Meant To Mend

Today, Caring (not her real name) marks her 2 weeks under my shelter. She has been a battered wife since she married at the age of 14. With 8 children aged 17 to 3, Caring could not leave home, or if she had the courage to, she would come back to her husband once he comes getting her back. Two weeks ago, she ran to my mother's farm barefoot. She says she cannot stand it any longer, and knows for sure that once her spouse comes to get her, she will willingly go home. My mom decided to take her to Manila to stay temporarily with me. She could help me out with the household chores as I have been one helper less.

The story of abuse. The vicious cycle of being a battered wife. Or husband. Gasgas na ba (Overly-discussed)?

Call me weird. (I don't really mind because I am.) But I really like the smell of sewing machine oil, and newly-bought-from-Divisoria tela (textile). I grew up with Mama's electric Singer Sewing Machine whirrs as my nursery songs, and I clearly recall how I would sit by her feet for hours, waiting for scraps of cloth and threads to fall on the floor only for me to put them together somehow. Or, make them talk.

Mama was raised in a Pampango household where the mother wasn't supposed to work but cook, and perhaps play mahjong in the afternoon. In her particular household. women were allowed to drive cars, and be in athletics, but were raised to be homebodies. Mama's father, a well-accomplished engineer and former Governor of Pampanga, put many others through school, and decided that his princess (my mother) should not be working after college, so he highly recommended (I'm being nice, imposed is the more accurate word) that she took a Fine Arts course and grow in her artistic talent. Daddy (my grandfather) even built a nipa hut studio for her. When she married, Daddy put up a dress shop for her, another daughter and a daughter-in-law. It was a 5-minute walk from our place but eventually, she gave it up and worked from home.

Mama was a repair(wo)man. Although raised in a comfortable setting, she took the time to fix what could still be fixed. I would always see her with a needle and thread nagsusulsi (sewing to repair). Our uniforms would get ripped in school, but would look brand new the next day.

One evening, as my sister and I were infested with head lice, she put some nose-bothersome Chinese medication, and instead of buying a new shower cap to cover our heads as we sleep, she thought of recycling something else. She picked our oldest panties and sewed the openings for the legs and made us wear them. Throughout the night. Yes, we felt ridiculous and no, we did not see any dead lice in the morning trapped in them.  But it will always be a great story to tell our kids, and perhaps our grandkids to show how creative and environment-friendly my mom is. She tired to recycle a lot of things.

I remember even with cracked vases, and broken toys, faded jewelry and tattered stuff, she would find a way to make them functional, polished or pretty again. Or usable in another way.

I think this strength of hers has evolved into some form of a mission in her life. She was always optimistic about how a person can still change. Or how a problem can still be solved. Or a wound to be healed.

When she had a garment business, she would oftentimes employ abandoned children, disabled or abused adults. Each visit I make to her office, she would introduce me to a character, and with that person came a soap-opera material story. Even with animals, she is likewise very kind. Her farm is not just a refugee center of needy people, but an orphanage for a crippled deer, a sick puppy, unwanted creatures, birds whose mistress was terminally sick, turtles, cats, fish, guinea pigs, fowls that can no longer fit into their former masters' residences.

Last Mother's Day, I decided to crochet for her a cellphone case ornamenting it with an owl. Her favorite colors are shades of purple, and using my daughter's Blackberry, I estimated the size of Mama's phone and looped, knotted, tangled away. I cannot outgive my mom, and even if I could afford buying her stuff she would not buy for herself, like a new car or a vacation house or a trip abroad, I know that she greatly appreciates gifts which carry with it appreciation for who I've become because of her.

And I know because of her, I have yearned to become a woman who gives healing, and not pain. Who gives hope, and not condemnation.

My mother is an animal-lover but amongst all the wonderful creatures God has made,
the owl reminds me of her, because of its big beautiful eyes.

I wrote Mama a card to go with the gift. In the card, I shared with her why I chose the owl. She loves animals, and I remember having cats, dogs, lovebirds, rabbits, guinea pigs and fish as pets. But breaking convention, I remember how she adopted owls from Palawan, something unimaginable then unless you were an aviary owner. She installed wires around our porch window, converting it into a cage. 

Mother was a woman of wisdom, as an owl is known to be wise. As I was crocheting the phone case, my 13yo asked why I chose the owl, and after telling her my reasons, she added, "And maybe because she doesn't sleep at night, and makes puyat (stays up late at night)?" When I was relating this exchange to my 18yo, he immediately interrupted: "Is it also because she can turn her head 360 degress?" I laughed. Yes, she can, and is able to sense when someone needs help. Here's proof.

Mama worked for an export garment business before putting up her own.
On a location shoot, the fashion photographer caught her in a lovely angle.
Tall, slim and attractive, she was often teased to join in the shoot or the show to be a print or ramp model.

Yeah, this sounds like a post-Mother's Day tribute. I've written other pieces about her, even way back in college. For an English 5 essay, my professor gave me a 1.0, but more unforgettable than the grade is his very nice comment: "You are blessed to have such a mother, and she is fortunate to have you."

Mama is not into reading blogs so I hope to email this to her. And with it, let me say, "Mama, I praise God, for you have always been meant to mend. Thank you for patiently holding together my palm when I was a toddler as it oozed with blood, after breaking a teacup in my hand when I tripped. Thank you for pinching the skin of my wound on my temple together, when I was a preschooler. You painstakingly did this for the rest of the day, even if it consumed your hours of rest and productivity. Thank you for that late evening, when coming home from work, you saw that the cut I had on my ankle after playing soccer, was too deep for your magic fingers to repair. You knew a professional had to do the sewing in the ER. Thank you for knowing the difference between managing what you could, and letting Someone else take control. I think that you are an awesome Fix-It-All. But more than that, I appreciate you for being a compassionate woman beyond compare."