The past five months

How the past five months have flown!

As I start writing this, I’m somewhere above the Pacific Ocean on my 11-hour flight from Tokyo to Chicago. It’s a welcome rest from the whirlwind that stretched from January up to last night’s Hangad party (which left me with only 2.5 hours of sleep before my flight). When the year began, I announced to my friends at work: I’m down to my last twenty weekly meetings with my agencies. At the time, twenty weeks seemed like a long time. How wrong I was: those twenty weeks, and the four weeks after it leading up to this trip, were filled with events and experiences I was determined to blog about as they unfolded, but unfortunately, had no time to.

Good thing this trip has allowed me to sift through the months’ events, record the best of them, and—just before taking on an already-long-and-steadily-still-growing list of things to do once I arrive in Boston—distill them into the three biggest things these past months have taught.

* * *

The first is detachment.

It started in January, when I sold my condominium unit. James and I had lived in the building since he moved to Manila in 2003; we bought this particular unit in the building June 2008, taking advantage of P&G’s housing loan benefit; James moved out in April 2010, some time after our breakup, leaving me with a condo that was too big for me; and by late 2010, I put the condo up for sale—initially hoping to buy another unit, but later realizing I should go to Berklee. For a whole year, my broker was unable to sell it; only when I e-mailed my personal network in late 2011 did I find a buyer, one of my previous bosses. (Good for me, since I saved on broker commission.)

The paperwork and payments went smoothly enough; it was the physical moving out that cut to the core. Though James and I were no longer together, I couldn’t help but recall that this was still the dream home we had envisioned for ourselves—walls lined with CDs and DVDs, knickknacks from our travels scattered all around, and a room for me to display my Lego collection—and it was horrible to see it all being dismantled and boxed, right before my eyes. This dream home had taken years to build, and moments to take apart. And as I went through every shelf, cabinet, and box, classifying items as “bring to Antipolo”, “place in storage”, and “donate or throw out”, I would remember the back-story behind each item—and practical as I am, sentimentality would make it difficult to let go of several items, and at times resentment towards James would even build up (“He should be here!” “We were supposed to move out of this house together, not like this!”). And finally, as I unpacked the half of my stuff that didn’t go into storage in Antipolo, I looked around me and saw my personal living space cut to one-eighth of what it used to be and my privacy eliminated, and—since the house was built at a time when Antipolo air was as cool as Tagaytay—bid farewell to air conditioning.

More detachment came in mid-April, when I left P&G. I returned my car, my mobile phone, my mobile Internet, my laptop, my gas cards, my company credit card, and even my company ID. I lost the 100 shares of P&G stock that had been awarded to me during the fiscal year when I performed exceptionally well. I relinquished power over an organization of over a thousand people. I lost the ability to proudly say, “I work for one of the world’s biggest and best companies.” And whereas each of my previous resignations had actually led to better pastures, this time, I was joining the ranks of the unsalaried and unemployed.

I was house-less, carless, jobless, salary-less, powerless; living off savings and the kindness of my parents who let me have my own room back and gave me use of a car.

But, I realized very shortly after the blow to the ego wore off, it wasn’t actually that bad. In fact, during my retreat at the Cenacle at the start of May, I saw how awesome it was to be so detached. Having given up all these security blankets and reassurances of worth and identity—and more importantly, having coming to terms with having done so—I could now be anything I wanted, rebuild and reshape my life however I wanted. I thought to myself at the retreat: Berklee will be an awesome experience; but merely being in this pre-Berklee state of starting from scratch, with no baggage or shackles, and with only boundless possibility spread wide before you, is just as awesome.

* * *

Second is focusing on what truly matters—or, more accurately, who really matters.

I told Inay over breakfast a few days ago: all this saying goodbye these past months has been like practicing to die. In a good way, that is, because it puts things in perspective: if you had only a few days left on earth, how would you spend them?  And, especially as departure date drew closer, I found that I wasn’t spending the days online, or shopping, or working out, or even blogging or doing advance reading for Berklee. Rather, I was spending the days with people I love, cherishing their company, being thankful for their presence in my life, and telling them so.

Hence, the family weekend in Tagaytay, the lunch with cousins and aunts and uncles, the coffee with Jo-Ed, the lunches and dinners with former colleagues, and every spare moment spent (or in some cases, more like stolen) with Kenneth.

But of all this spending time with those who mattered, none mattered more than spending time with my parents.

I had been living away from home since 2003, when James moved to Manila and we moved in together—or if you count the months I was assigned to Cebu for work, since mid-2001. From then until the start of 2012, I didn’t see my parents a lot. I barely visited the house in Antipolo, and instead, we would meet up in restaurants (near my area at that) for family lunches (usually to celebrate someone’s birthday) or after Hangad events (which averaged four times a year). Also, I barely called, texted or emailed just for the heck of it. When I did call, text, or email, it was because I wanted to share something good that happened to me, but never a simple “how are you guys doing?”; and when Inay would write or text simply to ask how I was, I would usually answer hours later—if at all.

Sure, there were special moments, such as trips to Baguio for Tatay’s birthday, Boracay for most new years, Singapore and Hong Kong for their wedding anniversary, and Vietnam as a thank you treat from me, as well as a move from to encourage them to travel more. Plus, I also talked about them non-stop to my friends, with huge love and pride and affection.

Still, despite these special moments and the love with which I spoke of them, up to today, I invariably think to myself when I recall that I also hardly visited, called, texted, or emailed: What the fuck was I thinking?  And, shame on you, asshole. I literally cannot believe I was capable of that kind of behavior. What the fuck was I thinking?  As best as I can remember, part of me relished being the more independent, street-smart son, who as always needed less “parental supervision”. Part of me didn’t want to bother my parents (Inay’s tendency to fuss when her sons were sick became an especially convenient excuse for me never to tell her when I was sick). Part of me thought, they know I love them, I tell them often, I don’t need to be constantly in touch. And most shamefully, part of me was too busy with climbing the corporate ladder, reaping success after success, and even writing songs and working on concerts and albums for Hangad. Inay liked to repeat the words matters of consequence from The Little Prince as I grew up, and it might actually have been a warning to me. But whatever it is, I think to myself: shame on you, you asshole—especially because, even while you were being a distant, irresponsible son, your parents were intently observing your career rise, listening to all of your angsting and shifting, watching each of your concerts, welcoming you back into your room, and agreeing to pay for your Berklee education.

So, alongside detachment, the best thing about the past few months has been making up for lost time with the Inay and Tatay who have been unwaveringly faithful all these years, my behavior notwithstanding. I took them to movies and restaurants they would not otherwise have seen or eaten at; I volunteered to drive everywhere we went (and not only because Tatay drives only half as fast as I do); we chatted at the breakfast table and dinner table; and in what I call “my last act as a salaried person”—which was yet another plea for them to travel more, since Vietnam didn’t do the trick—I brought them to Angkor and Bangkok. My initial it’s-all-just-in-my-mind silliness about moving into a space one-eighth the size of my condo, and my insecurity about living with my parents at 34 years old were extremely short-lived, and quickly overtaken by the generous supply of kisses good morning and good night, and thank yous, and I love yous, from the time I moved back to Antipolo in early February, up to yesterday morning when my parents (along with Jo-Ed and Ken) saw me off at NAIA.

And I like to think it wasn’t atonement—not entirely, at least—but rather, a deliberate, intense, and tangible demonstration of the love and admiration which I took for granted all along as “something they knew anyway”. And now, though I will miss them tremendously while I’m at Berklee, I have loads of memories and words and snapshots from the last five months—as well as a reawakened bond with these two amazing people who have shaped me into who I am today—to see me through.

* * *

And third was the overwhelming supply of love and gratitude that flowed my way for five months.

“You have touched two thousand lives,” said one of my In-Store Ambassador team leaders, before hundreds of other team leaders, at the quarterly meeting with them when my boss announced I was leaving. At the same meeting, another team leader pressed a rolled piece of notebook paper into my hands as she hugged me and whispered a tearful “thank you”. I opened the paper when I got home to find a translucent green rosary, its threads between beads slightly browned from use—her personal rosary, I assume, and the only thing of hers she could find to give to me when my boss made the announcement. Throughout my twelve years in the corporate world, this statement and this rosary from a team leader are my most cherished recognition, and my most cherished reward.

At last March’s monthly meeting with my 100 Olay Beauty Consultants—which, that month, happened to be my birthday—the team surprised me with balloons and a cake and a huge bouquet of flowers. And at next month’s meeting, shortly after the announcement of my resignation, they played a video full of thank you and I’ve learned so much and good luck and God bless, and sang “I Will Be Here.”

As I resigned from P&G in April and sent out the customary goodbye letter to colleagues and friends at work, emails came rushing back, congratulating me, wishing me well in this new phase, wishing me luck and blessings as I follow my dream, and thanking me for the inspiration I gave them to follow their own dreams, and asking for prayers that they too might one day be able to do the same.

During my retreat last May, letters collected by Kenneth from Hangad and family members thanked me for my friendship, humor, listening ear, encouragement, passion, and so many other things beyond choral direction and new songs—and told me how much I would miss me, and await my coming home.

And at last night’s Hangad concert, members of different choirs were called on stage to sing “One Thing I Ask”, one of the first songs I wrote, and definitely the most inspired. The number was a tribute I had no idea about, and it left me sobbing, so much so that I was unable to properly accompany the next song. The same song found me sobbing as embarrassingly during my last concert with the Ateneo College Ministry Group before college graduation in 1999, because I recalled how much the Group had meant to me; but this time, it was not so much the moving on and missing Hangad, but the edifying realization that my work had touched so many lives.

All this mattered so much to me, being one who sometimes feels misunderstood and perceived merely as bitchy and cranky (“I’m not bitchy! I just set high expectations of myself, and expect the same from everyone else around me”), and who sometimes feels valued only for my music or entertainment value (“If I weren’t a musician, or if I weren’t so catty, would you still like me?”)—and who really just wants to do what he can to make the best of himself, and give what he can to make his mark on as many people as he can.

* * *

As I wrap this up, I’m about to go to sleep at what will be my home in Cambridge, just north of Boston and a few subway stops from Berklee, for at least the next year. Since leaving Antipolo for NAIA, I have spent over 35 hours in transit, several hours of getting to know my housemates, several hours doing errands, a couple of hours on FaceTime and Yahoo Messenger with Inay, Tatay, Kenneth and Jo-Ed, and too few hours asleep. When I wake up a few hours from now, my orientation at Berklee begins.

Tomorrow, Berklee begins. How amazing is it to be at the moment you only dreamed of, and never imagined you would actually ever be at, for the past eight years? And how exciting is it thinking about where I’ll be eight more years down the line? Aah, Universe; I’ll be sure to reopen this blog entry, and have a blast rereading it then.