Ever since we are children, we are asked: do you love daddy? Do you love auntie? Do you love your teacher?

Nobody asks: do you love yourself?

And we end up spending a good deal of our life and energy trying to please others. But what about ourselves? Jesuit Anthony Mello has a fine story on this subject.

Mother and son are at a snack-bar. After taking the mother’s order, the waitress turns to the boy:

“And what will you be wanting?”

“A hotdog.”

“Nothing of the sort,” says the mother. “He wants a steak and salad.”

Ignoring the comment, the waitress asks the boy:

“Do you want that with mustard or ketchup?”

“Both,” answers the boy.

And then he turns to the mother in surprise:

“Mother! SHE THINKS THAT I’M FOR REAL!”

…I hope it won’t be too great a grief to you, dearest Charley. You will find her a motherly old married woman when you come back. You may be perfectly sure that Fanny will always continue as friendly and affectionate to you as ever, and as rejoiced to see you again, though I fear that will be but poor comfort to you, my dear Charles.
God bless you, Charles
Yours most affectionately,
Catherine Darwin.

Without you, the ground thaws, the rain falls, the grass grows. Without you, the seeds root, the flowers bloom, the children play. The stars gleam, the poets dream, the eagles fly, without you. The earth turns, the sun burns, but I die, without you…

If you were wondering

what kind of a day it was

it was the kind of day I become the new Maya Instructor at the Singapore Polytechnic.

The part time lecturing gig starts on 19 Oct.

Sigh… if only you knew what this means to me.

I don’t think I’d like being a plant or a reptile.

I like being a mammal, especially one with opposable thumbs and the third leg.

Why is there a need to be consistent all the time?

Why can’t I contradict with myself whenever I find it convenient?

Walking around on the ground till I’m tired isn’t fun anymore and I am not old enough that having fun tires me out and although we had our separate lives we all share this lifetime. I was just like everyone else, I just happened to have more responsibilities and have had my heart broken one too many times.

But no matter how much I have to break away from something, I won’t look back and have regrets.

Late that night, she stood in front of the unfinished canvas. With gentle, searching fingers, she ran her hand over its surface, feeling the familiar ridges where she had made her brushstrokes, years earlier.

“Why can’t I throw this away?” she whispered to herself, her throat tight, her sightless eyes burning with tears. From his spot under the window, her dog woofed softly. She ran a hand through her hair, muttering to herself. She had to stop this. Seriously had to stop this.

She was blind—face the facts, girl. She would be blind for the rest of her life and the colors and textures that had filled her world for years were now nothing more than a memory.

She had been trying to finish the painting the day of the wreck. The day she’d discovered the truth…

Her husband and her best friend were lovers. Her friend had called, tears in her voice, as she’d told her that she had seen them together at the Hotel. They had been kissing—not a friendly little peck on the cheek but a torrid clinch. Her friend had been there to pick up a business colleague and she had seen them.

They hadn’t realized they had an audience as they’d broken apart to step inside the elevator.

Now she wished she hadn’t answered the phone call, hadn’t listened to her friend, hadn’t even gotten out of bed.

“Why was I so blind?” she murmured, closing her eyes as a tear rolled down her cheek.

He had said that he had to work for a while that day. “Pick me up on the way to the airport,” she’d whispered, thinking back. He’d said he would pick up her friend as her condo was on the way before picking her up at the airport. She hadn’t thought anything of it. She had no reason to.

Tears poured down her cheeks. Not a thing.

The silence in the car had wrapped around her like a fist. Though he hadn’t realized anything was wrong, his mistress had. She had seen the tension in her eyes. Maybe it was the other woman’s guilty conscience, but there had been a look there. Fear. As she had studied his mistress from the car’s vanity mirror, she’d tried to figure out what to say.

Whether to say anything at all.

Of course she said something. The pain was burning a hole in her stomach. There was no way she could say nothing. That incapacity to remain quiet had destroyed her life.

Blinded her. Cost her everything. For one tiny moment, He had focused on her, taking his eyes off the road, he lost control.

Her words had killed them.

Her mind rebelled at the thought. Logically, she knew the wreck had been an accident. But the guilt was eating her alive. Guilt, hurt, dismay… She still didn’t understand how they could have done that to her.

Wishes were useless. She wished she had never said anything to him, wished she’d never answered the phone call, wished she had never seen them. And nothing ever changed. She’d give all she had to undo what had happened that day. Wish…And it did no good.

One day I hope to close my eyes and never wake up.