Staring at the trees

Netnet Camomot

THERE are days when all you wanna do is stare at the trees. That was it for Friday and Saturday. If only there was no to-do list to, uh, do.

The layout of a newsletter is waiting inside the USB, waiting to be reviewed. I gotta feeling, though, I’ll simply release it to the universe, and bahala na si Batman on how it’s accepted by the madlang pehpohl. Because, in the end, will it even matter if that newsletter manages to escape from the grammar police.

Besides, nothing is perfect. Each piece, photo, or caption has its own glitch, and that’s what makes it unique from the rest of the world. You know how that is? People see mistakes all the time while ignoring the good in anything. Here’s this beautiful painting, and the only thing they’ll see is the tiny smudge at the corner: Oh, you made a mistake right there, you’re not perfect after all.

Nobody is perfect, but there are people craving to be a semblance of perfection, and it’s this pressure to be the ideal model that drives them nuts and eventually develop crab mentality, pulling anyone above them down to their level, hoping that will upgrade their mediocrity.

Learning to accept each person as he is must be the best gift of all. There are no expectations, no wearing of rose-colored glasses, no wishful thinking for better times. Total acceptance of all the imperfections. Unless that person is destroying you. Better to destroy only himself, without including you.

The trees look perfect at this time of the year. It’s fall in other parts of the world. Falling leaves. Here, the trees are green. Thus, the temptation to stare and do absolutely nothing.

Or it could be this: Tito Alfredo Diaz passed away last Thursday. He’s the dad of my friend-since-Grade-4 Zeny Diaz-Zinski.

Thursday morning, our high school class chat group had that bad news. I was then writing the column for Friday, and had to finish it before 12 noon. I was in constant denial then: Nope, not confirmed. Had to focus otherwise memories would rush in.

It was only when the column was finished that I texted Margie, Zeny’s elder sis.

And the memories started to rush in. High school days, the parties we had at their house, Tito in his wheelchair at Limketkai Mall and Centrio. This was a man whose resilience I admired.

Tito was hospitalized weeks ago, and Zeny came home then. That was the time I was recuperating at home after the knee arthroscopy, and she was able to insert visiting me, along with Tania Orevillo-de Guzman and Louella Ladera-Evangelista.

We were the Voltes V: Zeny, Tania, Wella, Ingrid Chaves-Agudo, and I. Or Charlie’s Angels: I don’t remember anymore who were Charlie and Bosley, but I do remember that Tania was Jaclyn Smith, Ingrid was Kate Jackson, and I was—gasp!—Farrah Fawcett.

Career, marriage, travel, migration, life’s choices would sometimes manage to insert themselves into our group, but we have chosen to keep the friendship that began decades ago.

We have reached this stage where we’re described as looking young for our age, some of us have kids, some of us have dogs, some of us have nephews and nieces—friends don’t need to tell the same life stories.

The secret to life I guess is to keep walking away, and whoever keeps up with your pace is the one meant for you. We have kind of walked away many times from each other—to Manila for college, abroad for work and/or marriage—but whenever we meet, we simply pick up where we left off.

Ingrid used to give us baking lessons way back in high school, and I never learned anything—I was always looking forward to tasting the baked goodies instead of learning how to bake them.

The Chaves’s residence along Dahlia Street in Carmen was another venue for our grade school, high school, and even college and post-college parties.

And who could forget the burgers at Tivoli and the books at Papillon.

And there was that Christmas when our Lourdes College senior high school class Pisces agreed to have a Kris Kringle with 4A, our brother class at Xavier University High School. We chose aliases to hide our real identities in while exchanging letters and gifts for several weeks. Then, one day, I received a letter from my manito who had the temerity to correct the grammar of the card I sent to him. Talk of the grammar police.

High school was an awkward phase for me—my only award during graduation was Best in Piano. I didn’t get As in English—had no idea then that writing would have an important part in my life someday. I couldn’t understand Algebra, Trigonometry, Geometry, Physics, Chemistry—the same feeling I had for Cost Accounting in college. Ask me now about chlorophyll and I’d go stare at the trees again.

I have a CPA certificate but won’t prepare financial statements now, not even the sari-sari store kind of cash-in, cash-out. By third year college, I already knew I hated Accounting but was too ashamed to tell my parents. With two more years to go before graduation, how could I?

And I’ve stopped playing the piano because each time I do, I’d end up crying—it reminds me of Mama.