One Breath at a Time

Darkness. 

Rain. Dampness. Cold. Alone. 

 One breath at a time, I say to myself. 

Inhale.

I don't know what to think of this year anymore. I can romanticize it by saying it has compelled me to release the things I no longer need. 

I still need my mother. 

Exhale. 

 However, it seems I don't have a say in the decision of these things.  

Inhale. 

There is nothing romantic about loss lying beside you at night, accompanying you in your sleep and waking you in the morning. 

Exhale. 

There is nothing romantic about it suddenly appearing in the most unexpected times of the day. When I just want to not bear the pain for even 5 seconds. 

When doing the dishes reminds me of how my mother was the one who taught me how to do it the proper way. “Pile all the plates, spoons and forks, rinse them first with water to wash away food residue. Then get the sponge and rub dishwashing paste on it and soap them all. Rinse properly until when you run your forefinger across the plate, it makes a sound. This tells you that there is no soap left.” 

And when she always said, " Ako lang ang manghugas sa plato para malimpyo akong kamot." 

Inhale. 

There is nothing romantic about loss when I look at myself in the mirror and see how much I am physically transforming into my mother.  The way my eyelids droop, the crow’s feet on the corners of my eyes, the bridge of my nose, the pigmentation on my cheeks, the waviness of my hair. 

There is nothing romantic about the way I stop myself from reaching out to the mirror imagining I am once again holding my mother’s face. 

Exhale. 

There is nothing romantic when anxiety grips my heart and I hear her voice saying, "Ug naa ka’y panginahanglan, naa ra gyud ka’y masangpit," knowing even if I go home this minute to Minglanilla because it is she that I need and not just whoever else, her white Monobloc chair where she used to sit everyday waiting for me to come home, now empty, will greet me. 

Inhale.

There is nothing romantic about losing my mother. There is only the immensity of ache planting a fist in my heart.

It’s okay, Bea. I say to myself. One breath at a time. Exhale.

Light

Sunshine. Warmth. Flowers. Less alone. 

Inhale. 

Meanwhile, surrounding this darkness are sunrays  passing through the cracks. 

 Words from friends and family that soothe the wound:

"This pain is love." 

"Dili ka diri ra kutob." 

"Your mother surely still left so much more of your heart " 

"Let the waves of grief take you where you need to go." 

"Call me if you need anything. Message me anytime." 

"Thinking of you, praying for you, said a rosary for you, heard mass for you."

“We are standing with you.” 

"Healing will come soon." 

And sometimes no words are said but acts of kindness:

Embraces that last until the pain does not ache as much. 

Or roses sent in a bouquet or 

Periwinkles or Blue Wings to grow in the garden. 

All differently phrased, differently shown but saying the same thing, 

"You are not alone in this. I feel your pain."

Exhale. 

Humor in the most mundane of things. For instance: 

My student from Yoga class who had this look on her face saying she wants to kill me already because of the strong sequence we just did. 

My hairdresser seeing me after 8 months since my last appointment on my new boy hair cut telling me I look more handsome than my husband. “Mas gwapo gyud ka, Ma’am kaysa ni Sir.” 

Our gardener telling me in all authority and seriousness to not dare touch the grass shears because I don't know how to use it. "Ayaw nalang pagtuga-tuga mam, kay mapahak ang yuta." 

A cousin who posed wacky in the family group photo on the 40th Novena Mass of my Mom. In church, might I add. 

Ay, so many of these moments that make me laugh until tears spill. 

Inhale.

And then the tears spill for real. Overflowing. 

Exhale. 

I don't have a say in these things as well as they happen. They just do. 

There is also no romance in all this. Just like the loss of my mother. 

But even as I can see this year compelling me to release the things or people that have somehow accomplished their purpose in my life, another undeniable truth takes shape. This year is compelling me to let new light, fresh laughter, so much more kindness and love to come in, to enter here in my heart that is broken so that the planted fist around it may break free. 

Inhale deeply. 

It would seem I know now what to make of this year after all:

This is the year of letting go and the year of letting love, the all-encompassing love flow.

Exhale completely. 

One. Breath. At. A. Time. 

"There is a perfectly still moment right before dawn when the sun gathers itself and then steps into the dark world and everything is so filled with light that any doubts from that long night are barely a memory. It is the way of all things that the night ends and the light returns. 

The light always returns. " 

                                                                                                                    - Brian Andreas