When the body shuts down

The first time that it happened, I was writhing in pain, spent the night bent over my stomach, foetal position, or body turned upside down hoping to make it go away.
As soon as the morning came, I managed to bring myself to the internist's clinic, where the internist asked me to go to the radiologist to take a couple of tests. I still remember the soothing hum of the air conditioner, the subdued lighting, the total silence  inside the radiology room, as the radiologist puzzled over what she saw on the computer, asking me over and over to locate the pain. 

"I could not see anything wrong with your body," she said. 

After a while, she asked, "Are you experiencing some kind of stress?"

When I replied, she refused to believe it. "How could you be so stressed in a job that you've been doing over and over again in the last 15 years?"

So, I told her.

Close to midnight last Thursday, after about three hours of waiting, I sat squatting on the floor maybe more than an hour into the press con when the first pain shot up, a signal from space. I made it a point to take a rest that night; and the following day, working up three or four stories at the same time, I knew that I was operating on a low energy level but still believed that my remaining energy could still last me through the end of those stories when I could finally declare a  rest. 

Unfortunately, though, just a sight of one message after the end of the third story, shot my cortisol level up to the roof.  Something must have burst there somewhere because, although, I managed to crawl myself to finish the fourth story, I was no longer myself afterwards.  

The pain is back again.

Afterlife

 

Even in death, my purple basil still remains a thing of beauty. I'm saying this as my herbs are bidding goodbye to me, one after another. 

First, it was the rosemary that said its farewell last week. I barely heard the plant's lament as her leaves, which already looked scraggly and bedraggled, turned yellowish, browned and gradually died. I was doing a difficult story to even mourn. How could I atone for months and years of neglect? 

I've been ruthlessly pruning it for months because its leaves had been growing untrammelled in the wrong side of the pot. I even buried parts of its stem in soil, hoping to generate a new plant in the process. I cut its stems and placed the leaves in the jar of salt. [Ja and Sean did not complain, though. Our salt has become very tasty]. 

I never believed that my rosemary would die in my hands because it has been with me for years. If I ever sensed a plant whimper, I merely ignored it and continued replanting the aloe vera and the snake plants into new pots. So the last pot of rosemary died alone. I used to have so many pots of them the previous years but now they're all gone. 

So I went to the store thinking I could easily replace the plant. But when I asked how much their newly planted rosemary cost, the store told me it was P300 per small pot. Well, I never thought it sells that much. My rosemary, by its sheer size alone, could have sold for more than P1,000!

The last purple basil to die was growing in a pot where I did not want it to grow.  It was a seedling that sprung from a mother plant, the one I bought from a gay entrepreneur selling herbs outside her salon at the height of Covid lockdown. 

I could still feel the breeze blowing my face that day I rode that trisikad along the city's deserted downtown streets bringing the plants with me. That gay seller was not your ordinary beautician.  She had so many other plants that caught my eye, though I only stuck with the purple basil and the Italian oregano, which had smaller leaves than the oregano I already had at home. Both mother plants died long ago.

Sean and Ja were always wary when I brought home some strange plants because they knew these plants would find their way to my dishes which they were required to eat. But these plants had graced our table for a long time now, they had been with me in my countless experiments and reading adventures; and Sean and Ja had somehow adjusted to them. [Actually, not really].

So, as I was saying, the last purple basil, descendant of that mother plant that I bought at the salon, died ahead of the rosemary. But I did not mind its dying mainly because it had been flowering profusely, which meant, its life was already over and it would soon be preparing to die. I also wanted to use the pot where it was growing, my ulterior motive; and besides, I spotted a younger purple basil growing in another pot, so I thought I won't miss it after all.

I tore its roots from the rectangular pot where it tenaciously clung for years. It was so hard tearing it. It took all my strength to uproot it from the soil. When, I finally succeeded, I placed the naked plant in an empty pot and was awestruck by its grace and beauty.  

This must be what sadness--or despair--does to you. 

Self vs Self

Reading remains to be an ultimate source of pleasure to me so, I'm surprised to see here that I've not been writing about it. But why?! 

It's because you're always working, stupid, and only sneak some time to read!  

Hey, hey, hey! You promised not to address me in that tone anymore. Don't break your promise!

What's wrong?

You're self-blaming me again. Take the word stupid.

Oh, am I? Okay, how do I do that?

Write it's because you're always working and only sneak some time to read!

It's because you're always working and only sneak some time to read!

Survivor's Manual

In the old days, fear figured in our survival as a species, the psychologist told us. That's why, in extreme circumstances, fear flashes before us like a warning. We could never rest until we locate the source of that fear, the warning, because it's key to our survival, she said. 

Today, we no longer face those kind of dangers that our ancestors used to face; yet, the amount of stress we had to deal with everyday has grown to unprecedented proportions. Key to surviving the stress of our everyday life is our capacity to savor moments of joy, to locate in our body no longer the source of fear, but the source of pleasure. 

I kept thinking about this as I went back to my room.

Story that I failed to write

Why can't I write it? Is it really that difficult? What's preventing me from writing it? What's the problem with me? Is it the tree? The Mindanao Eucalyptus, also called the Rainbow Tree, which is a beautiful tree? Is it the Balete somewhere outside the camera frame, the tree that started as a branch but grew into a tree? Is there anything wrong with me? Why can't I just roll up my sleeves and write? Oh, God. It will be such an injustice if I continue to fail to write this story. Praying for extra strength.