You know when you've realized something you've been trying to avoid for months and now that you've let yourself realize it, you can't un-realize it and your head is so upset with yourself that you can't handle it?
Yeah, that just happened to me.
Story is, I've loved someone for quite a long time. It was, of course, as these things are with me, unrequited. Or if it was returned or mutual in some way, shape or form, it was never spoken of, never addressed and never even brought to light. Unrequited. I told you. But I've been okay with it because you know what? I am the type of person that loves everyone because they're flawed because I'm flawed too. And I think that's a beautiful thing. Sue me.
So you can tell I'm a little angry. It's only because I've been feeling like a bit of an idiot. I'm sitting here sad about a guy I never even dated and you know what the worst part is? I still want him to be happy.
I do this thing every night. It's called lectio divina. It's a form of prayer that Catholics practice that involves scripture reading and meditation. I love it because it gets me to read every night and I'm reading something other than my nursing textbooks. For my meditation and reflection, I write in a little prayer journal. And I kid you not, in every prayer, even if it's just a sentence at the end, his name is written. And the funniest part is that I'm not even praying for him to marry me or like me or be my boyfriend. I'm praying for him to be happy and I guess the lifestyle he leads is happiness for him.
But I did something. In my heart, I secretly linked his happiness to mine without even letting myself realize it. How ridiculous is that?
So, I've let him go of my own volition. And this blog post isn't making much sense (I promise the next one will make much, much more sense), but I guess you can't put into words what a heart feels like.
It's easier to heal a bruised heart than it is to heal a broken one.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Honor Thy Mother and Father
Of the Ten Commandments, this one is the fifth. Before adultery and stealing as well as murder but after taking the Lord's name in vain and loving God. I think that speaks for its importance.
Unfortunately, the modern world has struck at even this, the building blocks of both Judaism and Christianity and honoring one's parents is as foreign a thought to children, teens and young adults today as another language is. I find that troubling.
I have a friend, you see. He is a few years older than I, at twenty-seven, but we were born and raised on the same American soil, he by his American parents and I by my parents, immigrants from the Philippines. Our families both practice Catholicism, both of us grew up going to Mass, receiving Communion and attending both Catholic and public schools as well as college. He is now pursuing his masters degree and I am finishing up my undergraduate studies. Our lives, at a glance, seem very similar, but there is much that he chooses to disagree with when it comes to my upbringing. Quite frankly, he disagrees with all of it.
Asian cultures are well-renowned to be different and the Filipino culture is no different, however, being raised as a Filipino on American soil has its social repercussions as well as taking a mental and emotional toll on the person living it. I was raised in a household where the standard was perfection. That, like many Asian cultures, is what our parents believed to build strong work ethics, good habits, and a drive and ambition unequaled. It did not matter that our friends were able to watch television, talk on the phone or go out on school nights and have sleepovers on the weekends. We were not. When we dared argue that "Everyone does it," my parents would simply respond with "Well, you're not everybody, you're Paula." One learns to just stop asking, after a while because it just prevents the raucous arguments and the barbaric slamming of doors and stomping of feet.
And I was not everybody, for sure.
The lowest grade I could get on any exam was a 97. I was not allowed to watch TV during the week and was only permitted to watch TV on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays until 6pm. I played three instruments, piano, violin and viola, and took lessons every week. I played in three or four orchestras at a time, was a competitive pianist and my academics were top notch. I only did my homework and the few times I was allowed on "playdates," I was always home by my bedtime, 8:00pm. I was not allowed to sleepover anyone's house but my own throughout my grade school, middle school and high school years, and even through college. I was open and honest with my parents. They called me to find out where I was if I was not at home by 10:00pm and would not go to sleep until I was in my own bed. And I am proud to say that even now, I honor my parents in this way, knowing that they're not getting any younger and yet still love me enough--even in my twenties--to worry about me like I am two.
Is it difficult? Of course it is, and when you are in your twenties, this kind of thing gets really old, really fast. But honoring your parents and obeying them are two completely different things. I honor my parents by washing the dishes, taking care of my mother when she has the flu, making sure my younger brother has a ride home from school and by getting good grades so that she can rest easy knowing that the trials and tribulations she faced--and the ones my father faced--and the years she gave up to stay at home with us were not in vain and that I will have a better life after all. Obedience disappears with age. I do remember a time when I feared my parents, when I jumped to do exactly as they asked me, when they asked me, but that time is far gone now. They are my guiding light but no longer the authority I answer to. That is one thing that they have taught me and taught me well, throughout these past almost-twenty-one years:
The only person you answer to other than God is yourself.
So maybe when I'm forty, my mother will tell me to do something and I'll do it. Or when I'm thirty-two, my father will be telling me what he thinks about where I'm choosing to do my residency. And maybe then, they'll both have an opinion about the man I'm dating and the relations we are having and my choice to sleep over a friend's after a long night out, but to love and honor them is more than just obeying them.
It's remembering where you came from and the sacrifices made just so I could hold a slightly larger piece of paper declaring "Bachelors of Science in Nursing" inscribed after my full name, which they gladly gave to me when they brought me into this world.
Make fun of me all you want.
Unfortunately, the modern world has struck at even this, the building blocks of both Judaism and Christianity and honoring one's parents is as foreign a thought to children, teens and young adults today as another language is. I find that troubling.
I have a friend, you see. He is a few years older than I, at twenty-seven, but we were born and raised on the same American soil, he by his American parents and I by my parents, immigrants from the Philippines. Our families both practice Catholicism, both of us grew up going to Mass, receiving Communion and attending both Catholic and public schools as well as college. He is now pursuing his masters degree and I am finishing up my undergraduate studies. Our lives, at a glance, seem very similar, but there is much that he chooses to disagree with when it comes to my upbringing. Quite frankly, he disagrees with all of it.
Asian cultures are well-renowned to be different and the Filipino culture is no different, however, being raised as a Filipino on American soil has its social repercussions as well as taking a mental and emotional toll on the person living it. I was raised in a household where the standard was perfection. That, like many Asian cultures, is what our parents believed to build strong work ethics, good habits, and a drive and ambition unequaled. It did not matter that our friends were able to watch television, talk on the phone or go out on school nights and have sleepovers on the weekends. We were not. When we dared argue that "Everyone does it," my parents would simply respond with "Well, you're not everybody, you're Paula." One learns to just stop asking, after a while because it just prevents the raucous arguments and the barbaric slamming of doors and stomping of feet.
And I was not everybody, for sure.
The lowest grade I could get on any exam was a 97. I was not allowed to watch TV during the week and was only permitted to watch TV on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays until 6pm. I played three instruments, piano, violin and viola, and took lessons every week. I played in three or four orchestras at a time, was a competitive pianist and my academics were top notch. I only did my homework and the few times I was allowed on "playdates," I was always home by my bedtime, 8:00pm. I was not allowed to sleepover anyone's house but my own throughout my grade school, middle school and high school years, and even through college. I was open and honest with my parents. They called me to find out where I was if I was not at home by 10:00pm and would not go to sleep until I was in my own bed. And I am proud to say that even now, I honor my parents in this way, knowing that they're not getting any younger and yet still love me enough--even in my twenties--to worry about me like I am two.
Is it difficult? Of course it is, and when you are in your twenties, this kind of thing gets really old, really fast. But honoring your parents and obeying them are two completely different things. I honor my parents by washing the dishes, taking care of my mother when she has the flu, making sure my younger brother has a ride home from school and by getting good grades so that she can rest easy knowing that the trials and tribulations she faced--and the ones my father faced--and the years she gave up to stay at home with us were not in vain and that I will have a better life after all. Obedience disappears with age. I do remember a time when I feared my parents, when I jumped to do exactly as they asked me, when they asked me, but that time is far gone now. They are my guiding light but no longer the authority I answer to. That is one thing that they have taught me and taught me well, throughout these past almost-twenty-one years:
The only person you answer to other than God is yourself.
So maybe when I'm forty, my mother will tell me to do something and I'll do it. Or when I'm thirty-two, my father will be telling me what he thinks about where I'm choosing to do my residency. And maybe then, they'll both have an opinion about the man I'm dating and the relations we are having and my choice to sleep over a friend's after a long night out, but to love and honor them is more than just obeying them.
It's remembering where you came from and the sacrifices made just so I could hold a slightly larger piece of paper declaring "Bachelors of Science in Nursing" inscribed after my full name, which they gladly gave to me when they brought me into this world.
Make fun of me all you want.
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