Maria Teresa Antonietta Ubiadas Coronel

TELUS International Philippines – Mobility | Issue 7 | February 2011 Month of L ve Dear Readers, Unmistakably, February is the month of Love. In the old days, the month of February marked the beginning of Life and is associated with the Greek Goddess of Spring, Demeter. When the glory that was Greece became the grandeur that was Rome, the celebration of Demeter – Life – became associated with St. Valentinus of Terni – Love. Everything that was associated with Life became pink, red, chocolate brown, albeit still in bloom. Years after, the celebration of Life became the celebration of Love. So what is it about Valentine’s Day that never fails to get our undivided attention? Maybe it’s the flowers. Or the chocolates. Maybe even that dinner beneath those cosmic everglows matched with a walk in the beach ... any way we celebrate it, we’re plain suckers for Romance. And so this month’s edition is dedicated to ―those lost souls who have forgotten to believe in the immensity of love‖. |Cue in the violins| Feel the love with every page of The Maple Leaf! The Maple Leaf TELUS Internal Philippines – Mobility’s Online Magazine Contributors: Catherine Abreu | Gladys Nebres | Joesela Anzures | Louis Robinson | Maricihie Coronel | Myles V. Holar | Ron Araman | Twilight Venus Begnoche | Victor Mike Catanghal Lay-out & Design/Managing Editor: Jano Giveron Boscher Editor-in-Chief: Joyce Dimaano Maître Amour Katie Abreu Welcome to Maitre Amour‘s Hearts Month Edition! I‘m getting more and more heart problems to solve each month and it just makes my own heart run even faster! Here they are: Jealous Guy asks: “I have been pinning away for this girl since last year. I see her all the time, like ALL the time, but she’s involved with someone else already. I have no plans of ruining her relationship but I have to admit, I can’t help but stare at her whenever she’d pass by. I mustered enough courage once, and tried to talk to her. She’s nice, and she has a pretty smile. I heard that her boyfriend does not treat her well. I want to have a chance with her, but I don’t think she notices me. I don’t know what to do. Help!” Katie answers: Aint this a perfect picture of love or what? I feel for you, man! Unrequited love is the cruelest kind, as Kate Winslet‘s character in The Holiday lamented. It is not easy, especially if you know that you have so much love to give. I would advise you to not compare yourself to her boyfriend. We don‘t know the real score between them, and I admire the fact that you still respect their relationship. The best advice that I can give you, Jealous Guy, is to love that girl with everything you‘ve got until there‘s none left. And when you have loved enough, move on. Because the world is kind only to those who are kind to themselves. Do not torture yourself with thoughts of them together. Do not even stare at them when you see them together, all bright eyed and bushy haired. You can try to be friends with her, but if you think that by doing so would only encourage attachment, then, Jealous Guy, you have to look the other way. On the bright side you will encounter love when you least expect it, so keep an open mind and heart, Jealous Guy. I wish you the best. Shattered Heart asks: “I can’t get over the fact that he’s with someone else. I am such an emotional wreck. I don’t know how to deal with the pain.” Katie answers: The first thing that you must do, Shattered Heart, is to get a hold of yourself and pull it together. Afterwards, try to get a life, because obviously your ex has one. Really, stop feeling sorry for yourself. It will not make him come back to you, and that‘s something you have to face. Why not go out with your friends or take up a new hobby? Maybe a change in perspective is in order. Breakups happen to everybody, and there is no excuse to remain a wreck. They say revenge is best served cold, and frankly, the best revenge that you can do is live a good life without him. I wish you all the best, Shattered heart, and remember, love comes when you least expect it. Miss him? Miss her? You like him but he doesn‘t like you back? Having troubles understanding your girl? Let me know all of your love problems and I‘ll help all with those! Send me an email —- Confidentiality of your personality is 100% guaranteed. Pieces of my mind Marichie Coronel PIECE # 1: A Realization: Love in the Eyes of A Child “ Free your mind from worries. Live simple. Give more. Expect less. “ The subject of love is one of which the world will never tire. Many writers have built flourishing careers based purely on love and all its different courses. Yet, when it comes to defining love we find its meaning written in thousands of ways throughout history, but still without an absolute, single definition. It is a complex array of emotions, needs, and more. Yet, in its purest form, love is so very simple. Have you ever watched a small boy who is enthralled by a caterpillar spinning its cocoon, or seen the rapture on a young girl‘s face as she greets her first doll? Sincere, uncomplicated adoration is reflected in many childhood experiences. A child loves without condition, with no ulterior motive. They are both honest and expressive in their affections, and just the same when things do not go their way. The tantrum of a two-year-old reminds us well. This subject had me remembering way back last October of 2008 when I was checking my e-mail inbox, weeding out spams, chain letters, press releases from this and that politician and long forwarded messages. I was about to thrash one particular message until I read its subject: ‗What love means to 4-8 years old…‖ The email claimed a group of professional people – I do not know from where – posed this question to four to eight year olds: ―What does love mean?‖ I have no way of finding the veracity of the interview, but with the knowledge that love is a universal theme as it is a universal feeling, I just know it is with love that this email was circulated. To the jaded, to those who are afraid of commitments, to those who are afraid to face the truth when confronted with the subject of love…here is a kick from one of the kids. What does love mean? Read on and spread the love… ―When my grandmother got arthritis, she could not bend over and paint her toenails anymore. So my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis, too. That‘s love.‖ – Rebecca, 8. PIECE # 2: Poetry for the Twenties Love relationships have changed, and valentine greetings should, too. They are too mushy (―You are what I always dreamed love would be‖). They are too clichéd (‗Words cannot express the way I feel about you‖). Write your own quotes this year with true-to-life verses like the following: I used to get breathless just thinking of you Now I get breathless just tying my shoe (Happy valentine’s day from your out-of-shape girlfriend) You can call me dearest, you can call me sweet But if you call me Tracy one more time, your things are on the street. Honey, you are so good to me, am going to be the same, This valentine’s day we will be staying home, and watch your favorite game. Roses are red, violets are blue, I like Beethoven and you like the Who You listen to Pearl Jam, not Rachmaninoff Let’s spend Valentine’s day with the stereo off. You forgot another Valentine’s day, but dear, do not take it hard I sent myself some roses and I used your MasterCard. PICECE # 3: Falling in Love and Getting Hurt “You never stop loving someone; you just learn to live without them.” Getting into a relationship is like baking. The ingredients are prepared, baking instructions at hand, and the first attempt begins. However, it did not turn out exactly as what is expected out of the whole baking procedure, so there is a second endeavor. Recipes are carefully selected, steps are learned by heart, and the second trial happens. Still, it is not as good as it can be, but surely better than the first. The third process is more simple but there is apprehension. It could be that the feeling of insecurity and disappointment is more prominent than the craving for the cake. Decisions of the heart are sometimes the most difficult to make. It is nightmare for some and definitely not a bed of roses for the others but still they find ways on how to make things tolerable to live with. The problem with a few is that they judge others based on their past bitter experiences. Falling in love, getting hurt and loving again is a cycle as well. People learn from past mistakes and these shortcomings are used as guidelines on how to try to improve the next relationship. For some, recovering from a break up or marriage separation is easy, but there are some who find it hard to get by and what keeps them from moving on are the memories they carry with them. The pieces and small bits linger on. They are like packed winter clothing and personal effects taken into a trip in Boracay, not needed but the person cannot get away without them. Memories and reminders smash up the remaining confidence and strength of a person who has been hurt from the past relationship. The hope of reconciliation is normal, but never helpful. It will not lead to a lovelife that is dreamed of and not successfully attained in the previous relationship. Sometimes I wish I could just smack the idiot that came up with the phrase,‖Time heals all wounds.‖ Actually, he is right. You may not want to hear this but, time is the exact remedy needed for this wound. That being said, it does not mean that you have to like it. I know I never did, and never do. There is no remedy or procedure to get over someone completely. It is not as simple as performing a few tasks or reading a book. Getting over someone can sometimes appear to be impossible. It feels really bad when you fall in love, especially with someone you cannot have. It feels even worse when you are sure that this relationship can never work out. I think that this is the worst thing that could ever happen to someone. I believe that to forget someone is one of the hardest ―assignments‖ given in life, especially if you had this gut feeling that he/she is the ONE. The pain of loss can be very intense and finding the answers can be like looking for a needle in the haystack. You need to know that it will take a lot of time and some days will be harder than the others. There are no obtainable answers. No matter how ready you think you are, the fact that you are figuring out how to get over someone you love, means that it is going to be a painful process. It can be a slow process…you might think that you are over someone and a year later being reminded of that person and feel sad again. But still, only time will assist you in getting over a love in your life. Love can mean kissing different frogs along the way. Five to six months are enough to sulk over a break up. Loss of self-esteem is the alarm clock. Once this alarm sounds on, there should not be a snooze button, rather, get up and bring one‘s self together back again. Life is a risk and it has to be that way, otherwise, there would be no adventure to it. Also to know love, you also need to understand pain. The passage of time will help to heal your wounds, but it will not completely obliterate them. Your life is a journey that will be difficult at times, but stay on the path because you never know what is just around the corner. Remember that you dominate your own mind and it is your own choice if you want to keep on thinking on ‗what must have been‘ or move on and ponder ‗what will be…‘ Do not worry about committing mistakes, it is the only way you can learn. Also true love involves a lot of hard work, nobody is perfect. I wish you good luck, lots of love, peace and happiness. ―The best thing about loving and getting hurt is that you get to know what true love really is. For as gold is tested in fire, and so will love be perfected in pain.‖ PIECE # 4: Valentine’s Day: The History On 14 February we celebrate Saint Valentine‘s Day, usually by exchanging cards, sweets, flowers or jewelry, have dinner outside, watch a movie or take a stroll in the park with a loved one…but, what exactly are we celebrating? The first legend was during the third century, a priest by the name of Valentine, under Claudius II in Rome, secretly disobeyed the law. Claudius had come to believe that a single soldier was better than a married young man and so decided to outlaw matrimony in order to have plenty young men with no wives at his disposal. Valentine, the priest, defied this law and continued to celebrate the holy bond of marriage for young couples in secrecy. Of course, the way it always work with secret clauses, he was caught and sent to his death. The second legend was that Valentine was a prisoner who fell in love with a young woman who came to see him often. It is believed that she was the warden‘s daughter. Before his Valentine‘s untimely death, he wrote her a love letter, signed with ―Your Valentine.‖ Therefore, the phrase, ―Be My Valentine.‖ Some believed that he was beheaded, others deemed that he died of sickness. No one is even sure that 14 February was the day of his birth or death, or if it had indeed anything to do with Saint Valentine at all. The only thing that is certain is that the Roman had a tradition in the middle of February, which would mark the 14th, called the Love Lottery was held, pairing young men and women for one year, often leading to marriage. Valentine‘s Day became an official Catholic holiday in the year 496 or 498 A.D. Pope Gelasius declared 14th February to be Saint Valentine‘s Day. Boston Joyce Dimaano If you grew up in the East Coast like I did, one thing you‘d miss when you start heading towards west is the afternoon skyline, between five and six. It‘s serene, nothing like you‘ve ever seen. You see the blues and the whites splitting, first few stars appear out of nowhere, you go inside your house to get a cup of coco and the next thing you know, sun‘s far too distant from where you‘re standing. Now, if you grew up in the ‗burbs near Cambridge like I did, you‘d be all too familiar with the sight of college kids, you‘d ache for some thin crust pizza straight from the oven. You‘d be looking for cafes in the West, preferably similar to the ones you‘ve grown used to. And when you find one, you‘d be disappointed that it‘s too posh and chic, and smells nothing like those you‘d cozy up near MIT. It feels like I‘ve been here longer than I have ever stayed in Boston, but Boston‘s home. I used to think that the rest of the world is like New England; imagine how dismayed I was when I saw how the Wild West looked like. Every once in a while, a friend or a colleague would ask what I miss about Boston the most, apart from the Irish brew and the Celtics. I‘d always say Boston‘s a comet across a vast sky without so much as a tail, you‘d confuse it with a meteor ball when you see it. On one hand there‘s no place like New England; on the other, there‘s just some places with people you can‘t leave behind. Boston‘s lovely every summer. Leaves turn into green fields and the sky becomes brightly lit, there‘s no way to turn it off. But summer‘s not my thing, never was, and although the possibilities are endless, I do love fall the most. Ironic, because everything begins right when animals and plants prepare for the cold. Those college kids would populate the streets like it was Mardi gras, and the best brewers start their day a little earlier than usual, there‘s copious amount of caffeine gulped by Business majors in a driven effort to sell sleeplessness. Which is hard, considering the temptations you‘d face the soonest that you step out of the door --- you‘d be tempted to stay indoors near the fireplace with a muffin and a hot cup of whatever, or never make it past the bedroom door. I tried missing school once. I was feeling lazy and sleepy, and wanted to enjoy the comfort of not hurrying with breakfast and then going back to bed after breakfast. Didn‘t work. New England may seem idle but the folks remained New Yorkers. They‘re the only ones in the neighborhood, I think. One time I got really sick with chicken pox, I was immobile for a week. Couldn‘t get up to eat or go to the bathroom. Couldn‘t even sit to throw up. During the fourth day, I was able to sit beside my bedroom window and watch the other kids play baseball in the street. I was stuffy from colds and fever, and because I lost appetite while sick, eventually I was never able to regain my weight. Initially, I thought it was a good thing; I already had a rundown inside my head of what I would be able to wear. Weeks after, I was so thin I felt like I could walk past a heavy downpour, slide between raindrops, and emerge inexplicably dry. I was nine then. When I was eleven, I sat next to this stubby looking girl in Math, awkwardly shy. She had this pink pencil box, always, always filled with pink pencils, pink sharpener, pink eraser, like no amount of pink would ever suffice. She‘d come in pink shoes, pink shirt, her hair‘s tied in pink ribbon --- her name‘s Louise --- and everytime, she‘d get teased for being so obvious, so there. And I was astute for my age, but it was not the most evident thing about me. I had become sickly and frail as a paper cup, most kids would run past me, those toddlers in preschool, and I couldn‘t keep balance, I‘d fall. Sitting next to Louise was one of the most memorable events of my childhood because I was teased as often as she was, about how we complemented each other; especially during Math when the rest of the class would snicker that we looked like the figure 10 when together. It was horrible, and the whole time that we both endured insults and childish remarks, Louise and I, we kept mum and never spoke to each other. I‘d catch her doodling on her notepad; most days she‘d keep to herself and wait for the period to end. And the whole time that she would be doodling and waiting, I was watching her. I became so good at it, I managed to keep on watching until we turned eighteen. You know what they say about raging hormones during puberty? That‘s what happened to Louise. She grew taller and thinner after how many summers. That Fourth of July before junior year, I was away for three days and came back for the parade. Everybody was there, and I was with my family when my mum bumped into her at the ice cream parlour by Hudson‘s. She‘d grown taller and thinner, and realized that I‘d only see her in school and two classes, of which she already had a different seatmate. There were days when I‘d watch her and not know that I was actually watching her. I get lost in my thoughts sometimes, stare into absolute nothingness. I have this annoying habit of waiting for her to turn around the corner, wait ‗til she‘d show up, walking, hands swaying to the sides, jeans perfectly hugging her hips, that ginger hair almost unmistakably a paste applied to suit her personality ... I could go on for days just guessing what she could possibly wear and not get bored doing it. I‘d see her wearing a hue that I had not seen her wear, not that I knew the ones she liked and didn‘t. I‘d just watch her and see for myself, and then marvel back when I‘d guessed right. And when I‘m wrong, on days when I overrun predictability with choice, I‘d study her more. But eighteen was different from eleven. So is twenty six from eighteen. We graduated, went to different universities in Cambridge, would bump into each other during exam nights, and frequented almost the same places. There were few occasions when some of my buddies would cross her university gates for an open house party. I‘d see her with a bunch of people. It never occurred to me that she might remember me still as her seatmate in Math back in the fourth grade, or that I was the nasty, insecure brat who sprayed painted her backpack in the eight grade with ―fat‖. I wasn‘t sure either if she found out that Corey stood her up during Spring Fling Dance because I told him that she had an incurable itch. I wasn‘t sure and I didn‘t know if she had seen me leave a dozen tulips on her doorstep the night she turned twenty. I left Boston for a job offer in Anaheim a month after graduation. I heard Louise left a week later for Omaha. I‘ve been back home Thanksgiving and Christmas last year, with no sign of her. I‘d try my damn best to fly home as often as I‘d want to, but couldn‘t because of work. I guess grown ups get too tangled up with the idea that taxes need not wait. Two years ago, my mum phoned me at work. Somewhere between my sister‘s wedding and asking if I am eating right, she asked if I enjoyed that pecan pie she had dropped at my place the last time she was in Anaheim. Turned out that she had ordered the pie from a local shop in Boston and it got my dad hooked, she ordered one for me. What I did tell her was that I had friends come over for dinner that night and the pie became dessert. I didn‘t have the heart to say that the pie had congealed inside my ref enough to hurt a cat, and that I thought the pink box was way too tacky for a marketing strategy. But Boston‘s good to thriving, homey businesses, and I later reflected that whoever owned that pastry shop would eventually be famous around the neighbourhood, primarily because every beaner enjoys a home cooked meal, or the closest approach to it. Last Christmas that I was home, I stepped out to buy pie for Christmas dinner. My sister‘s apple pie was a disaster, and it was the one time when we promised my mum that we would take over the kitchen, which was a huge mistake. I drove around town, looking for a last minute open bakeshop, and I was lucky enough to have found one. You‘d love Boston during winter. You‘d never see a whole city blanketed in white, with soft snow floating in midair, apart from Boston. Amidst the snow, you‘d find cafes and bakeshops brewing and steaming with creamy goodness, you‘d wish it was winter all year long. And as I wade my way through the mountain of snow towards that quaint, homey pastry shop with all the goodies in display, I could not help but notice the sign that says ―OPEN‖ --- in pink --- and the name of the store, in pink neon lights. I walked the fastest that I could to double check, but I read it right the first time. It only said ―10‖. I stood outside the shop for a long time, by the window. Snow covered the window pane but I managed to rub some off a small area from the glass to watch the owner, busy attending to customers and last minute shoppers like myself. Imagine getting goosebumps all over with your feet buried in snow. I had about ten seconds that day to make me feel good. Just about ten seconds to make my three-hour flight and a whole day‘s worth of being awake transform from tiring to bearable, mundane to extraordinary. I had ten seconds, maybe less, to watch her box a pie and tie a pink ribbon before handing it over to the customer, and flip her hair over her shoulder. That‘s all I got, and yet, I remain thankful. Because having spent ten seconds to watch her do whatever was enough to convince me that sometimes, we deserve more but choose to settle for something less, and that despite my success in Anaheim, Boston will always be home. Wild Yonder Artemis Joyce Dimaano when eve breaks and the heavens cry and Helios takes flight and shadows sleep. when, but for one, one midday affair comes sprinting, ride like the wind. I stare like no one's watching. I stare. and all the planets align in one perfect unison. all that glitters pose as gold but the golden remain hidden. sweet, sweet Silence lull me to sleep. beside you, I sink deep. Send your literary contributions to-