Fireworks from my own room

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Friday, January 3, 2014

IT IS January 1, 2014, 9:45 a.m., in the room where faith and choice has placed me. Happy New Year world!

Just last night, during the last hour of 2013, I sat in the upstairs bedroom looking out the window at the night sky filled with glorious fireworks, alone.

What a sight it was, my own pyrotechnics show right there in my own backyard, like wild flowers blooming simultaneously, some exploding into showers that disappeared in seconds, some lingering like soft fireflies before melting into the darkness.


Such is life, I thought, giving in to my philosophical mood.

I had said no thanks to my family’s invitations to spend the new year in their respective homes.

I finally understood what my grandmother felt when she would not leave her house even when the whole clan wanted to take her with us to the beach.

There is something special about the space that enfolds us, the sounds and silences within that space, the many little things that remind us of who we are on the outside.

Or maybe I’m just turning into a regular grandmother myself – which I already am, actually.

Then again, perhaps it was my way of celebrating the fact that I finally have what Virginia Woolf called “a room of one’s own,” a place where I could just be my weird self, doing the things I loved to do, being the way I am without getting in anybody’s way.

These are but some of the things that I would like to write about in the coming weeks of this new year – fireworks, a room of one’s own, grandmothers.

Last year, I had promised the chief editor that I would write about women, having just finished reading for the third time a favorite book written by a woman for other women.

After several other articles about several other things, I am running out of excuses to postpone this proposed project.

Now that I am faced with this blank page, I am at a loss as to where and how to begin.

Why I am procrastinating and why I find it hard to begin is a very good question.

The answer to such a question would probably be the main reason why I do want to write about women.

I have been putting it off because if I write about how women really feel and think, there’s no telling just what will happen next.

Isn’t that exciting, though?

Just look at the titles of the books piled on my desk: “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” by Maya Angelou, “Women Who Run With the Wolves” by Clarissa Pinkola Estés, “A Woman’s Worth” by Marianne Williamson, “Succulent Wild Women” by SARK, “Eat, Pray, Love” by Elizabeth Gilbert, and many others.

Perhaps there are caged birds out there raring to run away with the wolves to become succulent wild women able to simply eat, pray and love as they were all born to do, women already worthy as they were all born just to be.

It can be a scary thing, to simply be women in our world – scary not just for the emerging woman, but for the world not used to it.

I sip the coffee I shouldn’t be drinking because of my hyperacidity.

I could almost see my friend Chimmy shaking her head and saying no you can’t, gently.

And I think of how my life is filled with beautiful women friends, each with their own stories, each telling a tying of bonds between sisters, and how I would like to write about that, too.

This is why I want to write about women.

I want to give voice to their stories and their heart thoughts, to build bridges from my own room to that of theirs.

This is how we will ignite our own fireworks of every shape and color, brightening our night skies.

Published in the Sun.Star Cagayan de Oro newspaper on January 04, 2014.


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