Another year, another death
A return to the page after months of a different kind of grieving
Hello friends, I am still here.
Finally.
I call myself a “writer”, but writing I have not (At least outside of the confines of the journal). This is the first time in the past five months that I’ve faced a blank page to excavate the emotions that have been floating, circling my heart and write them down to share with you.
Last year, my husband and I lost not just one good friend, but two. Leo passed the day before my husband’s birthday. Our good friend, Mark, passed the day after my birthday. Now, the celebrations of life are sandwiched between reminders of the remainder of time we have on earth, the only guarantee we receive the day we were born.
The days and nights were spent putting one foot in front of the other. A fever dream and a privilege to be traveling the world with the love of my life in places that have inhabited the pages of the books, movies and TV shows of my childhood, once places that lived in my imagination made real, amidst the turmoil and churn of Time in this world. A fever dream simply to still be here, breathing, closing my eyes as I lift my face to kiss the blue skies and honor the mighty sun above. A fever dream to be munching crispy strands of orange sweet potato fries dipped in my secret homemade ranch sauce (Not so secret if you are curious to know!). A fever dream to be living through the unfurling of world order on the screen in my hand and yet seeing the lone tomato, accidentally grew out of the compost I’ve been tending to for months, transform from green to orange. A fever dream to again face the blank page, fingers dancing, keys clacking at my touch.
This time, my grief, held on to the crutches of routine and responsibilities, checking off the things I absolutely needed to do in the day to day.
The other day, a friend reached out to me. He had questions about astrology. I told him to drop the questions in our chat as I expected the usual about what to expect in a consultation for someone who had zero background about astrology. He didn’t. Instead, he asked to sit down with me on a video call. I usually don’t do pre-calls to a single astrology consultation, but I obliged. He was a friend after all. And the common thread of people who come to astrology, including myself, was the need for an answer, some clarity on a nagging question while in the middle of a crossroad. I just knew he was likely in one too.
He asked me, “Didi, how did you come into astrology? And how do you, someone of your - our - background in the Catholic faith, reconcile this practice with the religion?” WHOA. The question indeed warranted a discussion that took me back to a memory I had with my departed friend, Mark. And it did not just start with astrology, but with tarot.
I was in the middle of wading, then already knee deep into my exploration into the dark waters of the tarot. The tides of depression and anxiety pulled me into the unknown, risking further isolation in a practice that was shunned by my Catholic upbringing. I battled, 24/7 tremors bearing the shame of wanting to go outside the lines of what was not, pressured by the physicality of the unwanted sensations.
My body absolutely knew there was something wrong, yet I gravitated towards something I was told that was wrong. How could this be? But I took a risk for myself alone, not for anybody else. If I were to burn in hell after death, then so be it. I didn’t want to continue living in this hell I was facing every single day. I managed, by the grace of God, the Divine, not to be beaten down further by someone else telling me to go back into the box of this present darkness. They were not living in the hell I was anyway.
I took a chance to get a tarot reading. How could someone else I didn’t know read the deepest recesses of my mind and heart? I sat with the reading for weeks. Then when I saw the Light, I took a chance, with my privileges, to quit my job.
Then the tremors stopped.
As I managed to peel myself off bed, body still reeling from the tension of tremors, anxiety and the looming uncertainty of what to do with myself, I pulled a single card to begin my day, then ended the day with another card, seeing how it reflected how my day went. I was enthralled by the magic of how it pulled the overthinking mental me out of my head. A piece of cardboard stock with pretty pictures told me exactly how I thought and felt. The deeper I waded in - watching YouTube video and reading books, I rose up, found my way back onto the shores of sanity.
I sent my friend, Mark - one of the people I trusted, the one who entered the seminary in an attempt to enter the priesthood, but chose to remain one step behind as a brother - the cover of “The Contemplative Tarot: A Christian Guide to the Cards” by Brittany Muller, the newest book I bought to help me dive deeper into my then beginning tarot practice.
“Occult!!!” The screen glared at the single word sentence.
I thought that telling him would be a safe space. I knew he loved me through the ugly times of loneliness as my then boyfriend (now husband), sharing countless meals, stories, jokes and even secrets (One that I carried to the grave quite literally). But, how could I have glossed over the most important part of his identity.
Mark, graduated from a secular state university, while doing community service through one of the university’s Catholic organizations where he and my husband met, plus did his theological studies with the Jesuits. He spent his time in service to the community - arranging the sacraments like the Eucharist and weddings, organizing weekend retreats and workshops, sharing his voice to sing in the choir, also the upkeep, restoration and beautification of Church statues of Jesus, Mother Mary and the saints. How could I have forgotten all that? The writings were all over the wall, yet I still breached it.
I balked at the mistake of my brash decision, both wanting to shrink back into isolation, retreat into the darkness of my brain’s cave, despite also applauding at my own courage and ability to tell someone else about this secret practice of mine. Like a turtle’s head poked by a stick I retreated back into my shell. Never again will I mention anything on this…with him.
“Astrology is not for everyone. That I know.” I explained. “But what I knew - no offense to God and the faith - didn’t click for me anymore. I knew, to get out of this, I needed to try something new. Something else.”
I looked up, struggled to stop the tears from falling, then they all just fell. I caught the breath in the middle of my throat as I started to tell him about my bout with depression and anxiety. And my story with it with my departed friend.
My hands shook in the week leading up to our flight to Korea, then the Philippines. Both from excitement and anxiety. I couldn’t tell. It was our first time home after a decade. We just lost our Obi as well, so the layer of grief - a kind of pain never in my entire life expected to be this crippling - piled on. I did need my family and friends even more, including Mark.
Despite not seeing eye to eye, he was still my friend, I thought. I took a chance and messaged him to schedule a meet up.
My fear melted as soon as I saw him come through the door of the condo, bearing gifts of bouncy, shiny kutsinta and pillowy rainbow of puto cheese, a bag of tropical fruits and other local food specialities from small businesses. Meet up we did, not just once. We hugged, I cried; he listened. Once, when the traffic stalled his visit to the condo, we spent over an hour on the phone as he crawled through bumper to bumper holiday traffic, the worst of its kind in Metro Manila. Never did we talk about tarot, but it didn’t matter. He loved me enough, despite of my religious shortcomings and a decade’s physical absence, to show up when I wished and needed him to.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help the tears.” I wiped them from my cheeks with the backs of my hand. I had no plan nor intention to share a moment of weakness. “It hurt that he didn’t accept what I did. Our religion does not look kindly to it, putting on the burden of guilt and rejection, but I started learning and practicing astrology to help myself, to know myself and my path better. And I did. I’m still here, living, and I didn’t choose otherwise.”
I explained how Jyotish, the science of Light is meant to shine the lights in you and the path, the road map, one is on. “I’d like to think I am not hurting anyone; it is simply a guide. If this wasn’t a gift from God, then what is? Choosing to do astrology is a conversation for you, and you alone, and your God, to be had.”
My chest tightened recalling the shame I carried. A stone, a block, in my throat returned, something I’ve not felt in a long time. I took a second to regroup, turning the tides back to my friend, who continued to reflect and wonder about his dilemma.
Another mutual friend of ours reached out to us about Mark’s battle in the hospital with severe COVID, laced with the complications of pneumonia and asthma. We were walking through the cobblestoned center of Münster, Germany, reunited with our gracious hosts, friend and neighbor from our days in Dubai. My mind spun between focusing on this likely once in a lifetime opportunity to see and reconnect with kindred folk, feeling blessed and guilt that I am unable to be present at his most trying time.
What could one do from thousands of miles away?
Cash contributions for medical bills and prayers. Presence? Touch and go. Such is the eternal plight of migrants of straddling to be in two worlds at once, an impossible feat, a dangerous tight rope of focusing on the next step in front of you without spiraling into the oblivion of the ungovernable situation, to splatter onto the hard ground below.
En route back to the US, I sent Mark a photo of the cathedral we visited in Eindhoven, Netherlands, where we spent time with mutual friends, who recently moved there. That we all prayed for his speedy recovery, and I forgot, which saint the cathedral was named after. My message tickled him as he put a laughing emoji on it.
I was that kind of Catholic, the one who would visit all the churches wherever we are in the world, but likely not remember the saint, one who knew when to sit down and stand up during mass whatever language it may be, who grew up one, went through the motions of the sacraments - the weekly Sunday eucharist, confession (sparse), confirmation, and marriage (and likely the anointing of the sick when it is time), studied in Catholic school and university (even if it declared itself not to be one!), served in a Catholic youth community, prayed as we started and concluded our road trips and made the sign of the cross as we passed all roadkill. I remember and will never forget. Being Catholic was a part of me that I could not erase, as the past becomes part of the present and future.
“I know we also do believe in Feng Shui and other things that are not of the religion…” he rambled, struggling to reconcile the disconnect of one’s dogma from the other.
“And that we do.” I concurred. “They both can exist at the same time.”
How have we come to this? Our inability to tackle the many contradictions can co-exist in us humans. That one thing can only be good and another totally bad. Can it be both at the same time? Or good in one time then turn bad in another? Or something bad that then somehow transforms into a good? This is the human experience to live in and navigate through the gray - oscillating between black and white, in every shade and form.
“What does your husband think of what you do?”
I sensed his fear - the unknown that lay ahead of him, the muddied mirror reflecting his current state, the desire to be loved despite of, in spite of his mental and spiritual swirling.
“I mean, it’s not his cup of tea. He doesn’t believe in it. And that’s OK. He just lets me be.” I paused as he hit a sore point. ”I think that is one of the greatest gifts one can give - the freedom to be, even if it is not exactly as he hoped for. I’d like to think he doesn’t love me any less.”
I chuckled.
“I am not hurting anyone with what I do.” I shrugged. “I won’t take any offense if you choose not to do astrology. Again, it’s not for everyone. But it helped me. And I do what I do to help others as it did for me.”
Life continued to life after our European sojourn - unpacking, cleaning, a mountain of laundry before me. And I didn’t hear from Mark until I reached out to tell him we were still praying for him. His cousin responded on his behalf, updating us that he was intubated and transferred to the ICU to better monitor his condition. The prognosis didn’t sit right as I continued to pray for a miracle.
I was alone with Curly that weekend, which was my birthday weekend. My husband away, out of state, for work. I picked up a party tray of burger steak and palabok from Jollibee for a small celebration with friends, whose daughter also just celebrated her 2nd birthday. My friend’s babies squealed as I peered through their front door, ran towards me, enveloped me in their tiny arms. “Happy birthday, Tita Didi!” Then handed me a birthday cupcake plushie to place over my head. My heart and belly full.
I scrolled through my newsfeed and inboxes to see an endless stream of birthday greetings. A cheers to another chance at life, whether reminded by their digital calendars or their memory, which warmed my heart nonetheless. Post after post, then personal messages from mutual friends…I was still here alive, while Mark was gone.
The tank that was full, suddenly emptied out.
Yet the dead remain dead and the living must keep living, I reminded myself as I went through this exact same circumstance a few months before. I needed to feel life after another cutting, a culling of people I considered partners through this journey. I inhaled deeply, then exhaled. One day, I will exhale my last, too.
I chose tarot and astrology, because I knew, I had to do what I needed to do. Because I wanted to continue living with whatever time I have left. Because I was selfish enough, damned with what other people would think of me, damned of whether I would be cast into hell even if no one would absolutely not know, to choose my life, my light, my selfish desire to carry on. My tank, though emptied, still had the ability to be refueled until one day, it couldn’t. Someday, it wouldn’t be refilled.
I knew Mark wasn’t happy about the path I chose, but I do know, in my heart, that he is happy that I chose to be here still.
Thank you, Mark.
I love you.
I miss you.