April Love

It must have been my colds, or I am already getting deaf, because I did not quite understand when an Indonesian colleague asked me one time if I was interested in watching “April Love.”

 The silence that followed, as I tried to comb through the cobwebs of my brain to recall what new movie was that, apparently gave away that I was clueless as to what he was saying.

“You know, that movie starring Julia Roberts, where a portion was shot in Bali (in Indonesia),” he elucidated.  He meant “Eat Pray Love,” which sounded differently to me when he uttered it. 

“Yes, I am,” I told him, also curious what Bali might look like in the movie, as I missed a recent trip with officemates to the island internationally famous for its white sand beaches.

Based on the best-selling memoir by Elizabeth Gilbert, the film was about a woman whose unhappy marriage led her to go to Italy, India, and Indonesia to “find herself.” After her divorce, she appeared reluctant to love again, despite finding it in Bali. In the end, however, after helpful advice, she yielded, finding the “crossover” her life needed.

This made me remember a friend who sighed one time that she wished she could have a one-week break from life.  It was like wishing to die and be resurrected after seven days.  I later learned her relationship was on the rocks or that it was shaky from the start.

Unlike a ball game, however, we regrettably cannot have that timeout from life, even if the path is full of thorns and the journey does not seem to unfold the way we want it.  

The best approach to dealing with life’s obstacles is to still trod on and cut our losses, to sling those heavy backpacks on our bent backs and plod on through the sleet and rain, come hell or high water. 

We have to hang on for the sake of our loved ones and those who love us, since by simply being there we make them happy. (That is aside from making our enemies angry in seeing us pick ourselves up, with our dignity intact, from a nasty fall into the muck.) 

Though we may be pummeled every which way, with every ounce of our body wanting that we plop down and die; though we feel that the last shred of hope is taken away from us, we must bear through it all for our loved ones.

 

It is because they are the ones who give meaning to everything that we do; they make this life worth living and the hardships worth enduring. 

However, if those whom we thought complete our lives are actually hurting us and causing us pain, that is the time to let go.

If Roberts’ character had to eat in Italy, pray in India, and love in Bali before realizing that she has to move on and cross over to the next chapter of her life, we need not go to those places just to see when we must give up to gain what we need.

We must understand that false hopes are not worth clinging on to, and that ignoring the right course is simply fooling no one but ourselves .  

Sadly, though, this advice often falls on deaf ears, with many preferring to hear “April Love” than straining to know the right words.

Condolence, My Bad

Have you ever been in a situation so humiliating you sincerely wish you evaporate from the very spot you are rooted on and vanish in thin air? 

Situations where you wish you have that Star Trek communicator on your breast so you can just press it and whisper "Scotty, beam me up," so that you are whisked away to the USS Enterprise, or to any hell-hole, for that matter, aside from that you find yourself in?

I felt that way a few years ago when I traveled to another city I have not been to for so long to attend the burial of my grandmother.

I was told the requiem was at one in the afternoon; and since I was already late, I did not bother going to my uncle's house where the wake was, and just proceeded straight to the church.

When I arrived, a huge crowd was already there, which suited me fine because I was inconspicuous among the throng as I find my way to where my immediate relatives were.

I saw people in white gathered around a coffin near the altar, so I slowly made a beeline towards them.  I could not immediately see my parents, but I told myself that maybe they were just hidden among those folks.

Halfway through my slow trek, I noticed a relative; so, out of courtesy, I remarked to him that a lot of people were saying their last farewells.

"This is not yet it, " he said.

Thinking that what he meant was that more were still coming, including my parents who were not yet around, I proceeded to the front and elbowed my way through so I can take a last glimpse of my grandmother, whom I did not see for years until her death.

The people in white grudgingly gave ground and parted for me. So, trying hard not to let my emotion overcome me, I gazed into the glass cover, only to take a step back and gasp in surprise,  momentarily paralyzed and not believing what I saw.

It was not my grandmother. The body was not even female but that of a thin, gaunt man. I attended the wrong funeral.

The people in white clearly saw my stunned expression, but no one recovered from their confusion quick enough to confront me before I snapped out of the shock and made a mad dash out of the church, not caring about the small ruckus that resulted.

Panting and shaking outside the church,  dazed as moments ago I was in the cusp of crying my heart out, I realized that what my relative meant is that it was not yet the mass for my grandmother and that her cortege was still on its way.

It turned out the mass was reset to the next hour because that for the gaunt man got reserved first; and nobody bothered telling me.

Until now, my mother does not know why I looked pallid when she saw me sipping a Coke to calm my nerves moments after that mortifying episode.

Lesson learned: pay attention to detail.

A well-meaning woman who misread a Facebook post of a friend, who said she was sad because her very sick mother was "passing through" a difficult stage of her life,  for sure learned the same lesson as well.

After reading the friend's lament, the woman wasted no time in expressing her condolences for the loved one who "passed away." So earnest she was in her empathy that she also told an officemate, who likewise published a short note on her sorrow over the supposed demise of the friend's mother. That started an outpouring of sympathy from the world.

The friend, after learning of what happened, could only cry in horror, torn between lashing out in anger for the carelessness or being polite enough to respect the intention and just let the matter pass.

The condolence messages have since been removed.

The friend's mother is still alive, but I am sure, like when I was in the wrong funeral, the well-meaning woman died of embarrassment that day.