I can’t remember exactly whose wedding it was. It was modest, by today’s standards, but the bride and groom went all-out on the cake. And what a beauty it was. Stacked thickly in three layers, the rolled fondant had what looked like delicate embroidery on all sides. It was exquisite. And all I could think of as the bride and groom cut through it was how beautiful the cake was and how they should have had a less elaborate cake to cut up, one that tasted just as good but was not as pretty. In my mind, the cake should be preserved in all its beauty. I had, for a moment there, forgotten its significance. It was, after all, a wedding party, a most joyful, romantic occasion. Why should they not have their pretty cake (and eat it, too)?
In my closet is an exquisitely embroidered blouse. I’ve had it for years but I have yet to wear it. When it was new and so ‘in’ it beckoned to me in all its detailed glory: ‘Wear me! Wear me!’ But I waited and waited. ‘Wear me now, please!’ it begged. But it was so pretty it deserved nothing less than a pretty occasion. Before I knew it, years had passed. And the top still patiently hangs in the quiet corner of my closet, waiting to be worn. Oh, there have been many pretty occasions, some far too precious even for that shining, shimmering top but the silliness that is misplaced guilt has made me miss out on them. Not on the occasion, silly, but on the wearing of the top to match the occasion. And I only have myself to blame.
I think it was during one birthday I realized my thoughts had to be shaken and sifted for realignment, so to speak. See, I got a beautiful present. But it was so exquisitely wrapped I almost did not have the heart to peel through the layers of beautiful packaging and get to the heart of the gift (which turned out to be even more lovely). True, the medium is the message but whoever taught me to feel more than just a little guilt that I had to tear it open (it was glue-gunned on some sides)?
I thought I was the only one like that until Tito Dougs came back one day from one of his many trips. As pasalubong for Juliana he had thick volumes of beautiful blank books, the kind that scrapbook-keeping kids and adults alike love to have. And this was not the first time he brought her that. In the past he had given her already at least two to three different kinds – nice, thick paper in bright, vibrant colors, impeccably bound. My first instinct was to keep them, keep them, keep them. After all, Juliana was only three years old then and what could a three-year-old do except doodle, doodle and doodle some more? She would enjoy them more at a later age, I reasoned. Or would she? Give it to her now, was his laughing reply. "Only a child can guiltlessly spill ink on such pristine, beautiful pages."
We adults are a funny lot. We operate on many layers and I have yet to figure out that layer that teaches us to be guilty, almost apologetic, about enjoying beautiful things in this beautiful life.
There are many mini-vacations, many pockets of joy that can be had in the confines of a full day. Instead of embracing them though we push them away, and save them for later, much later – when we are in the mood, when we think we are dressed for it, when we feel we deserve it, need it, want it. Seldom do we enjoy it the moment it is there. It is silly, mad – impractical, even. And such a waste of pure joy. But I do it. So do you. And most probably everyone else we know. To varying degrees, maybe, but we are all guilty of that crime.
I gave myself a little practical test. I made a conscious effort to count and embrace as many pretty moments as I could in one full day, and by the time I stopped counting I was already at 17. And the sun had not even set yet! There still was a whole evening to enjoy!
I know better now. If I have a pretty new blouse and I want to wear it, I will wear it the first chance I get. There does not have to be a party. The beautiful, white-cotton bedspreads with cutwork embroidery that I bought on that trip two years ago I have since unearthed from the linen closet, where they were waiting… for what? I no longer know. And it no longer matters. I will use them, enjoy them, until it is threadbare and worn out here and there. One will go on our bed (never mind if my daughter just might color it with her markers or spill her milk or use it to play house), the other two on the beds in the guestrooms. What about the soap dish, the beautiful, old-fashioned one with the curved legs from that thrift shop in New York? I am going to take it out and use it, not in the restroom where our houseguests will see it and ooh and ahh over its beauty but in my bathroom where I can enjoy the ritual of washing my hands with a big bar of soap, after which I can enjoy the act of making that fat big bar rest on that pretty soap dish, curved legs and all. When I drink my favorite drink (chamomile tea with a shot of soymilk and Splenda) I will enjoy it in a nice cup, with or without company. I will use real table napkins if I want to. In the same way that I will keep that chipped cup even if it is so, and not meant to be seen by eyes outside that of family. If I like it and works for me still, then I will put it to good use. No rules.
And I will never be guilty anymore about ruining the beautiful artwork of the plated dessert the pastry chef prepared. That dessert was meant to be eaten in the first place. The pastry chef never labored on it so a guilty dummy like me could just stare at it without digging into it. Too pretty to eat – I’ll never fall prey again to that idiocy. If it is meant to be eaten, eat it. And I mean that literally and figuratively.
The bottom line is to never be motivated by appearances. It’s like wearing nice underwear. You don’t spend a month’s worth of groceries on underwear from Victoria’s Secret and Cosabella just so your friends can see it and say you have it. You do it for yourself, it is a personal thing. You wear it under your clothes, it is seamless, fits well, and feels good. The rest of the world does not have to know about it.
I remember one Thursday Juliana had just come from school and I was working on my laptop on the dining table, facing the sliding doors leading to the backyard. I was pounding mercilessly on the keys, trying to beat my deadline (as usual) and wondered belatedly why my daughter was all of a sudden so quiet. She had been playing her Gameboy but had stopped, and I looked to find her still holding her toy with both hands but now with eyes closed, her chin tilted up towards the direction of the wind. Yes, there was a fresh breeze, the kind that reminds you of hammocks and stretches of white sand, but I had been too busy to notice it, much less enjoy it.
Pleasure can come in small packages, in fact they regularly do come in just that, hidden in the tucks of everyday life, quite often lost in the fogginess of random moments. It is lovely to be ever so aware of them as they present themselves to us. Start with making the space around you as pretty as it can be. Put your pens in a nice cup, un-clutter your desk and leave only pieces that inspire you, things that make you smile from deep inside. For me now it is a picture of Juliana’s toothless grin (she has lost three teeth in the past two months), a plate she painted at Color Me Mine, a cantaloupe-scented candle, a stack of pink-trimmed notepads to write to-do lists on (beats writing on scratch paper).
Beauty is everywhere, some of it is fleeting, some more permanent, but all is meant to be enjoyed for what it is, as it comes, and for however long it lasts. Guilt about enjoying life to its fullest should have no place in our lives. It is a gift, ours for the taking. We have nothing to lose by immersing ourselves in the moment.
So use nice towels, sleep on comfortable sheets, bring out your nice plates, light those candles even when you have no one to seduce, use aromatherapy, get that pedicure, wear your pearls when you clean your room if you want to (I have a cousin who before cleaning her room, wears red lipstick just because she wants to feel pretty), wear a dress the next time you do the groceries (like our grandmothers did in the days of old probably did). Smile at trees if that makes you happy. Pray aloud. Write letters the old-fashioned way, send them through snail mail (I still always get a kick out of receiving mail that way), dunk cookies in milk, eat cereal like you would potato chips. Create all those little pockets of beauty and celebrate life, all day, every day.
You’ll be pleasantly surprised that given all that you already have, there has never been so many ways to feel good about living, no matter where you are.