I Am Brave

This summer I did something I've wanted to do for a long time. I held a writer's camp for young writers. One of the things we talked about was being brave enough to write. They told me the things that scare them about writing or sharing things they write. We talked about how to overcome some of those doubts. I found myself being pretty honest with them. I'm a published author, but yes, I still get scared. I still worry that my words will be judged, they won't be good enough, they won't say what I'm trying to say deep inside myself.

I'm still afraid of writing. But I published two books this year.

In fact I was sort of afraid of doing a young author camp. I'm so glad I did it anyway. I loved it more than I realized I would.

This year has given me several firsts. My first young author camp. And in a another fit of crazy bravery, I applied to present for the first time ever at a writer's conference. I was so scared I almost didn't do it.

But guess what? I was accepted! (Kanab Writers Conference, if you are curious.)

This last month has given me other firsts. Some that had nothing to do with writing, but with living. With having family that get sick, end up in the hospital, or maybe get cancer.

I've been so scared.

Life gives us things like that. Things that are scary deep down inside us. They leave us vulnerable, shaking, cold, and sometimes just too overwhelmed to do anything, even cry. But when we face those fears, when we step outside ourselves, step forward on trembling legs, and be honest with ourselves and others, we find things we need.

We say "I'm afraid. But I'm still doing this."

"I cried last night. But today I'm ready to face this again."

A sweet family member who I love very much recently told me, "It's no sin to feel angry. It's no sin to feel scared. You will be. That's okay."

It's okay to feel those things, to have fears, to stand in that inky blackness of despair and self doubt. Stand there for a moment. Feel it inside you, and acknowledge it.

And then tell yourself you're brave enough to keep going.

You are. And in a wonderful, incredible twist of life, you standing there in your doubt and fears for a moment changes you, deepens you, makes you, and who you are and how you see the world that much better. You've passed through the fire of this experience. You know. You understand. But don't stay there. Take the next step forward, do the thing you fear, face the thing you want but only dream of doing, realize you are strong even when you're scared. I never saw myself doing the things I'm doing now, but I am. I am braver than I realized. And so are you.

As my father's daughter

Photo: me and my dad

Old age is a thief. With its accomplice, cancer, they threaten to eclipse the memories I have of my dad when he was younger and in better health.

Dad’s 77 now. He spends most of his day in bed, his legs raised on a block to avoid blood clots. His mind is alert, but just getting from upstairs to downstairs two little flights of steps, he collapses into a chair and his pulse takes several minutes to settle. For breathing, he is tethered to an oxygen tube that snakes around his house.

It was Sunday and we brought dinner over. Dad had requested adobo, a Philippine stewed chicken dish whose savory flavors come from a marinade of soy sauce, vinegar, peppercorn, garlic, and bay leaves. I had fixed that and pansit canton (Filipino chow mein) while my sweet hubby made beef nilaga using a good fatty cut of chuck roast. We also brought rolls, the buttery soft kind Dad likes. Dad got out of bed to enjoy dinner with us. Thankfully, he wasn't nauseous like other days.

Mom tirelessly serves him, dishing up his food, inquiring after his comfort. She is a marvel in herself, a subject worthy of an essay another day.

It’s hard to remember when the last time Dad was healthy. Probably at least ten years, and we have almost lost him several times. There was that time at intensive care when he lay hooked up to a breathing tube. I stood there holding his cold, stiff hand, to say goodbye. He fought back and lived to see another day.

And boy is he a fighter.

On that Sunday, I glimpsed again the father to whom I owe my love of music and the written word. Who raised me to exercise creativity and independent thinking.

He has a gadget named Alexa, a little black cylinder which follows his commands for music or information as long as there is wi-fi. He’s asked Alexa to pull up a Neil Diamond song and he bobs his head and sings along to it. He may be an older man in his body, but his vigor is evident once again. He thrills over a YouTube video that my youngest shared with him, an extended cut of Pomp & Circumstance (the graduation march song).

He still has an insatiable thirst for learning. When I was young, he would take me and my siblings to the British Embassy, along old stone mansions and tree-lined avenues, so we could read and imagine in its air-conditioned library. I trace back my love of books to those magical Saturdays. Now, he no longer has the stamina to read long books, but his mind is still sharp, discussing things that he’s gathered from the news or the Internet.

Old age and cancer might attempt to eclipse all that, but the sun is still there, in all its glory. So I’m putting these villains on notice, defying them as my father's daughter--

With every book that I put out, every poem I write, every work of art I create, my dad will shine on.