A true story

My friend’s grandma passed away and when the family went through her things they found – and I kid you not, because my friend told me so – a dozen rotten, shriveled mangoes, half a balikbayan box full of imported chocolates in pristine packaging but at least three years expired, packets of marshmallows and dried mangoes that had turned mushy and were stuck to each other in a gooey mess, sealed packs of Fig and Apple Newtons, some still safe to eat but a bigger lot not – all these, of course, among her jewels and fine shawls, perfumes, exquisite linens and other such pretty possessions. They also found a whole batch of scented fans, the Spanish kind, as well as those pretty carved and inlaid wooden ones (when she was still alive she just used the native abanico, worn and frayed at the sides, that she had had for years!), and brand-new pretty dusters still neatly folded (for the most part of her last years she lounged in threadbare, faded ones).

According to my friend, her grandma was the type who always saved things for a "perfect occasion." Either she was very picky about what occasions were special enough to merit the opening of a box or two of chocolates or there very simply were far too few occasions to begin with. My friend says it must have been the former because from the size of their family alone, occasions were definitely not few and far between. As for the mangoes, I would like to believe, as I’m sure you would, that she just forgot about them completely, although to this day I am still curious why she chose to ripen the fruit on the topmost shelf of the huge closet in her dressing room instead of in the fruit bowl on the table in the kitchen.

Too often, too much, this is what we hear: "When the time is right… the bottle of wine will be opened, the nice glasses will be used, the embroidered linens will be spread out. When the time is right… perfume will be sprayed on pillows and in the air, the nice trays and chopping boards will replace the old, mangled ones."

But when is the right time, the perfect moment, really? And who decides when that is, if it is?

Another true story.

I remember a teacher. We would go to her house to learn this and that craft. As my sister and I sat on her green leather sofa while waiting our turn we would find ourselves face to face with a medium-sized curio cabinet. And in the cabinet alongside her wedding picture, the happy little dolls and the smiling miniature animals were, oddly enough, four cans; two each of some imported fruit salad, the brand of which I now forget, and Hormel corned beef. They stood mighty and proud together with carefully collected knick-knacks, and were probably just as precious. Remember, this was back in the early ’80s when PX goods were not easily available in the country, much less the province. We did not understand it then but now, with hindsight, I believe they were probably patiently waiting to be opened and enjoyed during – and there is that phrase again – "a perfect moment."

A not-so-funny postscript. Years later one of our friends went to visit that same teacher. She swears there were more cans and even more brands, but this time with more photo frames and more smiling animals (she says the four original cans were still there but I bet she was kidding me; I refuse to believe her). Apparently, old habits are hard to break and the cycle just goes on and on.

My own true story.

When we last visited Ormoc I allowed my daughter to go through my old things. She had very little or no interest in the bags of handwritten letters I had accumulated over the pre-email years, except to curiously comment on or run her fingers over stamps and embossed details on pretty stationery. What got her really excited and all giddy was a big box of stickers, all of which I had lovingly collected over many of my childhood years. There were dates written at the back of some of them: 1986, 1984, even 1982! I was barely 10 years old then. That seems so long ago and so far away, if I really think about it, but I still remember those days very clearly, like they just happened last week or yesterday even.

Barely able to contain her excitement and with bated breath, my daughter adoringly touched and perused each and every sheet in the big batch, as if they were the crown jewels. I kept them well. Except for a bit of yellowing on the edges of some, mostly everything was in sparkling condition with no creases, all designs still intact on each sheet. To be presented solidly with a boxful of collectibles in one sitting must be heaven to a child, tantamount perhaps to unlimited access to chocolates and frosted cupcakes, or bottomless servings of ice cream.

They were my prized possessions then and even as I itched to use them here and there, on this envelope or that notebook, in wild abandon, I remember restraining myself. I was saving them for something more special. But what, and when, and for that matter, why? Before I even realized it I had outgrown both my need to compulsively collect them as well as my desire to madly preserve them. Such a waste… fun things I never even had fun with. If for that alone, those lovely stickers did not serve their purpose. And sadly, it was my choice, too.

So when Juliana started using them when we came back to Manila, precious treasures of my childhood, in every place and space possible, I let her. True, there still was that little voice inside me that wanted to tell her to please practice a little self-control, but then again, what for? They are just stickers. They are meant to be stuck somewhere. She must have fun with them. Must she really preserve them? And for who? Her own children?

I can tell you about people I know who still use eyeshadow and lipstick 20 years old, or those who buy books but refuse to read them for fear of creasing the pages, or houses that have Persian carpets you cannot walk on, or LV luggage they will never use for fear of scratching the leather and fading the monogram. But I cannot and I will not tell because they will never forgive me for doing so.

Such matters are quirky glimpses into the psyche of adults in general and more than we would probably care to admit, we carry on like a legacy the unspoken rules:1) preserving things in their perfect state as much as we possibly can; and 2) saving them for that one perfect day.

We are so very unlike children who have an inherent knack for leaping into the moment, acknowledging it as special and deserving of nothing but the best their little hands and hearts have to give. They know how to count on more than the actuality of candles on a cake, gifts on the table. We need to learn from these little tykes, who go without questioning the magic of the moment, without searching for it even, yet finding it abundantly in the most ordinary of people, places and things. They just validate life by enjoying life unapologetically, shamelessly, guiltlessly. They are the happiest people if for that reason alone.

Why else do you see them wearing gowns and crowns while at play? Or using their best art materials for cards they make and give during ordinary days?

Every day is special, every day is a reason to celebrate. Staying true to this basic reality does bring into natural order an innate happiness that will sit stoutly and solidly within our hearts, fostering a more genuine and generous appreciation for all that is around us. Things are just… things. We need not take them too seriously nor should we be too attached to them.

So use those drawer liners even if your drawers are crude and lopsided, with chipped paint and mismatched drawer pulls. And who is to say you can only open one bottle of perfume or shampoo at a time? Or use just one wallet? Or for that matter, open just one box of chocolates?