A response to "If" by H. Hoffman

And as he spoke these words of wisdom, she thought to herself:

"Yes, He remembers my birthday, but more importantly He remembers to treat me as if every day is my birthday. Yes, he always walks on the side of street that offers me the most protection, but more importantly He walks with me. Yes, He opens doors naturally for me, doors to world about which I have only dreamed. Yes, He anticipates my needs and fulfills them like no one else. Yes, He compliments me sincerely every day simply by choosing to spend every precious moment with me and no one else. Yes, He knows all my little peccadilloes, and He still holds me in the highest regards. Yes, He holds my hands, but more importantly he holds my heart. Yes, He makes me laugh to no end, lifting my spirits to unfathomable limits. Yes, He invokes a feeling of perfection, for He has chosen me above all others. Yes, He pretends I am right even when I am wrong, placing me on a pedestal upon which He should truly stand. Yes, yes, yes, He understands the value of waiting for me, but He should not have to wait forever. Yes, He acknowledges my achievements and encourages me to pursue my dreams, even if those dreams lead me down roads less traveled. And yes, with a simple glance, a modest whisper, the slightest touch, He causes my heart to swell with a form of affection that words cannot describe... well, at least words befitting this declaration filled with sincere thoughts exuding purity.”

And as she turned away from him to face her betrothed, lingering stoically near the altar, she confessed, “But He is not the one standing in front of me at the end of that aisle. He is the one standing behind me; the One who should be standing beside me until the end of time.”

By H. Hoffman

If

She went up to him on her wedding day, the prettiest bride there is, and asked, "So, what do you think of him? Have I chosen right?" 

And he looked at her, standing there in her wedding gown, a beautiful woman and at once a timid girl seeking for one final approval. What would be the right answer, no, better yet, what would be the prudent one? He had known this day would find him, and he had envisioned every possible angle that he could handle it. In some recess of his mind, he had silently wished that it would not be so, that he would not be subjected to this scenario despite all caution and preparations. Yet, here he is now, standing there, the fool who is given an innocent enough question that proves the hardest one to answer. There is no time to think it through, not that he needed it anyway as he knew long ago to show any hesitation when this moment arrive would cause distress on her part. But it would have been nice to have a moment to regroup before those well rehearsed lines evaporate as he gazed into those quizzical eyes. 

"If he can remember your birthday, and the birthdays of everyone who matters to you, and act upon it. If he will always walk on the side of the street that will offer you the most protection. If he can open doors, and pull up a chair for you naturally. If he can anticipate your needs before they can manifest themselves. If he can compliment you sincerely every day. If he can tell all your little peccadillos, and notice all your nanosecond expressions, from that slight twitch of your mouth when you want to bite back a comment, to that minute wrinkle of your nose when you find something amusing. If he understand that it doesn't matter that it is 70 degrees outside, you would still need him to hold your hands to keep them warm. If he knows how to make you laugh, and does so. If he knows what makes you cry and prevents it. If he can make you feel comfortable about the fact that you are not perfect at times, but that you are perfect for him regardless. If he can forget the many times that he was right and you were not, and remember all the times that you were right. If he can keep up, and you are willing to slow down a bit, so that you both are always side by side. If he understand the value of waiting for you, no matter how late you are, and smiles like it is the first time he has seen you in years each time you two meet again. If he knows which are the battles worth fighting, and which wars are you to conquer on your own. If he can be proud of your achievements, and push you to go on further, and if you can do likewise. If your pupils dilate, your heart swells with overwhelming tenderness towards him each time you see, hear, or feel something that reminds you of him. If the answer to all of these questions, and perhaps many more is 'Yes', then yes, you have chosen wise, and therefore go in peace and love him with all your heart as he loved you"

"and most of all," this he said silently to himself as she turns away with such contentment and joy radiating from her being, "if  he loves you as I loved you, to an extent that you will never know, then yes, by all means, you have done right by marrying him."

Set Sail

Upon this beach I stand, 
    rolling waves upon shingles, 
        bubbly, sinewy, and carefree.     
            Chilly water trickling at my feet. 
                My sleeves billowing in the cool sea breeze.
 
The horizon as far as the eyes can see,
    offers no boundaries to what one can achieve. 
       Yet, here we abide, beside tempestous water's edge
          Wanting, hopeful, and yet fearful of venturing ahead 
             Can the seas be conquered? Can the ocean be tamed? Who will know?

Yet without trying, without setting sail, how can we ascertain
    that our dreams are for real ? So I beseech you, to dawdle no longer. 
       Hesitate not, and go forth, until you have reach earth's far reaching ends.
          Until your dreams have been attained, til you can rest assure you have not lived in vain.
             Go forth sailor, your body's your vessel, your heart's a steering wheel, embark and set sail.

My Countenance

Not too long ago, I came across a photo that looked like it could have come out of the National Geographic's Special Edition on the Mars Explorer. It showed a reddish landscape void of life - barren and filled with craters. If you looked closely enough, you would see traces of where the essence of life once flowed freely but now sucked dry and decayed. It was not a very promising photo, one may say it was very fitting for the issue of the lonely planet. 

Yet, this was not a photo torn from an issue of the National Geographic, or for that matter The Geology Annals. No, this was a blow up picture of my face. Indeed, I was horrified to discovered that the contours that I had mistaken earlier for valleys and folds of a once lushed planet is in fact the outlines of my facial structures. That volcano in the background is actually one of my nostrils, and the craters in the surrounding environs are really the scars of a puberty gone terribly terribly wrong. 

Ah, what agony, what despair it is to behold this heinous face of mine. So depraved, not even aliens would inhabit it. This is where uni-cellular organism came to die. It is a desert high in pH and rich in fossil fuels from failed cultures of bacteria. This is my face... and my oh miy, what a face it is.

At last, I understand why I seemingly have the Medusa effect on others. What I mistaken for due reverence is actually disgust and mixed marvel at the planet Mars that seems to tread among mankind. I have inherited a countenance that could smoothen out sand paper. 

Sensing my distress, a group of Andy-friendly persons formed a Blue Ribbon Committee to explore options on what can be done to alleviate the blemish region. After much reconnaissance, the committee discovered that what appears to be a barren wasteland is in fact a breeding ground for the inflammatory insurgents of Acne cells. These splinter cells have laid dormant over the years, accumulating the means to actually turn my face into a Weapon of Mass Destruction (WMD). Concerned that a future break out would crippled the region, making it susceptible to further erosion, the committee of Andy Friendly Persons (AFPs) called for a decisive preemptive strike on designated high threat regions. Operation FreeAcne was officially given the green light, and profiles of selected targets were drawn up. 

Invasive facial products were quickly assembled, and deployed to the region on active duty. (The first time I heard the term Product, my mind immediately wanders to the many advertisements which populated my spam box. Luckily, the AFPs were quick to lift me from the ground zero, and showed me the miracle that is Facial Products). In is decided that if we were to win this war on Acne, we must take the battle to them on their own turf. 

The first part of Operation FreeAcne commenced with the carpet bombing of inflicted regions with Deep Cleansing Pellets (DCPs). These DCPs have the ability to penetrate deep into the foxholes of Darkhead warriors, flush them out and subsequently pulverize them. For the first few weeks, the Darkheads were pinned down by the heavy artillery of DCPs.

Elite squads of Moisturizing Units (MU) were then deployed to systematically engage and destroy all aggressive Darkheads and Hormonal Insurgents (HIs). Night and day, with brutal efficiency, the MUs clashed head on with the HIs congregating in the area. Soon, much of the insurgencies were stemmed out, and the choke hold that the HIs once enjoyed over the inflicted area was broken.

Once the region was stabilized, a team of Re-Vitalizing Specialists were sent in. They first steam-roller through the rabble, clearing it of layers of dead debris. Then, vital nutrients and moisture were air dropped into the region, providing relieve to the region that had suffered from drought and famine under the Acne insurgent's rule. Irrigation systems were implanted, and a temporary coalition of Vitamins was set up to help the region become self sufficient again. 

It remains to be seen how effective the treatment was, but as of now, it can be said that much of the wasteland has been reclaimed and are now showing signs of life again. AFPs will revisit the region in a couple of months to gauge the improvements made, meanwhile, the three core branches of Facial Product (Deep Cleansing, Moisturizing, and Revitalizing) continues to work hard in building attractions to the area again. 

Keep Watch This Night

The wintry wind blew upon my face, its icy touch serves to remind me that I am live. Its 2am in the morning, and I have no idea why I am still up. The past few nights have been the same, my slumber interrupted by the need to rise and keep watch during the night. But keep watch over what though? So I sit, each night, on the front steps of the house, pondering the unknown. I can not recall what my mind was pondering, perhaps it was nothing, or perhaps it was everything.. but always like the whiteness that encompass all colors, my memory is blank.  In those hours between dusk and dawn, when the morning star is at its brightest, I recalled much, and I have forgotten much. 

The silence and stillness of the night causing a sonic buzz in my ears. I feel alert, and yet I know it can not be for I should be weary. It seemed not long ago when I would roam the streets at this hour, and paced my troubled soul to tranquility. Yet no longer have I the urge to do so here, here in this modern neighborhood the serenity is somewhat lost. Always a car would pass by and awaken me from my strolling reverie. Here, the doors are locked to me, the windows black, and the scenery stale. The stars in the sky is masked by the ambient urban light, the street lamps casting sterile cones in the darkness, more sinister than welcoming. So I sit, upon the steps, and be still. Be still as the minutes pass into hours, until I feel the gentle glow of dawn caressing my hand. Thus I bid welcome to the arrival of a new day, and watch as darkness wane before the sun's penetrating rays. Then do I feel I have done my part to keep watch this night, but over what I know not. 

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.