The Sense in Sensibilities

Last night, I woke to a powerful thunderstorm brewing beneath my belly.
An energetic vortex exists in my once calm sea and Svadhisthana demands to be fulfilled.
Every inch of my skin begs to be touched; my lips quiver to be kissed.
My knees rise towards my chest. Tonight, I embrace them tightly. “Aahhh…” I close my eyes.
I am drowning…drowning in a whirlpool of fantasy.
Drowning in desire…drowning in guilt.
As my body twists like an uncoiling snake in heat, I kick off the blankets, quickly peel all layers
and begin to pray for peace to pacify the rapidly increasing pulsations agonizing me from within.
Oh my Goddess…
One hand is cupped below, the other, stretches out to feel for the phone.
My mother would never approve… or would she?

You see, growing up Catholic, my mother tried to ingrain
at an early age that sexual exploration
is only without sin when experienced
in the context of marriage between a man and a woman.
That a girl who allowed herself momentary and transient sexual
pleasures lacked self-respect and was a sinner in the eyes of God.
When I was a teenager, she told me stories of her childhood in the Philippines.
Of how propriety was observed by all the women in her family
And of how signs of the possibility of promiscuity was punished
with the sinner kneeling on grains of rice in front of the cross
while praying to Jesus for a clean mind, forgiveness and salvation.
I knew what she expected; what my ancestors expected.
But even at a young age, I knew that things were not so black and white
That the complex world we lived in was held together
by very delicate strings…

At the age of 21, my mother married a man almost 50 years her senior.
This union was not one of romantic love, but of security and opportunity.
It was a manifestation of the connection between poverty, opportunism,
a woman's mobility, and the global patterns of inequality.
But even with these social factors, no one can deny, especially her children,
how she sacrificed every little girl’s ideal dream for a marriage with sensibility.

When my father died and she became a widow in her late 30’s,
My mother experienced a freedom she hadn’t felt since her youth.
She began to feel like a woman again…
Not a mother, not a wife, not a provider…
Just…a woman…looking for a partner to share this lifetime with once again.
But she was different this time around. Time brought her many lessons.
She wasn’t young and naïve as she once was.
For years, she had been repressed by her gender, by her economic status,
and by a man she didn’t love. This time around, she…was seasoned.
Uncompromising, she looked for love and nothing less.
For desire to fuel her fire…for an ideal she thought she could never reclaim.
Like Stella…mama got her groove back and had no qualms about it.
But not everyone saw this experience as a form of liberation;
a celebration of life and of re-birth.
I knew the neighbors were intimated. She did too.
And it used to bother me that they were
as I watched many lovers come and go.
My perception of my mother changed.
In my mind she became the model of who not to be.
And I…I wanted to be different; to be accepted and respected.
She was no longer my Mother Mary, but more like Mary Magdalene.
And I, became one of those who threw stones…
I look back today and I ask myself why…why did I judge her?
Why did it matter what everyone else thought?
Why could I not see that she never stopped being
wonderful mother to me?

I adored her.
She was the epitome of an independent woman –
the vanguard, breadwinner, protector and caretaker of the family.
She was beautiful, loving and fearless.
She held all authority and was not to be questioned.
I desired to be a good daughter and to please her.
As a child, I wanted to be just like her.
But why was it that as I blossomed into a young woman,
I worked so hard to mold myself to become
as far from a the image of the woman I thought she had become.

But only time reveals certain lessons and experiences…new insights.
In June, I turned 29. A time of endings and new beginnings.
By this age, I felt society expectation to be a wife and mother.
To nest a sacred space for family.
To have a stationary home.
To be an established career woman.
To be done with youth and along with it
…it’s whimsical freedom.
But that’s not me.
That’s not my Pinay story.
Saturn’s return came with full force and revealed
the secret mysteries of life – joyful, sorrowful and glorious.
I realized who I’ve become…who I am.
I am single, childless and on my own.
My passions are art, travel & understanding human connection.
My family & companions, kindred spirits I’ve met along the way.
My home, is everywhere and anywhere I am welcomed.
My work is that of a healer…a babaylan priestess incarnate.
Reaching higher-self is my purpose.
And like my mother, my heart has been tried and tested.
It’s felt the pains of loss, as well as the ecstasy of love.
My own web has been spun and with it many stories
which continue from the thread that began with my mother.
I was told a long time ago, that to know history, was to know self.
Stepping into her shoes, I received my right of passage.
And finally, I am able to see the intricate complexities and honor
of what it means to be a woman by embracing my mother…my sweet, strong, amazing mother.
Now I can live life with no qualms and total ownership of my future.