Two Week Wonder

Life has been on pause for the last two weeks, as I’ve slowly recovered from the surgery. I’ve had to depend on others to do things for me, accept that time must move slowly these days, and stay awake at nights for my tiny one.

It’s taken a new turn, this twist in adventures—and yet somehow, it doesn’t seem strange; just the natural flow of things.

It was my son who first broke the news to me. “I have a baby sister!” he declared, one sunny day in Lake Como, nine months ago.

“No you don’t,” I half-frowned at him.

But he did, already. I just didn’t know it.

Trusting his instincts, I asked him, shortly before the birth, “What color is your baby sister’s hair? Is it blonde, like yours?”

“No,” he stated matter-of-factly, without looking up from his puzzle. “It’s black. Schwarz. Like yours.”

And so it is.

Now, she’s here, the little lady bug, who sleeps so much I am secretly hoping she stays this quiet and lets me do my work. Her features already take on quite a mature look, though she is just weeks old.

And when she smiles in her sleep, it is the most beautiful thing on earth.

I told you, this is my journey.

Yes, I miss the days of past, of ziplining across gorges while travelling provincial terrains; of backpacking with just my partner, before there were babies; the days of going on a whim, and risking a lot without a second thought.

I know someday, I’ll return to Africa, to the tribal regions of the Philippines, to the vineyards of Tuscany, to intoxicating India. But by then, I’ll have my new travelers with me, little feet marking their own path.

And by then, the journeys—as a family—will be even better.

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Now, something for smiles: Tina Fey’s A Mother’s Prayer for Her Daughter

My Girl

Scanning blank pages on this new morning. White space to fill—not mine, but my daughter’s. This new life which has yet to be lived; days and milestones yet to be celebrated.

Moments yet to be realized and treasured.

A brand new start, for something that hasn’t existed yet. How do you capture innocence? How do you celebrate life so pure, so angelic, so vulnerable?

We begin a new journey together, my love. And as we do, I hold your hand, but hope to not hold you back.

Life is for learning, exploring, making mistakes, and trying again.

Life is for love, and loss, and living again.

You must write in the pages of your own book—I can guide you, but not write them for you. You will learn with time, grow with the moments; intuition will guide you, and love will always bring you back home.

You were born into a family of travelers, wanderers, explorers, adventures. We will give you the experiences which will be yours to keep, the boat to set sail and launch out to new horizons. But what you find there and where you decide to anchor will be up to you and your choices.

I can hold you and nurture you only for a little while. I can be your strength just a few years.

When you finally go out on your own, when you finally know what it means to follow your heart, I trust that you will hear it beating in all the right directions.

I trust you will find your way.

Just as you found your way to us.

Alexandra, born March 1, 2013

Midnight in a Mother’s Thoughts

My eyes linger over stunning photographs of blue and emerald water, reaching out from banks of white. In a couple of the frames, a man stands just at the shore, his back to the camera’s lens. He’s looking out onto a horizon dotted with vibrant colors of kites soaring, sailing high in the wind.

Breath comes in short gasps, especially at this late hour of the night. There is a weight of three kilos on my chest, and I shift awkwardly amongst bean-bag pillows, propping myself up on an already painful shoulder, so I can see the screen of my aging Lenovo better.

Beside me, on a messy bed, my three-year-old son smiles in his sleep.

The weight I feel is my second child, incubating the final month inside me. This last stretch of time will be the hardest, and the heaviest. But I’ve imagined, many times over, the first moment of finally seeing and holding my daughter—and that makes the wait less painful.

Scanning photographs my husband has sent of his day’s work as a kitesurf tour operator out on remote islands, I remember our carefree days of travel, when I could go at a moment’s notice and journey with him. Back then—four years ago—we had no other obligations. No children tying us down; no diapers to pack or bottles to wash. Just two people; two backpacks; two passports—the world.

Now we are four.

I’ve made the decision to have this second child, and meanwhile, to let my husband carry on as he has before the children came. His is a world of constant change and movement, and I would do everything to keep it that way. What I fear most, though, is the stagnation that conforming to “typical” family life may render. Of becoming attached to things, and houses, and places.

Yet some days, there’s a simple wanting of my own painting studio, with a hundred brushes and three easels; a full refrigerator and the break of constant relocation. I want to furnish the kids rooms with toys, and books—big hardback ones that are too heavy to lug around airports. They would have their own shelves and boxes for all the extras…

Is there somewhere in the middle one can find, a balance between being blown with the wind, and finding steady footing? Is there a spot you reach in life, when you’ve figured how to get on with the journey, while keeping rooted in the essentials?

I feel as if I’m still trying to find it. The longing I have is not for a physical home, because I have found that all over the globe with my boys, when we pitched our tents or mattress beds wherever the wind took us. And it all felt quite right.

I ponder how far we have come, the miles we have made together—it’s all worked out so far, despite the physical hardships, the sacrifices, and the endless not knowing.

Baby turns inside me, her fists pounding as if wanting to dig a way out. A sensation tightens inside me, hardening for nearly a minute, and then slowly releasing—Braxton Hicks. I soothe her from the outside, my hand rubbing against my own layer of skin, taut and stretched beyond normal. The inner fistfight doesn’t stop, but I’ve learned it hardly will, and that this is a good thing.

Closing my eyes, and rolling heavily onto my other hip, I shuffle the pillow underneath a leg lock, trying to find some semblance of comfort. It comes, finally, with the stillness of the night and another barrage of thoughts.

We were travelers, and still are. The journey has taken a different path, but it’s kept me walking steadily forward.

The moon winks through the open window, spraying its soft light ever so gently. In the silence, I drift and prepare again to dream.

Do You Ever Miss that Sound?

Potato seller in Kampala. Photo by Robin Yamaguchi

After living on Lake Como for five months, I realize how truly blessed I am to be in one of the most amazing, beautiful places on earth.

I also realize I miss chaos.

Growing up in chaotic Asian cities like Bombay, Bangkok and Manila, I knew what it was like to walk through crowded places, throngs of jam-packed people on trains and buses, questionable street food, smells and sights and sounds whizzing by, tickling every one of your senses—or clogging it.

There is always a dense humidity in the air, and the constant buzz of people.

Out here, in Western Europe, there isn’t much of that. There is peace, and quiet, there is amazing nature, there is untouched beauty. And there is so much to love about it.

But there is also a longing in my heart to get back to a little bit of the craziness of living, the things that may be not so tranquil, but force you to find a balance inside. I remember that feeling when shifting my way through the markets of Kampala, and once while watching a sunset on a busy beach in Colombo.

Some cities and towns in Italy do seem to have a nice mixture of both the unexpected, and the sublime.

Visiting Merano in the Spring

Have you ever found anywhere in the world during your travels that has a good balance—just enough stimulation, yet just enough silence?

More on Life in Lake Como

Let me tell you a little more about life here in Como:

We live just a couple steps from the town piazza, behind the local church, the bakery, and Gelateria. Across the street are two café bars, my husband’s work place (watersports school) and a giant, grassy playground with a tennis court, basketball court, trampoline and swimming pool.

The atmosphere here is a typically relaxed one, where people stroll unhurried, and whole families play together—or sometimes with total strangers, and children learn to love Nature. Out on the beachfront, kitesurfers pump up their kites to air out, while parachuters glide down the mountain side’s cool air, the wind powering them just enough for an early morning sail.

It’s a place where locals greet you by name, and always a smile. Unlike Germany (our previous home), where the conversation ends at “Good day”, before walking quickly on one’s way, here they will continue chatting—regardless of long queues at the checkout, schedules, or working hours. You learn to not get impatient, but rather, appreciate the fact that people are taking the time to listen, and converse, and communicate—face to face.

Besides, siesta will come soon, and then it will last at least three hours.

And when you live in Italy, you learn to embrace this laidback style. You sip cappuccino, eat gelato, and have a midday Prosecco—as you please. You take your time. You smile more. You stay up late, and sleep in long hours. You chat long minutes because you bask in the presence of another human being, you share life stories as the sun sets in front of you, and you swim naked in the lake, because water is for nurturing.

After a long day’s work (and yes, sometimes just being a stay-at-home-mom is quite a lot of plain hard work with no paycheck at the end of the month) if you get to kiss your son goodnight and say, “I love you, and when you wake up, we’ll go swimming together at the beach,” that’s something to not take for granted.

So you can manage those disputes that sometimes happen in the shadows of your home; those misunderstandings, the trivialities of life. You can look forward to greeting the next Summer day, because as long as there is someone to share it with, and good health to enjoy it a little bit longer, then life is quite delicious.

On Mood Swings and Mommyness

This is my 100^th blog post. So, I wanted to make it really special. I thought to craft a post that would inspire or intrigue, or just interest…someone.

However, horrible mood swings are taking place this week (and thank God for female hormones we can blame it on). So instead of being anything fantastic or enlightening, or thoughtful, this note is just to say that sometimes, it’s hard work being a mom.

If you are a mom and reading this, I know how it feels—you want to please and nourish your family; you want to be the best you be—for them. Cook the right meals, set good appointments; get stuff done.

And sometimes, that just doesn’t happen.

Sometimes, you are horrible, moody, lazy, and do everything wrong. Your own standards can’t be reached, your love cannot get you through the day; you burn the cake and the kids wet their beds twice (no, thrice) in a row.

That’s just how life goes, and since we can’t force creativity or inspiration, or special moments, we learn to live and deal with them. Day after day.

But isn’t being a mom all about tending those special moments? Creating memories that only we can understand; seeing the good and potential in others that only we can see; giving and giving again of our love, even when it is tiring and our patience is running out, and there feels like nothing left?

Isn’t it about living anyway, and knowing that in the end, it’s all worth it? My reward comes in the little hugs and kisses at the end of a long day. The cuddles from my boys, who have their own ways of saying, thank you.

My reward comes in knowing that every day, I’m painting a canvas of a life—just letting it flow—without trying to reason or put it in a box. Without trying to force it. Just letting the colors of this new, little life mix into each other and produce their own work of art.

Yes, day after day.

…If you are a mom, what gives you the strength to go on another day?

Notes on Rocks

Today I decided to paint rocks. Without a reference in my bedroom, it was easy to imagine, though. I encounter them every day: Big boulders that I want to move, but don’t seem to find the courage to do.

Do you know those kind of rocks? They are also called problems, but sometimes challenges. Sometimes the rocks in our life are put there by others, but oftentimes, it’s our own doing. How we overcome them and get over them, or climb our way out of the pits is up to us to decide.

Rocks are also parts of the earth that have been in the same place since before the beginning of time. They are steadfast, unmovable. These are the kind of rocks our souls need to have. We need the foundation of something secure, to steady our feet when climbing our way through life. We need those rocks to hold on to, when we feel like everything else is slipping away. We need the sense of stability—and if it does not come from things around us, then it must be on the inside.

Everyone needs rocks in their life. Which ones are you holding onto?

On Wandering in the New Year

Along the Elbe, December 2011

“The important thing in life is being open to the mystery.”—Paulo Coelho

Again, a familiar place: journeying out into the unknown. As 2012 rolls in, I am completely unsure, completely not seeing clearly where I will be this year. Still making decisions.

Physically, I have left my job and apartment in my former home town. I have left friends, colleagues, my comfort zone that was built up over two years. I have left my son’s nanny and have taken on the fulltime job of mom, 24-7. Since I have no one at home to leave him with, I take him with me wherever I go, even to my dentist trip last week.

Emotionally, I have left the security of knowing. I have left the state of mind that tells me, I am in control. I have left the familiar feelings, the warmth of stability.

Why am I doing all this? I ask myself. Because I need to start all over again. Fear comes in little phases, yes…but it thrusts me forward. Fear of the unknown and all that is out there scares me. But I have learned that scary is good sometimes. Sometimes, I need to not know, not be so sure of myself, be thrown out of that comfortable spot, my little world, and go travel.  Go journey, or just wander. Get a new perspective. Without even solving the mystery.

So I did that last month just before Christmas, not knowing if I would ever come home. But our home has always been where we made it work. We’ve been at home in Germany, in pristine Lake Garda Italy, in smoggy, yet vibrant Manila.

We’ve been wandering a bit, nomads all our lives. And we will continue to walk forward this year, wherever the wind blows, wherever our hearts find a place to take root, until it’s time to uproot again, to create anew, or to start over.

Traveling Thoughts: When Travel Means Letting Go

There’s something about travel that enables us to remain uprooted, having to constantly pack, literally sorting priorities. Physically, taking along only the necessities, and embracing the possibility that we may never return.

And so, only what we hold now in our hands is really ours.

Leaving behind the excess and saying goodbye to trinkets is giving our souls a way of escape from attachment.

That soul of a traveler longs to fly; to seek new adventures; to soar.

Thus, its spirit cannot be held down.

I used to know a traveler who said, that he never took pictures, because he kept all those memories in his mind. I think it was just really easier for him to not hold on to them, and if needed, to forget.

Having the physical reminder of a time that was, and making a home or comfort zone built up of things and collections and necessities, only eats away more at nature’s need to let go.

Long distance travel is letting go.

It is saying: “I need this no more in my life. I can do without. I can stand alone. I can improvise. I can adapt.”  

Today…I look around this comfort zone I’ve built up in the last year. There are framed pictures hanging on the walls, cupboards, overflowing with clothes I don’t need; shelves with ceramics I hardly use.

In saying goodbye to all these “things”, it is letting go of the need to be dependent on what is crippling me.  I am enabling myself to fly again, to soar, to seek new adventure.

And to find it.

My son is not yet so attached. When I say, “Today we are going away on an airplane,” he doesn’t yet ask me for things he must bring. He doesn’t worry that he will find or not find new happiness in our next destination. Maybe because he is still too young to be so attached, or to know what letting go really means.

But I—I am still learning. How to hold on, and how to let go.

To hold on for precious moments, yes. But then, to give release.

I go to the mall to buy a new piece of luggage, and opt for a smaller rolling suitcase. It will hold less things yes, but I need only essentials.

The others, I may come back to…or, I may not.

Where we are headed, all is new, all must begin again.

Grateful

(Traveling Uganda in 2004)

It’s a word that best describes the constant feeling in my heart during this lifetime journey of living my passions and following my dreams.

I am grateful for the guides I met on this journey, who lent their advice, wisdom, and the occasional shoulder to cry on.

I’m grateful for the mistakes that taught me to always to move forward, regardless.

I’m grateful for the second chances, the people who come back into your life because they were meant to be there, and the ones who keep journeying with you because they share your dreams.

I’m grateful for the love I learned my heart was capable of giving. When I first held my son on my chest and he raised his head to look around. I knew it was the beginning of his own journey, and I would need to let him explore.

I’m grateful for the chance to share, through this blog, the memories I’ve kept, in words, in pictures, in paintings, and hope that you find something here to enjoy.

I’m grateful for the little things I am blessed to wake up to each morning: my window view of banana leaves and a rice plantation; a cheeky, boyish smile beside me; coffee.

Just grateful.