life

Dear Kairo, What If…

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If I could speak to my soul—if she were my twin sister—I would tell her stories of what ifs.

What if I had taken that road? What if I had bought that house by the river? What if I had taken a helicopter ride? What if I had taken that job? What if I had moved to Milan? What if I had not gotten married? What if I had not gone to the beach? What if I had written a play? What if I could read the footprint? What if I had changed lanes? What if I had driven a Mercedes? What if I had written a story? What if I had brought more joy? What if I had sung that song? What if I had stayed single? What if I had written a cookbook? What if I had gone to the movies? What if I had learned to dance tango? What if I had taken that trip? What if I had said yes when I said no? What if I had said no when I said yes? What if had learned how to play the guitar? What if I had started earlier? What if I had waited longer? What if I had followed my fear? What if I had followed my courage? What if I had learned German? What if I had planted a garden? What if I had bought that little café? What if I had called back? What if I had written more letters? What if I had forgiven sooner? What if I laughed less? What if I had loved louder? What if I had listened more? What if I had taken the long way home? What if I had watched more sunsets? What if I had danced when the music played?

Life can feel like a slew of “what if” buttons popping out of a refrigerator door, as if you could press one and see where it might lead. I don’t know where they would have taken me. But I do know that this is the path I have taken, and here I am.

Perhaps it isn’t the chimney I once dreamed of standing beneath, but it is the pot God intended for me to cook in—the perfect recipe, made with all the sauces and ingredients of my life.

A Private Winter

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Suffering is an emblem of learning, a quiet recital of lessons earned. It is an omen of what is yet to come—a corridor lined with designer scars not yet seen, stitched together by faith. To have faith, you must trust. And to trust, you must accept whatever ride you’re on—the wounds, the scars, the ribbons of pain that slip in whether the doors are open or closed, leaving their marks behind.
You must learn to value your scars, assign them a worth, rather than dwell on their constant intrusion. Keep moving forward. Stop worrying. Let it go. Run wild. Let out your loudest roller-coaster scream. Breathe.
Find the root of the wound. With your best scissors in hand, cut it clean—then sew it back together. Yes, easier said than done. I know. But you are shaping blessings. Tomorrow, you will be healed. One day, you’ll tell the story—how you overcame it all, how the Man Upstairs had a hand in it.
Life lessons.

Freedom

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Freedom is a choice, the right to act of your own free will, to make your own decisions without restrictions or limitations, have options without obstacles or hindrances, be the arbiter of your person without threat of prosecution. It is something I don’t take for granted nor discart as a pamphlet. Consisted of an array of decorative layers and unparallel benefits, a banner of honor of sorts, an emblem one must carry to remind oneself of those less fortunate screaming to have voice.

We live under the umbrella of “we are free to say what we feel and do whatever we want” that we often forget the world isn’t perfect as we become oblivious and accustomed to the comfort surrounding us, as there are places where a sneeze can land you in jail, your every move is monitored like a lost robot, your next door neighbor isn’t your neighbor but a bird with a mouth longer than a truck or one’s rights violated like a broken bicycle. You are expected to keep quiet, not express your free will, where living is synonymous to existing; the psyched game in its core.

I lived such a thing, fascism, communism or whatever that was but as a rebel, I have always been, “my name is,” which landed me in hot waters a few times with pride. I was never the one to see injustice and conform to it as “Shut up” were never two words I swallowed quietly. I guess I have always been my own can of soup, with a mixture of ingredients put inside a turkey; my yesterday with a story to tell.

I have been “free” for so long I have no idea how not to be “free” as I recall what being “in prison” feels like, the memories not so easily fading but at the same time, the price tag, equitable. I can’t complain, I lived comfortably under a microscope, if you can call that, living. It was a dictatorship; care to say a word?