that I may never be able to meet a true blue Native American in my lifetime, that's why I let myself be content with abstract information from books and fancy conversations with Native American chatmates from the net. Sometimes I think that this strange fixation I have about Native Americans is pathological. I don't like being enslaved by this, but I am. I have a theory that maybe by finishing the story, I would finally get over my addiction and get on with my life without all of these complications. Hopefully I will be able find the time to write the story, but with the hectic schedule I have at work, I'm afraid I would have to be powerless over my own obsession on American Indians for quite a while.