Disproving it.

“Peke man ni nga Christmas uy.” (“This is a fake Christmas”.)

Was my friend’s definition of the holiday season here in Japan. And I agreed, because it seemed to be a hollow celebration of the gift of salvation. The lights illuminated the streets but I couldn’t find the gladness of the surroundings, and the carols’ there, but not this familiar feeling of Christmas.

Nevertheless we enjoyed the night before Christmas. After karaoke-singing for 5 hours and having dinner in this great Thai restaurant, we proceeded to wait for the clock to strike twelve in another comfy 24-hour resto: and this was our celebration of Christmas. A fake one according to my friend, which I stupidly agreed with.

Well, it maybe because of the temperature this time of year, or of my lack of sleep, or of my overly vivacious abuse of my throat (yes Kat, I sang with my throat, ;D) during the 5-hour karaoke marathon that I caught a cold and lost my voice. The cause doesn’t actually matter. What matters is the realization that hit me because of my sore throat and my missing voice.

After my friends left (they stayed in my room after we went out, from about 7am until 7.30pm the next day, and this next day is Christmas day), one of my Japanese dormmates knocked on the door and was looking for my roommate, who wasn’t around. He’s returning something to him. Finding that my roomey’s out, he went to and was on the stairs going down; but within seconds, he knocked on my room again, and this time inquired,

“Did you catch a cold?”

me: Ah, yeah. Kindda.

dormmate: “Chutou matte ne.” (“Please wait for a while.”)

He quickly went downstairs (my room’s on the third floor, while his is on the second), and got back with this red pack.

dormmate: “This is oriental medicine. This is good for colds.” (Hands the pack to me.)

me: Oh, thank you. Actually I’ve been taking medicine for it, but I guess I’m gonna try this one.

dormmate: “It’s a little bitter, but it’s good.”

me: Thanks.

He left, taking the stairs going down, but before he went out of my sight he said,

“Take care ne. Merry Christmas.”

It just feels wonderful to be slapped on the face thinking that the Christmas I’m so familiar with back home is more real than the Christmas here in Japan. Their Christmas may be different, but for me to brand it unreal is stupid. All it takes is a little act of a dormmate’s kindness. Thanks to a blessing of a cold. And this is sans sarcasm.

When you’re called to sing

Shuhei: Why are you sitting there?

me: Why not?

Shuhei: Don’t you wanna sing with us? We know you can sing.

me: Who said so?

Shuhei: You sing every night.

me: Sige diay kag kadungog nako. (So, you’ve always heard me.)

And so it was that after doing some “meee-ooo—woohhhs” to stretch my vocal chord up, I’ll be singing with my dormmates two love songs for Christmas. One’s in Japanese and the other’s mostly in English. Yes, two sad love songs for Christmas. Which prove what my roommate said,

“Christmas in Japan is for lovers. And I’m pressured to find a girlfriend (sighs).”

I really wanted to sing after all, and what I needed is a dormmate asking me why I chose sitting down than singing. After all, this isn’t whether my voice’s awful or otherwise, this is celebrating the beautiful gift of eternity.

Though the songs aren’t Rudolph-the-red-nosed-reindeer or Santa-Claus-is-coming-to-town, at least it’s about Love. Yeah, and Christmas is all about the greatest of loves. Shuhei, thanks for poking my head and making me realize this.

Truly, angels walk, or sing, among us.

Choices in Continuum.

I see myself better when it is dark, when only a little candle provides me light. I enjoy music when the door’s shut and I hear the refrigerator, mimicking in vain, the beatings of my heart. Now I’m learning that sorrow is more beautiful than merriment, for sorrow itself is happiness’ soul. I understand that an optimist

doubts.

Fears.

Regrets.

Even despises.

Cries.

Mourns.

Sometimes the self flees from him.

But all these he rolls in his hands like the delicate wax that fuels the candle’s flame.

Then he lights the candle, it glows;he calls it optimism. He grows, becomes bigger than all. And goodness is everywhere.

My cup of tea

No, I’m not the blind optimist who sees the sun during the storm. And my optimism isn’t the kind of mindset and soul-character that shuts its eyes when there’s something to frown upon, something that’s just not good, something that one should just be pessimistic about.

Let me tell you then, what my optimism is.

Of course, I see darkness. With my own two eyes—and like other people, sometime in my life I was afraid of it too. The same’s true with centipedes, and the bed monster, and loss, and tragedy, oblivion, war, death. The list goes on. But I decided not to be afraid anymore because I know it won’t do me any good to just be afraid. With this comes the discovery-turned-conviction that I’m bigger than worry and fear and defeat, for even if I see the ungood, and hear it, and feel it, even taste it, I also see brightness, and beauty, and forgiveness, and charity, and love, and God. And these are the things that matter.

Yes, not all things will go my way. But everything is, I believe, a vessel of learning. My optimism is not the optimism that is madly seeking goodness in an instant, because there are just times when you have to be presented with what is not good, but in or after most, if not all of these times, great things are learned. You lose today, but in losing you learn humility. You mess up now, but it challenges you to straighten things out tomorrow—now, isn’t that goodness still? Thus, my optimism doesn’t only see the things it wants to see—it’s far from being blind—rather, it accepts everything, but knows that in everything there is wisdom to be gained. Here, patience is the key.

I don’t hate pessimism, I try to understand it. As optimism would not be distinguished without pessimism—because obviously they’re just two sides of the same coin—I try to understand it rather than despise or turn my back on it. One is aptly armed in battle and is more likely to win it if one knows the enemy. And yes, life is a never-ending battle of the good and the ungood, and I can’t be in the middle—that just cannot be. So in bracing myself for the fight I need to understand the workings of my enemy, the being that it is, because I aim to win. And with my optimism, my God, I’m going to.

I am exercising my right to choose to the maximum. As we are made with freewill, I have resolved to choose the things that would make me see and appreciate the goodness in everything. My optimism is one of them, and I am happy of my choice.

Now, do not expect me to sing songs of ecstatic bliss when (a) I stump on somebody else’s foot, or (b) I get an almost failing grade, because “there is goodness in everything”, instead, expect me to (a) apologize to the person and be very careful next time, and (b) study my lessons harder. These are simple things that happen everyday, simple things that define what a person is. And I’d like to define me by responding to these simple things with simple acts of optimism too. Not with grand, operatic proclamations of joy like singing a song in ecstacy, which is by all means unnecessary, unreal—so un-optimistic.

To Kat.

Nanginig ako nang nakita mo ang wordpress blog ad ko.

Okay, I have to confess:

1. I decided to write again because you’re writing is just really good, and you motivated me to do it again.

2. You motivated me to wordpress because you’re writing style is just superb here in wordpress.

3. I decided to really be serious about my blog because you’re writing is just superb awesome.

4. Your blog is the cause why I am blogging seriously.

5. You made me blog.

Ay, pareho redundant atah lahat (read: my brain just froze when you said you’ll look for my blog). But still I’m optimistic (anong konek?). But seriously, please bear with my optimism, not to mention my barbaric “writing”. Ilang ulit ko ba na-write nasulat ang writing? ごめん　ね。