About a week ago there was some slight furore among the writers in our office. The management will open an email support team and the application is open to everyone. All you do is to submit an essay the person you value most in your life, and three sample email correspondence, and then they judge if you're up for the job or not.
This is the entry I submitted:
(I didn't get the post, but even then, I think the essay that came out of me, I feel, is a winner.)
They whom I hold dearest
by Rico D. del Rosario
Shall I be sentimental and say my Dad, Engr. Rene C. del Rosario, Jr., is the most important person in my life? Or must I be devoted and describe my darling daughter, Dana Keziah, in doting detail? Should I be patriotic and talk about the Philippine hero, Dr. Jose Rizal and his self-sacrificial contribution to the nation? Or be romantic and extol the virtues of my wife, Marivic? Shall I assume the stance of the political activist and talk about Ninoy Aquino and his legacy to Filipinos? Must I put on the manner of the religious and idealize Mother Teresa? Yes, I can do all these things, and yet still be left wondering: who really is the most important person in my life? Just how does one answer such a question?
I take a path most familiar to me--a path, that is, sadly, has become unpopular in our times. This is the same path I take whenever I am graced with the opportunity to launch myself onto the stage. I choose to answer the question with honesty. And my honest answer to that question is: MYSELF.
My self is the most important person for me. It is my self that I force out of bed each evening and marshal to face the first cold splash of water in the shower. My self that, coming home from work tired and sleep-starved, chooses to play with Dana in her latest pretend game. It is my self that tries his best to be a strong and gentle husband to Veck, cherishing her trust and nurturing her dreams.
It is my self that braves the hour-long bus ride from Malolos to Cubao, and then the train ride from Cubao to Makati. It is my self that takes step after step on my lean, slow legs to Net Plaza and take calls. It is my self that immerses himself in another human being and portray him truthfully and faithfully on the stage.
But what is self? Is it really that important? I sit down in meditation and observe my breath. I cross my legs, straighten my back, close my eyes, and try to sit still. I observe my body and try to remain aware even as my monkey mind races on, flitting from one thought to another, buzzing with ideas about the world, my latest QA markdown, the amount of rice left in our Kyowa grains dispenser, the rising price of milk. The question remains, "What is the self?"
My mind meanders to the past--what this advisor said about me in a snide remark and how I was too dumbfounded to retort. How I was bullied in high school and loved Literature like mad. How Dana and Veck looked exactly alike fast asleep last night. I remember my grandfather proudly showing all the neighbors a small blackboard where I wrote the alphabet and the numbers 1 to 100 when I was four. I remember my Dad weeping when I told him I flunked college, and how terrible I felt. And my Dad weeping again during my wedding and how wonderful I felt. I remember how Dana was born all purple and wrinkly, screaming and kicking, with the umbilical cord coiled around her neck.
My mind flies to the future: which auditions to go to, what dates to file my vacation leaves, which plays and concerts to watch or let pass.
Is this who my self is? The sum of my past pains and future aspirations? Is my self husband? father? son? brother? financial services advisor? colleague? writer? friend? artist? What do these labels mean to me? Does my name hold the clue to my identity?
My hands open up to heaven and I ponder the Filipino word for fate: kapalaran, which has palad for its root word. Is my destiny etched on the lines of my palm? Do these crisscrossing lines define who I am?
I cannot wait for an answer to arrive. I simply continue to breathe in meditation, paying attention to my breath, my aching back, my itching ear. I see that all I am is body parts and fluids, made up of organs and cells, that are made up of molecules and atoms. An atom is the building block of matter, which is, physicists have discovered, to be nothing but a form of energy.
So that is all that I am to science. A manifestation of energy in the here and now. A physical body that has breath and mind and passions and instincts. I am a wonder, but not unlike all the other common wonders of nature: plants, animals, objects, human beings. I am at once both miraculous and ordinary. What is self, then, when there really is no self for the self to define?
I have my breath, my pen, my mind, sheets of paper. I write about how I take pleasure in cuddling my daughter and hearing her laugh as I tickle the nape of her neck. How we watch Annie the Musical on DVD for the nth time and sing along to "Tomorrow" together. I lie next to my wife and we talk about her hopes, worries, dreams, fears. Without my wife and daughter, my self has no sense of being. I long to be home every time I'm at the office. I long to be with them, each day becomes a happy reunion whenever I arrive home. They are whom I hold dearest in my life.
My self is both large and small. In the end, my self belongs not to me at all.
