following bliss

courtesy of Melo Villareal of

Who are you and why are you here?” were the first questions I had to answer in a room full of unknown people, a second time since I moved to Switzerland, the first was in my school.

Because I am well acquainted with and have met the boyfriend’s family and friends before and everyone knew why I chose a country that freezes over for a good four months and rains the rest over a tropical paradise, I never had to explain myself. But there I was, in a self-inflicted awkward situation, in the midst of word-weavers and storytellers, I had to make sense of my insanity. I can almost hear the tiny knobs in my head, grinding and churning some words…

I am in Switzerland to be with my bliss, and I am in this writers workshop to pursue my other bliss,” is what my brain transmitted to my mouth, but “My boyfriend lives in Switzerland and we are looking if we are able to not kill each other by the end of six months so we can take our relationship to the next level. I am in this workshop because I haven’t written in a while and I want to be inspired to write again… Oh! Also, I’m going to try to survive winter before finally deciding to stay,” came out instead. I mean, I do have to be alive to be able to stay, right?

Anyway, December came and January is slowly creeping and I am still alive. I would like to believe that the weather heard my tiny voice in between the window slits of Volkshaus that day. It cooperated with me and decided to make most days sunny, but was also a little bit cocky and let a couple of days snow just to show me that dancing under powdered ice can be as nice as dancing on powder-like sand. I did dance and it was, indeed, nice.

So, bliss… I’ve always had two… And to follow them, I’ve put my faith into the breakdown of every life journey’s quintessence: that it is flight and pursuit in equal parts.

It’s like this: something important, something I invested time and spent money on, something I own was taken away from me and I didn’t even know it. I was disenfranchised from my own property and my art that I did not write for years. Years! But one day, I woke up and realized that it was wrong for me to stay where I was. One of the few things that really made me happy was writing, and I shouldn’t give it up on the account that I could suddenly no longer access my platform.

And so in an equal amount of effort, much as the bow is pulled back before the release, I gathered momentum and flew, figuratively and on an airplane. As soon as I landed in Switzerland, I started wooing my writing back. I left it waiting, rotting inside my pocket far too long and I can no longer ignore its silent but resonating whimpers. It will be acknowledged and it will be made manifest.

And the boyfriend? Gone were the days when we’d see each other twice a year and fill the rest of it with Skype calls. He now wakes up beside me, everyday, and wraps me with a morning hug before I stand up and make him coffee. He also showers longer than what is manly acceptable and has found an alternative to Boom Beach: World of Tanks, but we all have our quirks…

As I revel in finally being able to write again and to finally share my every waking moment with the mate of my soul, I can say that I’ve followed my bliss with courageous fervor. Believe me, this is the joy of coming home…

the art of moving

How can one fit 32 years of her life in one luggage?

My carry on had personal documents that validate my identity, toiletries and extra clothes – just in case the airline sends my luggage to Zimbabwe instead of Zurich (I surely needed to gargle my mouth and dab cologne on before I met by my boyfriend whom I have not seen for almost eight months), books – on the account that the person sitting next to me on the plane is not someone I can imagine talking with for the next sixteen hours, and other personal effects which I don’t remember anymore but certainly added to the weight.

My clothes were precisely picked and were not necessarily weather appropriate because how can I, really… Each of the six shirts I took were carefully rolled with enough spaces in between to fill them with my niece’s hearty laughter, the smell of my sister’s cooking, and cigarette smoke coming from my brother’s room. Inside the pockets of three pants were my aunt’s fervent our fathers, hail marys, and glory be’s. I slipped conversations with friends inside each of the three pairs of shoes I decided to take. It was the most difficult, but I managed to tuck in my mother’s sweat and my dead father’s dreams along the linings of the jackets I was hoping to prevent me from freezing. They do the job of keeping me warm on most days, depending on the temperature. Finally, I filled the void inside several bags with 32 years’ worth of life, studies, work, and travel. Things which I hope I can accessorize myself with as I try to find what’s in this new place where I can pour my passions in.

As expected, there were a lot of things I did not bring, hoping to claim some space and in an attempt to justify a regular visit back home. I left Manila with a room that seemed unabandoned. My dresser still has my half-empty lotion and perfume bottles. My succulents are still sitting beside my pen holder and about five books I meant to read before leaving, but didn’t. At the far end of the room, more unread books. I can imagine my six-year old niece walking in and expecting to find me on the bed and watching TV, but she won’t. But I hope my scent lingers on my favorite side of the couch and on the rim of my coffee mug, and our dogs can still recognize the smell of my fading memory after several years.

And then, there were some things I needed to get rid of. Inside the closet are clothes that are entirely unwearable in Switzerland. Some, too thin. Some, too short. Others, too tattered and used. I decided to throw them, together with some burnt ties. Memories of sly faces, half-truths, and whole lies. I have learned to let go of people and things that no longer help me be a better person and instead, rot me from the inside.

So, how can one fit 32 years of her life in one luggage? You can’t. You don’t. I decisively picked out things I want to carry around inside my pocket, juggling them like a set of keys that open doors I don’t mind going in and out of for the rest of my life; things I need to leave in my old home, like an old family photograph that stands on a quiet corner table that will long bind me to my roots; and things that I need to be rid of, burdens that I no longer need to carry. As I walked out of my old life to fly into the new, my luggage was just the right amount of full… And, I think, I have everything I need.