My Father's Daughter

The things we need to do to live, to stop from dying. Are these two one and the same? Or are they separate things? Call it existential crisis or some form of it. These questions run through my head these days. Necessary to live or to stop from dying.

I sip my cup of black, sit on our front steps, listen to the numerous birds singing. The sun is already high. But from where I sit, cool air still surrounds me. An epiphany appears or more of a question really: "Was it because your soul was dying?" There is only silence. Many moons ago my Yoga teacher told me to listen to the beat of my heart and I could not hear it. Why couldn't I hear it? I asked myself, frustrated, scared that I didn't have the ability to. What does this mean?

There is the work that I do. There is the good work I do. And then there is what I love to do, born to do. The things I need to do to live. And the things I need to do to stop my soul from dying. 

Identity.  I am my father's daughter.

Identity. Our Psych teachers told us our present lives are products of our upbringing. The families we were born into. The families we grew up with. The families we seek. The families we create. How much we are intertwined with people who mothered us, fathered us or did not father us. The choices we make. The lives we lead from the consciousness we choose to take.

I was told my father wrote poetry. When he was alive, he never told me. I remember only the things he needed to do to live. I remember only the family he raised. I remember only his kindness. I remember only the books he bought me. I remember only moments.

Back in 1999, I remember every time we'd pass by the road somewhere in Mabolo to and from college, my father would point out to me the young tree he planted just recently with his civic group. He was around 68 years old that time. What was most vivid in my mind was how it seemed so important to him. I felt he was talking more to himself than to me. Was he somehow convincing or validating himself as somebody who did something as good in the suburbs of Cebu? In his life? I thought to myself.

Identity. I am my father's daughter.

A week ago, the project I initiated together with a few good humans, a book launch of three authors, came to pass. Beautifully, I might add.  There was nothing in it for me. There was something for the community-- the rebirthing of Literary Arts, I kept on repeating to the audience. To myself, this task I willingly took on.  But really, forget all the bullshit. I wanted to save myself, my soul from dying. 

The things we need to do to live, to stop from dying.

I do not know if the the tree my father planted 19 years ago is still alive and flourishing. It was one year before he died that he planted that tree. There was no fanfare, no media publicity, not to our knowledge, at least. But I remember very clearly, everyday we passed by, he would extend his arm outside the car window and say the line, "I planted that tree."

I do not know if the book launch I initiated bore any significant weight to the community. Although there was not too much fanfare, there was moderate publicity in social and print media. But perhaps, just like my father, I only have to remember very clearly that on the days leading to the event and on the day itself, it was the first time in a very long time that I felt tremendously alive.

Maybe this was what my father was doing many years ago, planting that young tree. Maybe this is what I am doing after all. And the reason I couldn't hear my heart beat for quite a long time is that I allowed my soul to disintegrate for far too long.

I began writing this post 3 months ago. Now it is a Sunday, almost noon. A solitary bird chirps sharply and sweetly all at the same time. I am in our Yoga room. I am writing the end to this piece--

I can hear my heart beat now.

Happy Father's Day, Pa.