this wound called my mother

maybe i'll never heal from this wound my mother gave me. did she give it to me? or did it just happen when i was born? what is it in me that wants her to understand? told my sister today, everytime i try to heal it, i rip the scab off. and it hurts all over again. i'm trying to heal from the outside, in. i get all freaked out that the wound is open, exposed, vulnerable. can't bacteria get in? can't some crazy poke their finger in it and feel around? better to close it up. but it's not really healed then. so, okay. i'll try to be okay with this open wound. i'll care for it. keep it as clean as i can. keep my fingers out of it. let it heal from the inside, out. this will take some time.

Jai Mitra

just finished yoga flow. thank you Hilda for reminding me of my body practice.
was channeling Chandra i think because for the first time ever, finished without 4 minutes of music left.
just on time...
yay!

i take a jeep to a bus to Manila today. then walk to the MRT (what stop again?), MRT, then a jeep, then walk over the bridge to Tita Hannah's house. gotta lug a week's worth of stuff because tomorrow morning, i fly to Bacolod City in Negros Occidental. that's where i was born.

Tita Menchie's memorial is on wednesday. her sons brought her ashes home. she died of breast cancer 3 years ago. she will finally be able to rest. she's visited all of us in our dreams and in waking hours, too.

my mother and one of my sisters is coming from the states. i'll see them there.

exhale.

San Mig Light and the Buddha

reading "Buddha" by Karen Armstrong.
free day today, meaning no officially scheduled classes, workshops, etc.

30 minute, somewhat hilly, stroll to town from the guesthouse.
hot and humid (siyempre naman!).
short hair, tank top, ipod, singing aloud to the trees and the cicadas.

wanted to plop myself down at LB Square and read and people watch.

so i did.

as i was sitting at the outdoor part of Jungle Java Cafe, i contemplated many things.

some are:

* Gotama's "Going Forth" is comparable to my moving into The Center and ultimately coming here.
left my job
left my husband
left my doggy
left a swanky SF apartment to move into the basement of a meditation center
left a lifestyle
my family (both sides) thought i had lost my mind.
in a sense, i guess i did.

* how integral yoga is to meditation practice.

* how everything unfolds just like it is supposed to.

* how in some ways my journey seems to parallel Gotama's.
i was feeling quite puffy-proud of this realization.

then, i got to the part:

"But first, before Gotama could even begin to meditate, he had to lay a sound foundation of morality. Ethical disciplines could curb his egotism and purify his life, by paring it down to essentials. Yoga gives the practitioner a concentration and self-discipline so powerful that it could become demonic if used for selfish ends. Accordingly, the aspirant had to observe five "prohibitions" (yama) to make sure that he had his recalcitrant (lower-case) self firmly under control. The yama forbade the aspirant to steal, lie, take intoxicants, kill or harm another creature, or to engage in sexual intercourse."

had a good laugh, as i finished up my beer, ate my plate of fried squid, and remembered how malibog i've been feeling lately.

i don't think i would make a good monk.
;)
and thank goodness for that!

universal form

reconnected with another babaylan today. Hilda N. love her. i first met her when i attended Nicky Perlas' weeklong seminar on waldorf education last october at st. scholastica. i was on crutches and had a half cast back then, and she always gave me candy or something sweet to eat.

she's in her early 60's and among other things, she is a massage therapist. one of the students strained her shoulder crawling around in a cave in banahaw, so Susan invited Hilda to come and share her medicine and healing.

she taught a tai chi class this morning that was great. my first one ever actually. she taught a lot of shoulder movement exercises and stretches and asked me to lead and encourage the students to do them everyday because she noticed that everyone's shoulders were up to their ears.

as i was going through the movements, i realized that i've done these movements before. every morning actually at The Center. universal form. we do universal form before we sit. i hadn't done it since i'd been here. synchronicity strikes again...

grateful.
gratitude.
gratitude to my Teacher.
gratitude to my Sangha.
i'm here with you!
you are here with me!

had a conversation with Hilda about what being Fil-Am means.
why Tagalog on Site is such an important program.
the challenge of straddling two worlds.
the lack of space for dialogue about this with our families.
she got tearful when she was talking about our bodies.
how we carry our wounds.
she felt it when she touches us.
no wonder our shoulders are the way they are.

it just occurred to me that Hilda is around the same age as my mother.
they seem so different.
it's that vine, i tell you.

i gave a copy of my narrative to Hilda.
she said, "thank you for trusting me with your story."
maybe someday i'll be able to give one to my mother.
then again, maybe not.

Hilda is from Mindanao.
she invited me to go home with her sometime.
i would like that very much.

outsides match my insides

got my hair cut today.
boy short.
:)
ginupit ng buhok ko si glen.
bakla siya kaya siyempre, mahusay siya talaga.
apparently, this stereotype translates to Philippine culture, too.

so much of my work has been such an inward process.
it's time to come out.
express.
express outward.

cutting my hair is a ritual.
when i make a shift, it's like i want everyone to know.
i cut my hair, so my outsides match my insides.

it's super short, so i can't hide.
putting myself further and further out there.
heard that's where the fruit is.
sige.

congratulations, she's a girl.

i feel like i've given birth...to a baby elephant.
actually, i did.
i finished my narrative for Leny's book.
pagod na pagod na ako.
grabe.
grabe itong process ko talaga.

so many feelings have been churned up. not new ones. they're just moving with more purpose now.
concerted movement.
concerted effort.
move through it.
moving through it.
love myself through it.

my sleep has been erratic the past two nights.

i notice how insecure i feel.
i try to self-soothe.
i tell myself, there is no wrong answer here.
no one will reprimand you. this is YOUR story. that's it.
undo this learning that your story is wrong.
undo this learning that you can't do it right.
undo this learning that your story is not important.

i notice the tightness in my belly as i type this.
where did i get these ideas?
do all roads lead back to that damn vine?

there is no right or wrong. just my story.
my story is important. no one can tell it like i can.

here's my baby elephant.
steady.
solid.
strong.
searching.

***


i was groomed for a conventional life.

these are some of the rules:

1) excel in school so you can go onto college.
1a) preferably a large university that is very well known.
1b) ivy league is best.

2) graduate from college.
2a) do not study art or literature.
2b) focus on courses that will allow you to find stable work and earn a ‘good’ salary. (see #3)

3) be a professional.
3a) your choices are doctor, nurse, lawyer, teacher, or engineer.
3b) doctor is best.

4) get married…
4a) to a man.
4b) not a black man.
4c) white is best.

5) save money…so you can:
5a) buy a car.
5b) buy a house.
5c) consume.

6) have kids.
6a) rinse.
6b) lather.
6c) repeat.

of course, it is a little more complicated than this. my parents and i are also immigrants, and we are immigrants from the Philippines.

we came to the United States when i was less than one year old. the year, i think, was 1975. the Philippines was still under martial law. we were at the tail-end of the post-1965 brain drain mass migration to the US. my mother was a nurse, and my father was a civil engineer. their professions were their ticket out of the Motherland to the United States.

like so many immigrants, they heeded the call to assimilate as quickly and as quietly as possible. my two younger sisters were born in 1978 and 1981. we lived in the suburbs of Chicago for 13 years and then moved to southern California for 5 years. when i was in college, my parents and sisters moved to Henderson, NV.

throughout my childhood, my parents intentionally moved us to upper middle class, white neighborhoods( “for the schools,” they said, when i asked once). you could count the number of Filipinos on my two hands that i went to school with from kindergarten through high school.

i was never taught how to speak Tagalog by my parents. they spoke Tagalog (and other dialects) with each other, with their friends, and with our relatives. when they spoke to my sisters and me, it was always in English. growing up, i remember my mother saying once how proud she was of the fact that her and my dad’s schooling was conducted in English. “no other country in Asia is like that,” she said.

i was confused. why didn’t they want to speak to us in Tagalog? what was so great about English? WHY was their schooling conducted in English? Shouldn’t it have been in Tagalog? why did she seem so proud that we were different from other Asians?

because of this language barrier, i realize now that this is how my training on reading body language, discerning context, and reading energies started. if i couldn’t understand the words, i could get the general idea by how people spoke, their tone, their facial expressions, etc.

for the first 13 years of my life i grew up with a rather large extended family, and they all lived in the nearby Filipino community. we would go visit them on the weekends, shop in the Filipino stores, eat at the Filipino restaurants, and then go back home to the other side of town.

i was confused again. was it wrong to live with other Filipinos? was it okay to be Filipino, but only up to a certain point? didn’t being Filipino mean being with other Filipinos? i realize now that this began my thinking about the relationship between socioeconomic class dynamics and ethnicity.

now in my early 30’s and amidst my own decolonization journey, i can understand how and why my parents made the choices that they made.

and i forgive them. i know that they did the best they could. i can only imagine the confusion and culture shock they must have felt coming to the United States from the Philippines. i imagine their loneliness and their longing for something familiar and warm. i wonder what they did with all of the feelings that they must have felt when they experienced racism and classism, and all the other “-isms” firsthand. i can only imagine and wonder because they don’t really talk about it. they never have. and from their body language and behavior, i learned to be afraid to even ask.

i forgive myself, too. colonization is so deep. and insidious. i participated in its perpetuation because of my ignorance and my misguided belief in the myth of scarcity. as i learn about kasaysayan, Filipino history told from an indigenous perspective, i understand that the ramifications of our pre-historic, colonial, and post-colonial history still ripple out today. of course they do…

i have come to think of colonization as an opportunistic vine. it is not native to me, nor to my people. i am a tree, and this vine has grown up with me, ever since i was a sapling. for most of my life, i didn’t even realize that we were two separate beings. wasn’t the vine always with me? wasn’t i always with the vine? i don’t remember my life without it. trusting soul that i am, i even thought we had a symbiotic relationship.

this vine has wrapped itself around my arms, my trunk, penetrated my skin, my skull, bound my ankles and knees together. it has limited my throat, my voice. even creeped inside my belly and sunk it’s tendrils into my organs, weaving itself inside my bowels, squeezing my heart. my lungs were never allowed to expand as much as they were meant to. my stomach was always so tight, tense, my ginhawa imprisoned.

perhaps this is why decolonization hurts so much. i remember the shock of realizing the vine was different from me. i remember the pain in accepting that this was no benign being; this vine was actually doing me harm. and i remember the bewilderment and anger in realizing that this harm wasn’t even personal, that imperialism automatically implies dehumanization. i remember the fear that i felt, that i feel, when i realize my daunting task of removing this vine from me in order to be of true service to the world.

how do i do this without bleeding?
how do i do this without ripping my flesh?
how do i do this without killing myself?
how do i do this without pain?

my answer:
i can’t.

in order for me to decolonize, i must do it completely. for me, to decolonize completely means to bleed, to be willing to bleed, and release parts of me that are no longer useful. i’ve even come to realize, i need to actually cut parts of myself off that wish to cling to the vine, for they are amnesiac and won’t let it go, even when they see the vine is doing us harm and has done us harm. they won’t let go, even if i plead.

because of my regular meditation practice, i understand these amnesiac parts to be extensions of my ego. they aren’t really Me (often times, this is difficult to remember). they aren’t my core. they aren’t my true nature. their purpose is, always has been, always will be to keep me asleep, to keep me “safe.” this is a false kind of safety, though, an acquiescent safety due to the fear of the unknown.

i inherited this amnesia from the colonized parts of my ancestors, both recent and remote. i acknowledge that even though these amnesiac parts aren’t Me, i still feel pain when i release them, for they’ve been with me a long time, and we’ve grown used to one another. it is a curious sensation to feel grateful towards them (they have gotten me this far!) while celebrating their demise.

the progress and presence of the vine isn’t my fault; yet, i am responsible for its eradication. this is the burden of striving towards awakening, towards freedom. my life’s work is to live this journey and communicate it to those who struggle with their own vines and to those who have not recognized that they are even entangled yet. i am supposed to point a way.

and, yes, this has been a painful process.

i’ve never known such heartbreak. this kind of pain has brought me to my knees and curled me up in a fetal ball finding momentary refuge in my bed, under the covers. this pain has reduced me to a pile of snot and tears on the floor, never finding enough tissue. and, yet, something inside me tells me that there is purpose to this pain. this is the way to re-membering. this is the way to kalayaan, to freedom. and, so, i listen and i lean into it.

perhaps the most painful part, for me, has been the ways in which i recognize that i still willingly cling to the vine, to the fear and ‘comfort of familiarity’ of staying colonized, of staying asleep.

or equally painful has been my slow acceptance that to decolonize is a spiritual journey and that spiritual journeys are, essentially, alone journeys. Pinay ako, at palagi, ayaw na ayaw naming mag-isa.

for the past two years, i have lived at the New Dharma Meditation Center for Urban Peace in Oakland, CA. under the guidance of my Mitra and Teacher and together with the witness of my dharma sisters and brothers, i have learned the difference between the suffering that leads to more suffering and the suffering that leads to freedom.

in fact, my way of life at The Center reminds me so much of what life must have been like for my indigenous ancestors during the time of the babaylan. like my ancestors, my spirituality is infused in all aspects of my daily life. there is no separation, no time to stop and start “being spiritual.” there isn’t even an indigenous word that literally translates to “spirituality;” it was simply life and there was no need to differentiate it.

we practice fearless meditation at The Center, where meditation is viewed as relationship. we honor relationship in order to cultivate Presence, and cultivating Presence has allowed me to be see more clearly and embrace the state of my life, exactly as it is.

in my sitting practice, i have cultivated a certain kind of discipline with which i have been able to stay present to difficult feelings and bear discomfort while maintaining appropriate and discerning boundaries. as i shed my colonized identity, i am better able to identify and embody an internal and sustainable locus of agency. and in doing all of this, i have been able to both actively participate in and witness the dismantling of the culture of silence. it is has been an indispensable support for my decolonization journey to live with an intentional spiritual community that is transparent, receptive, and reflective about this process.

Like the Katipuneros, i view freedom, or kalayaan, as the basis for my spiritual practice. to embody freedom means that i am able to focus all of my intentions and energies in the service of social transformation for the greater good of all Beings.

at The Center, we cultivate warriorship by embodying the Bodhisattva ideal. the idea of awakened individuals holding off on complete enlightenment until all Beings are able to crossover together feels very Pinoy to me. it is not unlike the bayanihan tradition or the spirit of the indigenous balangay.

The Center is not a Buddhist meditation center. in fact, in the tradition of fisherfolk and weavers, the teachings that are offered there are an amalgam of many different spiritual traditions, including those of Buddhism, Native American practices, and yoga. there is also a firm commitment to honoring our relationship with the land and re-membering the interconnectedness that we share with all of Nature. this also feels very Pinoy to me in how creative combinations are created to highlight relationship and foster harmony.

i am currently learning Tagalog. malalim siya talaga. the other day, i learned the word, “pahingalay,” which i’ve translated as “meditation.” it contains three Tagalog words whose meanings actually explain how fearless meditation is done.

pahinga = rest, stillness
hinga = breath
alay = offering, gift

for so many years, i associated being Filipino with the colonized framework from which i perceived myself as “other,” as wrong, as less than. i realize that i used to automatically associate being Filipino with a certain kind of self-loathing. it breaks my heart to write this. there has been much for me to unlearn, and it continues...

growing up, i remember hating the shape of my nose, the shape of eyes, the color of my skin. i remember being told that i needed to pinch the bridge of my nose every morning so it wouldn’t be “so flat.” i did this for years.

once, i remember smearing a thick layer of Noxema on my skin, in a panic, after staying out in the sun too long, hoping it would help whiten me because i knew my mother would shame me and be angry at how “black” i had become.

i remember wishing so hard that i was white and the Brady Bunch would adopt me. i wished that we could have macaroni and cheese or tuna casserole for dinner instead of rice and adobong pusit, tortang talong, or nilaga.

i love my nose now. it is one of my favorite parts of my body.

to this day, i can’t stand the sight nor smell of Noxema or any notions of whitening creams or soaps. kayumanggi for life!

Adobong pusit, tortang talong, and nilaga are some of my favorite things to eat. macaroni and cheese is okay. the thought of tuna casserole makes me a little nauseous though.

the Brady Bunch makes me laugh, and i empathize, love, and forgive that little brown girl who wanted to run away and live with that white family.

i am writing this narrative from the Philippines. i moved here last month for the next year or so, as my decolonization journey has brought me here.

The irony of this is not lost on me. my parents were around my same age when they moved us to the US, and it is precisely because of their investment in a conventional life, that i am able to choose to live this unconventional one.

my intentions for this time are service, study, and healing.

i’ve come Home because i’d like to explore the context of the lifecycle of this vine of colonization. how did it get so good at what it does? just how deep are its roots and how far-reaching? the unlocking of this feels important to me in understanding how to retrain this vine and minimize its trauma upon its necessary removal.

i’ve also come Home because at the same time that i painstakingly remove this vine from my entrails, i seek the salve that will help me heal. this salve, my salve, is here. intuitively, i know that this fertile place that provided such a hospitable home for this preying vine is also the source of my healing. there is room here for all of this.

Inang Bayan has called me Home. she has told me that her rich volcanic soil and her story can help me awaken and re-member. she has told me that the recipe for this salve that i so earnestly seek includes the reclamation of my indigenous roots, my ginhawa (my center, my hara) and my kalinangan (my relationship to the land). she reminds me that i am a babaylan and that i have important work to do.

she continues to whisper to me what i need to hear, as she has always done. as i decolonize, my hearing becomes more acute and my resolve strengthens. Ina, thank you for loving me like you do.

i remember.
i re-member.
i love.

meron akong lagnat.

i have a fever. it's weird to feel chills here. i'm so tired. it's like this giant hand is holding me down to the bed.

i'm missing susan's lecture on the katipunan and the national anthem, two of my favorites from last year.

i've been reading "Centennial Crossings: Readings on Babaylan Feminism in the Philippines." So much stuff to underline. it's a struggle to get up on my elbows to do it. and my pen freakin' skips.

i think i got sick because i was supposed to read this book before our pilgrimage to mt. banahaw this weekend. and i prolly would not have done it if it weren't for this fever.

i'm about halfway done. once again, i'm finding my spiritual journey paralleling what i happen to pick up to read. it's been like this for the last 3 years or so.

more or less in order:

pedagogy of the oppressed
the answer to how is yes
when things fall apart
race matters
coming full circle
being black
this bridge called my back
shaping globalization
eat, pray, love.
the spiral staircase
a book of her own

my psoas muscles are super sore. i'm so proud of myself for knowing how to spell that word. it's right up there with
lemniscates.

i'm so tired.
rest.
rest, now.
the answers are coming.

Satisfying Experience

from astro.com, today:

Satisfying experience

Valid during several months: This influence can bring with it a deeply satisfying, liberating experience; perhaps you will simply enjoy yourself with more gusto and freedom than usual and take pleasure in life. There may be a very meaningful encounter during this time - with your partner, someone close to you, or someone whom you have never met before. This encounter will be so deep and personal that you will have the opportunity to perceive and possibly even discuss things about yourself that you have preferred to suppress up to now, and not reveal to anyone. Thus, you have the chance to behave differently and, for once, to act out of character and acknowledge your injury or sensitivity, without having to fear being hurt or rejected once more.

The interpretation above is for your transit selected for today:
Venus Trine Chiron , exact at 06:48
activity period from 2 July 2007 until beginning of October 2007.

phew.

frenzy

the first night we were here at the guest house, i met these bugs that were so attracted to light. i don't know where they came from. maybe a hole in a screen in the bathroom window. first it was one, two, then three. then fifteen. then thirty. they were all frenzied, flying around. i was trying to read. ged was talking on her phone.

they were brown and had four wings and segmented bodies. from end to end, they were about an inch and a half long.

we turned on the bathroom light so they would go there and let us alone.

i went to the bathroom and the air was thick with "the swarm." they were crazy about the light. weird, i thought. there were so many, as they buzzed by my ears, dive-bombed my head.

later, i went in to brush my teeth. and the floor was littered with their lacy wings and some of their little wingless bodies were crawling around the ground. some were already upside down, dead.

instantly, i felt remorse.
i killed them.
we killed them.

they were just doing what they do. it's their nature to be super attracted to light. (i could relate. who isn't?)
like a moth to a flame...

didn't they know not to be so crazy for the light to fly themselves into exhaustion? i mean, literally they flew their wings off.

and maybe they can't live without their wings, because by morning, they were all dead.

should i have turned off the light?
would that have "saved" them?
is that my job?
is that my responsibilty?

i feel sad that they are dead.
maybe it was their time.
maybe this happened for me to realize some important teachings.
maybe i am supposed to simply bear witness to their deaths and my own humanity.
and learn.
and share.

this i know:

frenzy is not a sustainable state.

despite our nature or tendencies, as humans, we have the "precious gift of choice and the power to change" to act differently, and the capacity to hold our nature and tendencies with compassionate context.

we cannot live when we cut parts of ourselves off. or wear them out, as the case may be. we may live, but it is a half life, at best. no chance for thriving there.

this happened three nights ago.
and no sign of those bugs anymore.
haven't seen them since.
not even one.
maybe they went to go share their wisdom with someone else.
will they see what i have seen?

on speaking

i’m frustrated with my slowness in speaking. layers there.

shame.
fear.
energy dispersed.
resistance.

participants are constantly asking, “Ate Karen, ano sasabihin mo sa tagalog…” sometimes, i can answer. sometimes, i can’t. it’s a parallel experience, really. they are learning. i am learning. we are learning.

another lesson on how to lead with grace.
even when i am unsure.
even when i don’t have all the answers.
especially, when i am unsure and don’t have all the answers. (i don't!)

my goodness, how i could know how to say half the things they ask? it makes sense as i type this out now, and, at the time, my automatic response is one of shame, guilt, fear.

fear that they will see how scared i am sometimes. how small i feel sometimes. how i don’t know all the answers.

these are sometimes feelings.
why do i privilege them so?

ah, old, old wounds.
heal.
heal.
heel.

speaking of heel, it will be my one year anniversary that i got kicked by the female being-angel and ruptured my achilles tendon. i think it was july 4th. independence day. ha, ha. it was more like dependence day. or really interdependence day.

Bong said that the left foot represents the past and the right foot represents the future. she kicked me so that i would move towards the future,
step into my power,
be who i am,
fulfill what i came here to do.
in this body.
in this way.

okay.

baybayin

had a workshop on baybayin with Bong the other night. deep.

tagalog is deep. the ancient tagalog syllabary has its roots in sanskrit. who'd a thunk? they used to be these funny sqiggles on a page.

now,i've drawn them. painted them. danced them. i can write them now and feel like i get them. and they get me, too. gets kita. we are finally in appropriate relationship. amazing what a proper introduction can do for a relationship...it can only help, di ba?

felt in my body when i danced.
the drums.
something happens when i hear the drums.
and the kulintang.
and the gongs.

it's like i go into a trance. actually, i sort of do.

my body starts to move and i don't stop her anymore. she's relieved that she finally gets to move. and dance.

unencumbered.

thank you she says.
you're welcome i say.
sorry it took me a bit to get it.
i won't forget like that again.
promise.
good.

from my notes:

the word baybayin means "crossing the shore." (holy shit! crossing the shore from where to where? not knowing to knowing? asleep to awake? holy shit!)

there are no vowels. vowel sounds come alive when they are given breath, when they are spoken. baybayin "purists," of which Bong is one, (shocking), prefer not to use the dots-dots characters or the other characters for vowels. the reading of it, without vowels, then depends on context. and relationship of the writer to the reader. (jyesss!)

alibata is the word that the spanish colonizers used for baybayin. when they came, they learned this script so that they could communicate with the 'indios', introduce their teachings...then systematically destroy any trace of this form of communication.
insidious.
effective.

kahulugan = meaning
the root word is "hulug," which means to fall, or move from a higher place to a lower place. (i picture knowings falling from the heavens to the earth.)

bathala or bahala = supreme being, god
in baybayin, when this is spelled out, it has the character, "ba" (female character, babae = woman) connected to "la" (male character, lalaki = man) by the character "ha," which resembles a lemniscates, or infinity sign. (i think of the male and female energies, their relationship within me, and their constant, dynamic evolution.)

words are magic. they cast a spell. to write is to spell.

a funny (and brilliant) insight by susan: the way pinoys text tagalog nowadays is largely without vowels.
is this our way of reverting back to this ancient script?

could be.