Repair

My heartfelt gratitude to Jeff T, schoolmate from Notre Dame, who fixed the old battery of my seven or eight-year old MacBook Air. Jeff delivered it to the house yesterday. He did a clean job and even went as far as ordering a new charger for me. I paid a fraction of the cost I'd normally shoulder if I had brought my device to the Apple Store. I highly recommend him. Although I have a new MacBook Air, I won't let go of the old one, which has been with me in so many reports, presentations, and blog posts. The Japanese philosophy wabi-sabi comes to mind: 

From an engineering or design point of view, wabi may be interpreted as the imperfect quality of any object, due to inevitable limitations in design and construction/manufacture especially with respect to unpredictable or changing usage conditions; in this instance, sabi could be interpreted as the aspect of imperfect reliability, or the limited mortality of any object, hence the phonological and etymological connection with the Japanese word sabi.

I like the aesthetic of used and repaired devices that have been worn out by daily, consistent use. I don't really care for getting the most updated versions of, say, the iPhone when I still have one that works.  I have, however, a preference for using old phones with cracked screens and wobbly chargers, secondhand frames bought from flea markets, shoes with cracked linings and chipped leather, wallets with broken stitching. These materials have served their purpose and, to my mind, are therefore more valuable. Their imperfections, accumulated through years of use, bear the personal imprint of their owner, and there is a kind of pain whenever a decision needs to be made: to condemn them to permanent disuse or to have them repaired again. A few days ago, I had my old Adidas sneakers repaired. The sole of the right shoe was detached and needed to be sewn into place. I couldn't part with that pair, which I bought in Seoul, on a trip with my medical oncology friends many years ago. Each time I wear them, I remember the bingsu we ate after.

In the process of having the battery replaced, I recently read Roger Scruton's take on repair. Here, he's quoted by Alan Jacobs, whose blog I follow religiously.

Repair [at an earlier stage of our culture] was not so much a habit as an honoured custom. People respected the past of damaged things, restored them as though healing a child and looked on their handiwork with satisfaction. In the act of repair the object was made anew, to occupy the social position of the broken one. Worn shoes went to the anvil, holed socks and unravelled sleeves to the darning last — that peculiar mushroom-shaped object which stood always ready on the mantelpiece.

The custom of repair was not confined to the home. Every town, every village, had its cobbler, its carpenter, its wheelwright and its smith. In each community people supported repairers, who in tum supported things. And our surnames testify to the honour in which their occupations were held. But to where have they repaired, these people who guaranteed the friendliness of objects? With great difficulty you may still find a cobbler — but for the price of his work you could probably buy a new pair of shoes. For the cost of 15 digital watches you may sometimes find a person who will fix the mainspring of your grandfather’s timepiece.

The truth is that repair, like every serious social activity, has its ethos, and when that ethos is lost, no amount of slap-dash labour can make up for it. The person who repairs must love the broken object, and must love also the process of repair and all that pertains to it.

I guess that makes Jeff T our city's honored repairer of all things Apple. Salamat liwat, Jeff.

Audrey Assad's music

Audrey Assad's Spirit of the Living God is in my head these days. It's one of the best music I've heard this year. The modern hymn is a prayer to God that is filled with expectation, faith, and hope. I love how the music illustrates the dynamics of Godhead: three Persons in one God. 

O Spirit of the living God,
thou Light and Fire Divine
Descend upon Thy Church once more
and make it truly Thine
Fill it with love and joy and power,
with righteousness and peace
Till Christ shall dwell in human hearts,
and sin and sorrow cease.

Blow, wind of God,
with wisdom blow until our minds are free
From mists of error, clouds of doubt,
which blind our eyes to Thee
Burn, winged fire,
inspire our lips with flaming love and zeal
To preach to all Thy great good news,
God’s glorious commonweal.

So shall we know the power of Christ,
who came this world to save
So shall we rise with Him
to life which soars beyond the grave
And earth shall win true holiness
which makes Thy children whole
Till, perfected by Thee,
we reach creation’s glorious goal

I'm much grateful to The Advent Project of Biola University for introducing me to painters, poets, and musicians. The last entry is on December 31. The artful meditations have been so refreshing to my soul. I'll be sure to subscribe to similar meditations next year.

Keep Reading

Read your Bible, and pray every day

David Mathis writes about his morning devotions and how it has changed him over time. He follows the Navigators Bible reading plan, similar to what I use. 

Not that this habit of starting each day with open Bible (and coffee) is always clean and easy, but it’s far more automatic and enjoyable and fruitful now, twenty years later, than at the beginning. It’s amazing how a longstanding, daily habit can change you — not just in terms of psychological pathways and external actions, but also how a soul can be formed and conditioned.

We tend to overestimate how much we can change in the short run, and underestimate how much we can change in the long run.

Unlike Mathis, though, I still check the boxes before the passages. It is habit I will not likely break because the check marks help me keep track. I read the Bible early in the morning, with coffee, fountain pens in different inks or a Blackwing pencil, and a Midori Traveler's notebook (passport size). In my journal, I'd rewrite the passages I would need to read for the week and check the boxes as soon as I'm done. Because I'm easily distracted, I'd also write my prayers and list the people or concerns I need to pray for. 

By God's grace, I've grown more in knowledge and love of God's word since I started doing my personal devotions in 2004. The days when I would miss my quiet time, for petty reasons like work or laziness, are also the times when I'd find it easier to slip into old sins. There are moments when I'd need to "force-feed" myself with Scripture; Bible-reading requires discipline and is not dictated by what I feel like doing.

I love this line from the article:

I could read at the slowest, most deliberate pace I found enjoyable, and stop to re-read any sentence or paragraph that was particularly unclear, or especially sweet — and still the full time elapsed would be less than half an hour.

Mathis's advice for new Bible readers is priceless:

For starters, I’d recommend half an hour, with the glad expectation that it will grow over time as your appreciation deepens for these quiet, unrushed, morning moments over God’s word.

Sing we the song of Emmanuel

 

This is Keith and Kristyn Getty, Matt Boswell, Matt Papa's Sing We the Song of Emmanuel, a joyful, expectant, theologically-infused hymn played on loop in our home. Enjoy!

Sing we the song of Emmanuel

This the Christ who was long foretold 

Lo in the shadows of Bethlehem 

Promise of dawn now our eyes behold. 

God Most High in a manger laid 

Lift your voices and now proclaim 

Great and glorious, 

Love has come to us 

Join now with the hosts of heaven

Not a groan, but a song

 De Witt Talmage's words and our happiness in the reality of Jesus Christ's birth!

The music that broke through the midnight heavens was not a dirge, but an anthem. It shook joy over the hills. It not only dropped upon the shepherds, but it sprang upward among the thrones.

The robe of a Saviour’s righteousness is not black.

The Christian life is not made up of weeping and cross-bearing and war-waging.

Through the revelation of that Christmas night I find that religion is not a groan, but a song.

In a world of sin, and sick beds, and sepulchres, we must have trouble; but in the darkest night the heavens part with angelic song. You may, like Paul, be shipwrecked, but I exhort you to be of good cheer, for you who are trusting on Christ shall all escape safe to the land.

The right word

Marilynne Robinson on finding the right word.

Writing should always be exploratory. There shouldn’t be the assumption that you know ahead of time what you want to express. When you enter into the dance with language, you’ll begin to find that there’s something before, or behind, or more absolute than the thing you thought you wanted to express. And as you work, other kinds of meaning emerge than what you might have expected. It’s like wrestling with the angel: On the one hand you feel the constraints of what can be said, but on the other hand you feel the infinite potential. There’s nothing more interesting than language and the problem of trying to bend it to your will, which you can never quite do. You can only find what it contains, which is always a surprise.

Ah, the joys of language!

With Ted Chiang for the holidays

Ted Chiang's collection, Stories of Your Life and Others, is enjoyable. Always on the lookout for science fiction, I've heard about Ted Chiang's brilliance and gift from podcasts and friends. I'm more than halfway through the collection. Story of Your Life, from which the title of the collection, is as good as people say it is. I made the connection right away that this was the basis for the film adaptation, Arrival, which stars Amy Adams. What surprised me was The Merchant and the Alchemist's Gate, where a merchant named Fuwaad ibn Abbas retells the story of how he discovered a passageway to the future in a humble shop of Bashaarat, located in the City of Peace. It's a series of smaller stories that prove to be interconnected in the end. I love the story's last lines, and I'm sharing it here.

Nothing erases the past. There is repentance, there is atonement, and there is forgiveness. That is all, but that is enough.

Here's LeVar Burton, reading the story.

We crave for Your return

We continued our Christmas Eve tradition of sleeping early and waking up fresh to a new day. Later today, after Sunday worship service, we are hosting our mother's side of the family at home. The cakes are baked, the food prepared, and tables set. In the midst of the preparations, Scotty Smith's prayer for December 24 is an example of how we can be more heavenward in our celebrations.

Lord Jesus…

As the Last Adam, you obeyed and fulfilled the law for us.

As the Lamb of God, you bore our sin, and took our judgment.

As the Grave Robber, you conquered death and arose to give us life.

As the Lord of Lords, you are sovereign over kings, people, and places.

As our Great High Priest, you advocate, care, and pray for us constantly.

As our Loving Bridegroom, you are coming back for us with great delight.

As the Grace Giver, you take on “the hopes and fears of all the years” (ours too).


Hallelujah, and thank you. Jesus, as you lavish your love on us, we cast our cares on you. We worship you, Jesus. We need you. We crave your return. So Very Amen.

Coastal roads

Postcript by Seamus Heaney, from the The Spirit Level (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1996), captures what I feel about driving. It is a solitary, meditative exercise and a skill I have been mastering. The poem reminds me of my rides along the coastal roads of Sarangani, heading to the quiet towns of Maasim, where, fresh from medical school, I worked for a few nights as a doctor-on-call, and to Kiamba, where our church friend hosts the family for gatherings by the shore.

And some time make the time to drive out west

Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you’ll park and capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.

Carlos in Paris

I dreamt of my friend Carlos two nights ago. In the dream, it was springtime in Paris. The sun was up, but there were a few people, without masks, riding their bicycles, along Rue de Rivoli. I was walking with him on the way to his apartment; I suppose, in my dream, I had lived a few blocks away from his home, and we were neighbors. Outside his building, I realized I hadn't eaten yet, so I invited him to lunch. It was something I would do in real life: Carlos always made time, and if he couldn't join me, he'd make the best excuses. I suppose it was 1 or 2 o'clock, just the right time to have le déjeuner. I suggested that we eat salmon with a glass of white wine in my favorite restaurant, Café Le Sélect, in Montparnasse, where my favorite short story writer Mavis Gallant once lived and dined. He would love it, I told him. We would take the Métro to Vavin Station, and walk from there. As we began our journey, he remembered that he had a report to cram for a gastroenterology case management conference. He couldn't make it to lunch, after all. 

My dream was so detailed, and it fascinates me that I could remember the little details.

In real life, I'm the godfather of his daughter. In 2017, we crammed our end-of-rotation report on pancreatic cysts for gastroenterology. He was brilliant.

Happy birthday, Carlos!

Do you think I am saved?

I spotted Hilary Mantel's The Mirror and the Light, the third novel in her historical fiction trilogy about Thomas Cromwell, from a pile of books on sale at National Bookstore, SM Gensan. I didn't mind that I'd only read Wolf Hall (the first) and hadn't even gotten started on Bring Up the Bodies (the second). There's no method, other than my mood, that governs my choice of the next reading material—a novel, a short story, a poetry collection, a book of essays, a theological discourse, a biochemistry textbook.

I started reading the novel right away. On page 223, Thomas Cromwell—now Lord Thomas Cromwell, Master Secretary to the King Henry VIII, Lord Privy Seal—talks to Robert Barnes, a Lutheran cleric. Hilary Mantel, one of my greatest discoveries this year, reimagines the internal struggle of Cromwell about his Protestant faith in the passage below. 

It is difficult to be at ease, [Cromwell] thinks, with men who believe that, since the misunderstanding in Eden, we have had neither reason nor will of our own. "The king says if, as Luther holds, our only salvation comes through faith in Christ, who has elected some of us, not others, to life eternal, and if our works are so besmirched as to be entirely useless in God's eyes, and cannot help us to salvation--then why should any man do charity to his neighbour?"

"Works follow election," Barnes says. "They do not precede it. It is simple enough. The man who is saved will show it, by his Christian life."

"Do you think I am saved?" he says. "I am covered in lamp black and my hands smell of coin, and when I see myself in a glass I see grime--I suppose that is the beginning of wisdom? About my fallen state, I have no choice but agree. I must meddle with matters that corrupt--it is my office. In the golden age the earth yielded all we required, but now we must dig for it, quarry it, blast it, we must drive the world, we must gear and grind it, roll and hammer and pulp it. There must be dinners cooked, Rob. There must be slates chalked, and ink set to page, and money made and bargains struck, and we must give the poor the means to work and eat. I bear in mind that there are cities abroad where the magistrates have done much good, with setting up hospitals, relieving the indigent, helping young tradesmen with loans to get a wife and a workshop. I know Luther turns his face from what ameliorates our sad condition. But citizens do not miss monks and their charity, if the city looks after them."

Mantel, in so few words, writes about justification, predestination, God's sovereignty, human free will, and good works. I agree with the line she wrote for Barnes here: works follow election, they do not precede it. Mantel also writes a beautiful line for Cromwell who questions his own salvation: "Do you think I am saved?" It is heartbreaking, but it is an exercise that Christians are called to do (2 Peter 1:10).

Why didn't I discover Hilary Mantel earlier? 

Bear witness

I've been using The Advent Project of Biola University as my devotional for November and December. I learned about it through Paradox Uganda. The project draws from Scripture and supplements each passage with a music, a painting/graphic art, a short meditation, and a prayer. These artistic meditations, posted daily, stir the imagination and prepare the heart for Christmas. For December 22, the Scripture passage is Matthew 2:9-11.

And behold, the star which they had seen in the East went before them, till it came and stood over where the young Child was. When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceedingly great joy. And when they had come into the house, they saw the young Child with Mary His mother, and fell down and worshiped Him.

William Carlos Williams's poem, The Gift, and Mercedes Dorame's sculptural "star map" (Orion’s Belt—Paahe’ Sheshiiyot) are also featured.

Professor Luke Alecson writes:

The Magi provide a map of sorts of all of us to follow. Our role is a humble one. As much as we study, as much wisdom and knowledge as we gain, in the end we will understand exceedingly little of the infinite glory of the Lord. We will not full grasp the mystery of the incarnation. Whether wise man or shepherd, our role is simple: to bear witness to the glory we have been pointed toward, and to fall down at the feet of Him to brought us there. What else are we here to do? As William Carlos Williams so succinctly surmises:

All men by their nature give praise.
It is all
they can do.

Let’s keep it as simple as that, following wherever He leads and worshiping with everything we have.

I struggle with focusing on the central message of Christmas as I think of the logistics of the celebration: family dinners, meet ups with friends, and some demands from work. But the December 22nd meditation offers a timely reminder. 

"You know not how soon you must die, and therefore had need to be always ready"

Jonathan Edwards writes a letter to his 10-year old son. It is dated May 27, 1755. Edwards shares the news of the death of a boy named David, who probably lived with the family. 

The week before last, on Thursday, David died; whom you knew and used to play with, and who used to live at our house. His soul is gone into the eternal world. Whether he was prepared for death, we don't know. This is a loud call of God to you to prepare for death. You see that they that are young die, as well as those that are old: David was not very much older than you. Remember what Christ has said, that you must be born again, or you never can see the kingdom of God. Never give yourself any rest, unless you have good evidence that you are converted and become a new creature. We hope that God will preserve your life and health, and return you to Stockbridge again in safety; but always remember that life is uncertain: you know not how soon you must die, and therefore had need to be always ready. 

Yiyun Li's Where Reasons End

I gave some friends copies of Yiyun Li's Where Reasons End, a novel in which the author reimagines a conversation with her 16-year old son who had committed suicide. I warned them that it could be a painful book to read, but the language is beautiful. I only finished it two days ago. 

I love the mother-son conversation that happens in this page. 

Yes, I said, but poems and stories are tying to speak what can't be spoken. 

You always say words fall short, he said. 

Words fall short, yes, but sometimes their shadows can reach the unspeakable. 

Don't I sometimes imagine conversations with my department loved ones, too? These internal monologues dialogues happen randomly, and I welcome these quiet moments. People we love and remember seem to hover over us years after they have passed on. Their presence in our memories exist like photo filters of grief and longing. Then, we are able to see things with a bit more clarity.

Sailor Shikiori Sakura-mori

I am absolutely loving my new ink—a Shikiori ink manufactured by Sailor. The color in Sakura-mori, evocative of the cherry blossoms in Japan.

I am fond of writing in pink. For some reason, my journals are in pink, as well as many unconvential colors, like moss green, oxblood, chrome, and gray.

Examination of the abdomen: slide set

Yesterday I delivered a lecture on the examination of the abdomen. The second year medical students were a fun group. You may download a copy of the slideset, but please link to this page if you plan to use it. 

It was the first time I learned that bruit, which I pronounce as "BROO-wee," may also be pronounced as "BROOT."

Cross-stitch

Looking at the rare plants my other patients had given me, Mrs. KR asked if I liked cross-stitch. Years of clinical practice have taught me that this is one way patients ask their doctors what kind of gifts they like to receive. Those experiences have also taught me to accept their presents gladly, because giving is therapeutic for them. It also gives them a sense of control over their lives. So I told her, "Yes, I love them. My mother likes them. We have many framed cross-stitch designs at home." 

She admitted that she does cross-stitch to pass the time. "I can't keep still. My hands need to be working, or I'll go crazy." She enjoys it.

I asked if she has considered selling her works online. There might be a huge market for it.

"There aren't any buyers any more. Cross-stitch isn't popular these days," she said. She couldn't let go of her works; they're too precious to her. Her husband complains that they don't have room for them in the house, but she keeps them anyway. 

She promised she'd give me one of her pieces on her next visit. I said I looked forward to it. 

In that particular encounter, I remember a line in Mary Oliver's poem, Franz Marc's Blue Horses.

Maybe the desire to make something beautiful

is the piece of God that is inside each of us.

Makoto Fujimura's ideas in Art + Faith: A Theology of Making also resonates with the encounter. He argues that when artists create, they participate in God's creative process. I take that to mean that when people do something creative, they reflect the image of God in them. 

When consults turn into afternoon chit-chats, I learn something new about the persons seated across me. It is refreshing to know about their personalities and hobbies, over and beyond the biochemical state of their tumors. I relish such moments of levity. Those intermittent episodes of grace, often shared with family and friends, rekindle in me a sense of purpose and love for what I do. In a profession where burnout is common but not readily acknowledged, those moments are a gift. 

Bordered Lives No More

I received the final manuscript draft of the book, "Bordered Lives No More: the Humanities and the Post-COVID-19 Recovery," edited by Prof. Dinah Roma and published by the DLSU Press. I co-wrote the chapter, "The Embattled Fontlines: Voices from the Field," with Drs. Dane Sacdalan, Elvie Victonette B. Razon-Gonzalez, and Joey A. Tabula. I wrote the essay, "The Evolving Ritual of the Physical Examination." 

I'll let you know when the book is finally out, but I'm excited to read all the excellent pieces in the collection in print. 

Radio silence

Radio Silence, a beautiful essay in La Vie Graphite:

The constant and compulsive clatter reminds me that many people are afraid of silence. And just as many are unaware of the existence of others in their midst. Aspiring to be compassionate, it is essential to be forgiving of the inconsiderate. After all, somebody needs to be aware of the unaware. As this life is in preparation for eternity, here is the time and place to refine the ability to forbear. But as a flawed mortal who finds forbearance unbearable, I try distracting with noise-canceling headphones (which I can hear through), listening to music, running a household fan, and turning to a lifelong friend: radio. As with any means or instrument, it is for each listener to discern and discover that which suits. Due to all the noise in the building, I’m applying a dulcet layer of classical music to try masking the din of disturbance. My less passive form of listening happens when I seek out noteworthy programs and lectures. If the bulls-in-their-china-closet are too disruptive, especially when they rattle the walls, I’ll use earphones. Amidst the chaos, I’ve taken many inspiring notes from timely broadcasts. With all of this mentioned, when I sense a late night hour when the building falls silent, I’ve noticed how I turn the radio off- just to savour the silence. My shoulders and brow noticeably settle back. It’s the good silence.

The essay resonates with me. In 2009, I transferred to Manila and lived in a studio apartment in Orosa Street. I shared the room with a classmate, who was always away. Beneath the room was a dying Korean restaurant. From a single window that faced a busy street, I could see a Minute Burger stall. There were bars everywhere. At night time, when all I had were books and transcriptions that I had to study, I could overhear party music I would never voluntarily listen to. I did like the quiet moments at 2 am, when everything became silent, and I could hear my stomach's grumbling.

A step in the right direction

During the closing program of the 3rd La Salle National Creative Non-fiction Workshop for Doctors last November 24, Dr. MJ Guazon Uy, speaking in behalf of the workshop fellows, said,

This CNF Workshop felt like a pilgrimage to unknown territory, where we had to navigate the terrain with the craft of language and fresh perspective. As physicians, we are not strangers to rigorous training; we are actually comfortable with it. Will this workshop make us feel more comfortable now to call ourselves, ehem, writers? Who knows? Having been invited to share the company of physicians who write is a step in the right direction. But only until we continuously feed the unrelenting demands of this art, shall we be called its true followers.

I spoke in behalf of my co-panelists, workshop director Prof. Marjorie Evasco and Dr. Joti Tabula. 

I joined my first CNF workshop as a participant in 2020. It was the first real workshop I had attended, discounting the journalism seminars I used to attend in high school, now light-years away. It was also the first online workshop I’d been to—during the early days of the pandemic. I was self-conscious about the background. I angrily hushed my brother, who lurked in the corner of the 28-square meter condo unit in Mandaluyong, because I thought his swallowing would interrupt the discussion. I wrote my piece entitled “The Medical Library.” I was reviewing for the diplomate exams in medical oncology, which kept getting postponed. My life was suspended. I had nothing else to do but write. 

In this sense, I have the best of both worlds. I have experienced being a participant. I would later be promoted to the rank of the panelist. I feel that I do not deserve it. It still bewilders me—being with the likes of Prof. Marjorie Evasco and Dr. Joti Tabula, who are writers and caretakers of the language I aspire to become. But I love reading. I love words and how they can create new worlds or make sense of old ones. They are full of possibilities.

For me, each year, such as this, is an exercise of leveling up my game. How else should I frame my comments when all I really want to say is that “I like this part”, or “I don’t think this sentence works”? 

But being with brilliant people—made more luminous by their utter humility and deliberate unawareness of how good they are—is an education. I continue to learn how to close-read the texts. I am wide-eyed, anticipating a detail I may have missed but which Prof. Marj and Dr. Joti have caught. They are sharp readers. They are also compassionate and gracious. They know the piece’s strengths and weaknesses. Our sessions have been generative moments for me, inspiring me to say to myself—quoting Dr. JB’s title—“Tonight, I Must Write.”

With my co-panelists, I share the pride and joy of meeting you all this year. Thank you for taking the time to write. That takes courage and strength. That also requires motivation, as it requires you to carve a special time in your otherwise activity-filled calendars.  Thank you for the trust!

Many thanks, too, to Prof. John Iremil Teodoro and the Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center for championing the life-giving cause of encouraging physicians, deadened by clinical work, to create a breathing space for them to write. The fact that several of our workshop fellows have published books, poetry collections, won awards, and journal pieces offers proof that the Center’s efforts are well worth it.  

I got the chance to meet the workshop fellows of the last three batches last Sunday. Now that's for another blog post. 

(Many thanks to Prof. Marj for the Zoom screenshot.)