Love Letter to you, Mom (Mahal na mahal kita!)

58 years ago, when we first celebrated Mother’s Day, did you think you would have six of us? Did you know you would become a US citizen? That you would not only be our mom, dad’s wife, a teacher, but also the community leader and organizer in Milwaukee, Saskatchewan, and Peoria, Illinois?

Did you think you’d build a house set in the middle of the woods, designing open concept spaces in the 1970’s, not because it was a trend, but because it was a practical way to do your work and keep an eye on us? Did you, the daughter of a Chinese businessman and a Filipina  countrywoman, dream that you would stretch your husband’s pay checks and create a beautiful home on a Singer sewing machine? That your practice of cooking for eight would make you a master chef? I can’t believe you only cooked your first meal when you were twenty-eight.

People say dad was the storyteller. But you were the maker of things. You were the one who taught me to think outside cultural expectations. Who said, I never stopped to think about being a feminist.  I was too busy doing what needed to be done (too busy being a feminist).

From your example, all things have become possible.  All things realized. 

 

I know Mother’s Day is harder today because it is the first one without Dad.  But I also know we are who we are because of the two of you. That your strength is what made you two create our beautiful life (with 15 apo!).

Maraming Salamat, Mommy! ♥️

Did you know all these things would come to pass back then? I was not even a month old. Dad was a young physician. We were in Harrisburg. Did you know you would do all this?

Mahal na mahal kita. Happy Mother’s Day.

Breathe

I practice yoga this morning in a gym with 400 people.  My teacher from India, is the son of the founder of Ashtanga yoga.  After chanting, I dedicate my practice to you and think about you. One time, I practiced yoga on the slate floor in our foyer when you walked through on your way to the kitchen.  I was bending forward. “Oh! I wish I could do that!” you said, walking past me. “Good for the back!”

Today is Sunday and 400 of us are saluting the sun. The still dark sun.

“Breathe with sound,” the teacher says.  Everyone inhales deeply and it’s as if we are gathering all the air. The exhale rushes out of each of us, low and guttural, the way wind swirls through a forest before a storm.

I focus on you, Dad. I focus on the breathing. I think about how much I miss your voice, loud and strong, sailing through our house. You were the storm. You were the breath. Your footsteps steady as the heart. Your presence everywhere.

Five months and we are doing our best to move forward, to push through this desire to sit on the couch, not moving, not thinking, not being.

It has changed, but it’s not better. It’s different.

My teacher tells us breath purifies body. “You breathe in positive energy. You exhale negativity. In this way you cleanse the body.” He tells us breathing is good for healing respiratory infection, allergies and stress. “If you have boyfriend, girlfriend, spouse who stress you, breathe.”

Is this stress?

I am back in the world, a little less awkward, a little more present. I have returned to the body. I am eating healthy and I’ve come back to my yoga mat.

We have practiced four days so far, waking at 4:45, preparing to be on this mat at 6:30.

Some mornings it is so difficult to wake up. To move. The body so heavy. I want to close my eyes.

I inhale long and slow.  I imagine positive energy entering my body, coursing through my limbs.  I exhale and squeeze all that is bad out of me. Breathing is easy in some poses.  But there are others where I am twisted like a pretzel and the breathing is a chore.  I shortchange the inhale. I push out air during the exhale. Rid myself of all this malaise.

The teacher catches us not paying attention when we move before he speaks. When we inhale rather than exhale. When stillness is just a word.

So I breathe. And then I remember you, Dad. How during those last nine days, your breathing was labored. How there were moments when you stopped. Just stopped. When stillness meant you were tempting death to come.The last day when breathing was not the steady internal whirlwind we take for granted, your breathing sounded painful.  You hiccuped air. You spat wind. You held your breath. And when the time came, how easy it was, how quiet the breath, the letting go. Five months, Daddio. How I miss you. How I dedicate today’s practice to you.

Every Grain of Rice: A retelling of a Galang Family Tale

During World War II, my father's family had a house in Macabebe, Pampanga.  My lolo was a councilman and also the town dentist.  And while they were not rich, they were able to keep a supply of rice stored on the floor of a raised hut.

My dad tells a story about that house of rice.  There was a hole, he says, and the grains of rice fell from that hole.  Little bit by little bit, the rice was disappearing.  During wartime this was bad because food was scarce and there were so many mouths to feed.  There was my lolo, lola, my dad and his sister and brothers.

When my lolo found out about the hole in the floor, he also discovered the neighbors had placed baskets underneath the falling rice.

My dad loved the ending of this story.  Did my lolo confront his neighbors?

Let them have it, he said.  We have plenty.







This story that we grew up on, influenced my dad and the way he lived.  He had a supply of rice in his big heart.  And there was also a little hole.  And so many baskets catching every grain of rice.

Three months today we lost you, Daddio.  I offer this little bowl of rice to you.  Maraming salamat, po.  Mahal na mahal kita.