HAPPY WEEKEND

Remembering the souls of the departed
GINA DIZON

DHAKA, Bangladesh – With the just concluded All Saints and All Souls Days to let us remember the souls of the departed, I pitch in some values I learned from family, friends and neighbors who joined the Creator and who mattered to me whose goodness amidst human frailties I take note.

I cannot forget my father Bienvenido for showing how to live a simple life. Simplicity came along with not taking what does not belong to you. While he showed how it was to live within one’s means, life was difficult having to stretch what was available and not begging or bootlicking from somebody else.

Call it to the limits, a personal pride of going by within one’s capacity is a strong value I learned from my father. He died six years ago. Till this time, this resilience to prod on in the most self-determined way has guided my self-respect through the years to check some abuses, intentional or unintentional, which I committed along the way.

I cannot forget my grandpa Alfredo on my mother’s side. Unlike my father who talked loudly at times, my grandfather calmly talked and did his work and responsibilities. He died when I was 13. My grandfather had this sense of justice which cuts through with no favoritism.. He did not tolerate foolishness and there was one incident I cannot forget. I was then in my primary years when a neighbor-friend and I lit a neighboring cogon house which set smoke and flames shooting up.

This subjected me to a whipping by my grandfather. While that was a naughty and innocent prank done by a nine year old kid, that whipping incident instilled in me not to take favorites when discipline as precedent comes first. It was a lesson which I am still learning in different circumstances.

I cannot forget my grandma Emilia on my mother’s side. Patient, forgiving and kind. Close to the hearth and close to the earth, she taught me how to value the oven and the soil as well where food came from to cook in the oven.

This I guess was the most sustaining and intense imprint which I continue to carry in me. The soil which I tilled with my grandmother who taught me how to weed and dig sweet potatoes or what we call “ubi”, made me appreciate the value of hard work to get something like food.

Along with this came the forest where wood fuel and “ka-iw” (wood) was taken to light the oven to cook food. Life was difficult as compared to the present where a click of a gas stove is enough to heat what is to be eaten. Life, I have come to know, is worth living having and one has to value the land where one has been brought up.

I cannot forget my grandmother Soledad on my father’s side. She died when I was seven. I remember her with that Maria Clara dress which she carried imperiously along with a commanding voice wherein her instruction was final. Along with that aristocratic bearing in her, I sensed a deep sense of spirituality and social belonging she had with her which awed me.

I cannot forget a neighbor-nurse Inan Ann Timpac who was the best friend of my grandma. She died a few years earlier than my grandma who died in year 2000. She nursed my grandfather when he was sick and bedridden with diabetes.

When she came to see her patient, she always had a long chat with my grandma. I heard their conversations. I came to know of her cutting, practical and ascerbic remarks which could wound feelings, the remarks if taken objectively were true. Where journalism calls for hard facts and cold critique, Inan Ann who is also an auntie is best remembered.

I cannot forget a neighbor -- aunti Flora Bawing who instilled strong values of family responsibility amidst the odds and exercised social consciousness at the same time.
Having to take care of two demanding responsibilities at the same time was really something worth doing and learning from. Her children grew up with their own respective careers and equally have the sterling qualities of their mother worth passing on. She died two years ago. Her daughters are my very good friends and conversation with them goes with lots of laughter, wit, sense and respect for each other .

I cannot forget Kalog-id, a good friend and a townmate who died some years back . Sprightly and buoyant amidst a life which made her responsible for a sick mother while thinking of the welfare of a daughter estranged from her. Kalog-id must have carried a motto that life was too short to live by and being cranky just made life bitter and not helpful in making things better. Be happy.

The list could go on with family, neighbors, friends, classmates, colleagues, townmates, who joined the Creator earlier and left imprints to live by with human weaknesses and redemption worth learning from by the living.

In the event of these two soulful occasions, Padi Brent sent me a text message last Thursday worth considering from a preacher which left me meditating on the sinner in me and how much of a ‘lotus’ one can be.

As I am holed up somewhere here in the vast universe where lotus is their national flower, I am wondering how such an independently soulful and meaningful flower could abound in a country where corruption and conspiracy are a fact of life.

Anyways, the text message: “Confucious says, ‘Be a lotus’ which means no matter how ugly and how evil and how sinful everyone around you might become, don’t allow yourself to be stained. A lotus remains beautiful even as it lingers in the filthy waters of the pond. Don’t be contaminated. Don’t be influenced by worthless means. Remain radiant among the shadows of darkness. Be a lotus. It has to start with one, to fill the pond with more”.

Thanks Padi for the soul-searching and enlightening message.