Giving

The Art of Giving is very much like the Ability to Respire. As a common rule, it is necessary that one inhale a certain amount of air before one can exhale anything. This is also true for giving; you must first have something to give. How much can one inhale? Well, this depends on mainly two things: one’s innate lung capacity and one’s training to utilize it to the fullest potential. Everyone, hopefully, is born with a standard lung capacity that allows an optimum amount of oxygen flow to keep him or her functional. Some people are born with a larger-than-average lung capacity; some, like athletes, orators and opera singers trained themselves to develop either a larger lung capacity, and/or the ability to use it to the fullest potentials. Continuing the analogy, if you are alive, than it is most certain that you have a capacity of things that you can readily give. How much you can give, therefore becomes a function of your training on giving. An opera singer may have voice trainings, which includes training to inhale a gradual increase amount of air, and then throwing the air out to project one’s voice and make the tones rounder. This is true for people learning to give, at first one may not have much to give, but as one receives more and more, one will find it easier to give more and more back. However, no matter how much air you inhale, it is known facts that you will never be truly able to exhale all of it back out. There will always be a certain amount remaining inside you. This is important because you can never truly give all that you have, even if it is your best, you should always save something for yourself to build upon for the next time you give.

My Father - The Camera Man

The eye of the LORD is on those who fear Him, on those who hope in His mercy.

—Psalm 33:18

The other day, I was sitting there going through the recess of my mind, searching for memories of my youth. Strangely, much of what I recalled during this exercise were not animated scenes that one may expected, but instead stationary photographs of certain episodes.  What is even stranger, one central figure to my life seems to be absent from most of these photos. There were a lot of photos of my mother and me together, of my mom alone, or me alone. Yet, there were very few in which my father was part of it.  I was puzzled at first, being the psychology student that I was, I began to wonder if I was suppressing some sort of Oedipus complex. They say that when you are about to die, your life flashes before your eyes; and it bothers me greatly that if I should be dying, my memories should contain so little of my father. So I sat and ponder the reason for my father’s absence, and then it came to me, it was simple. The reason my father was missing from most of my photos was because he was the one behind the camera most of the time.

Thinking back, my father was always the cameraman in the family. Wherever we go, whatever the occasion is, my father is the one charged with the camera. I say, “charged?, but more or less he volunteered for it. He has got the steadiest hands in the family (no offense to my mom), and he doesn’t seem to mind not being in the pictures. Always, he would be the one urging us to pose for a memory. I can see him now, concentrating behind those lenses, motioning us into place. Rarely would my father pose for a photo himself; he usually waves it off whenever we asked if he wanted to be in a picture. I don’t believe it has anything to do with shyness, after all, my father is a pretty good-looking man if I do say so myself.  Yet, for some reason, the day he became the family man, my father took on the responsibility of being the cameraman. For him, it was important that there were memories of mom and me together, of me growing up through the years. Always, at those special events of my life, he would be there bustling about snapping pictures. Filing them away, documenting the memories, and expressing his love for his family the way he knows how. The stern man that I knew as a child became an incredibly dotting one when it comes to taking pictures. He wants us to be imprinted in the best possible way on a picture, and so he would go the extent to make sure that the angles are right. I am not saying my father is a professional photographer, but if ever there were anyone who worships his family and paints them in the most desirable and loving light, that person would be my father. My father took pride in those pictures; to him, they are a testimony of his good works. He may not be in those photos physically, but like most aspects of our lives, he is the architect of making it possible, and making it memorable. As I sit there and reminiscent, I realize what an act of sacrifice it was, a gesture of tenderness that I have failed to appreciate all these years. To be willing to take pictures of your loved ones, and risk being somehow neglected in the memory process … that speaks volumes on the duty and love of a father. A father who is forever present in low profile, but continuously demonstrating his great affection in the minute things that truly matters.

A Budding Romance

Have you ever walked along a beach, and watched the sandpipers dance with the waves?  It is a fascinating ritual of nimble scurrying back and forth the reclining water edges as the waves recede on and off the shores; a mutual tango of relinquishing and reclaiming the sacred grounds between ocean and land. There is something fascinating about this staccato dance between the vast ocean and these petit birds. On one hand, you have the stern sea periodically smoothing the sand; on the other hand, you have the timid sandpipers constantly imprinting their impressions on the sand. It is quite a joy to behold, and in many ways this dance reminds me of human attempts at love and success. Often, we stand before the vastness of our dreams, looking, pondering. Gently it beckons to us alluringly; and timidly do we venture forth, hoping to build up the courage to dive in. We will rush forth, only to beat a hasty retreat when it surges up close. In love and the affairs of the hearts, are we not the same? Do we not look at the greatness of romance and succumb to its call? Do we not skitter towards it, testing the water, waiting for reciprocity? Then, when it builds and rushes towards us, do we not shy away for fear that we may drown in it; flailing our arms wildly about lest we be swept off our feet.

Since the days of our ancestors, humans have developed a lasting affair with the sea. From walking upon the sandy beaches, scaling the heights of the lighthouses, to sailing across it. The sea is an insurmountable entity, with seemingly endless horizon. It poses itself to us as something we should conquer, it taunts us to pursue it to the ends of the earth, and to land where we may and should. Yet, we are like the sandpapers, dancing upon the shores, gazing at it longingly, forlornly. I guess that is why we like to collect seashells and pebbles from the beach, for they are the token of our dreams, a souvenir to bring with us when we turn and walk away from the calling waves. And when we stray far enough, we will take out that seashell and put it in our ears so that we may hear the beating of the waves, and be reminded the deep-seated calling of our dreams.