Dreams, Guitar Strings, and Blistered Fingertips

Well, well, well. It’s past midnight once again, and I’m still up. Please forgive me, Tita Merc, but hey, it’s for a good cause. LOL. What cause? A blog-writing sort of cause? No not really. But you’ll see what that cause is when you attend the Elbi Sunday Service this weekend. A media girl’s gotta do what a media girl’s gotta do.

And a writer has to do what a writer has to do as well. That’s why I’m throwing this blog writing thing on the side.

Dreams, guitar strings and blistered fingertips. I had the opportunity to chat with one of my former SOC1 students a couple of hours ago. He asked me, “Kumusta naman kayo ni Lord?” (A kid’s following me up? Haha.) I answered, “Overwhelming. He’s teaching me a lot of things. I’m thinking about writing a blog entry about guitar strings, blistered fingertips, and dreams (pangarap). Speaking in riddles again.” Yeah. I’ve been meaning to write this entry since last Sunday but I guess I haven’t found to time to do so. But since I’m still on the process of rendering this video and since the caffeine that I drowned an hour ago is now starting to take effect – well, I guess I’ll just write away.

Dreams. Guitar strings. I remember one SOL3 class when we were asked to write about our purpose statement. Mine involved being up on a stage, standing in front of nations, leading in worship. Yeah, that was just a dream then. And yeah, right now I may simply be staying on top of a carpet, sitting with friends (but great men and women in the Lord, that’s for sure)…yet nonetheless, I’m leading in worship… and it’s a step closer towards that dream. And I’m having the time of my life as I press on towards that dream. I’m enjoying every strum on that guitar, enjoying every improvisation, enjoying every new song – enjoying everything.

Well, except maybe the blisters. But in a way, I’m also enjoying that.

Blistered fingertips. That’s what I get for practicing only once a week. But what else can I do? I only get to hold the guitar on weekends, so I make the most of my moments with it.

And I so end up with fingertips so sore, so pudpod, so… sad and dismal. But every time I let my sore fingertips press the strings onto the guitar fingerboard, I am reminded of the sweet pain that comes with soaring and reaching our dreams.

Sweet pain. For me and my guitar strings – it’s the blistered fingertips. For others and their dreams – it may be the sweet pain that comes with having to leave certain people behind for a certain period of time to fulfill a certain vision. Or it may be the ache accompanying the goodbyes uttered to old friends to pave the way for the hellos to be released to new ones. Or perhaps it could be the heartache felt in those moments of surrender when everything else is given up in exchange for the ultimate, one and only Everything.

Yeah, the pain is there. But right now, my blistered fingertips have started to heal and new skin has grown over the old.

In our lives, new things will always replace the old, if we’d just let them. Once we do, things become much easier. Because – in the same way that my fingertips aren’t hurting anymore – soon, we will no longer feel those sores which had been so raw once before.

Semi-Random Scribble

Semi-random scribble. Ugh. A posting caused by insomnia. Well, anyway. Here goes. This is “The Book.”

The Book

Buried. Hidden. Forgotten. It’s been a long time since I have held this book. I’ve almost forgotten about it. Almost forgotten that it existed. Because I had hidden it behind all the other books in my bookcase. Buried it under all the dust and cobwebs.

But now I’m forced to take it out once again. Forced to let the stories see daylight, forced to read out the tales yet again.

I really don’t want to. But I have to.

I hold the dust-covered volume in my hands. It is a fairytale. Or more accurately, a collection of fairytales.

I take a seat, a mug of blackcurrant flavored tea in one hand, the book in another. I take a good look at the book. I let in a deep breath and, gingerly, I begin to finger through its long forgotten pages.

My eyes land on one familiar page. A humble maidservant stands out as the protagonist. Her eyes are full of hopes and dreams. She has heard of Cinderella stories, and she is certain that one day, her fairy godmother would come, transform her into a princess, and then whisk her to that royal ball, where she would meet and fall in love with the most charming of prince charmings.

But the fairy godmother never comes. And prince charming falls for another girl – that girl whose dainty foot fits into that tiny crystal slipper.

I leaf through the pages once again.

This time, I stop as the name of a wicked step-sister catches my eye. She is angered. She is in fury. She has never felt so betrayed.

Oh sure. She always knew that the prince would end up with her naïve step-sister. She always knew that he’d pick the beauty over her. But she still couldn’t help but feel enraged.

Not at the prince. But at herself. Because she had allowed herself to hope beyond hope.

I leave that story behind and move on to another.

The name of a princess fills this page. She is locked in a tower. Patiently waiting for her prince to come. She busies herself by learning the arts, by devouring literature, by cooking up culinary wonders. She prepares herself without meaning to prepare herself.

But alas. Her pure and beautiful nature catches a wizard’s eye.

He relentlessly pursues her, though she relentlessly tells him that the time – not to mention her prince – has not yet come.

I quickly leave that page behind.

I thumb through the rest of the pages, at times bursting into laughter, at times bursting into tears.

I’ve forgotten all those stories. But now, reading through the dusty book’s pages – I begin to breathe out a sigh of relief and thanksgiving, knowing that those tales are now simply that – mere tales.

A newer tale is brought into mind. A tale written inside a book which, incidentally, is hidden as well.

But not buried. And dear me, never forgotten. But it is kept inside a chest. A beautiful, beautiful chest. One with a lock and key.

Unlike the dusty book, I do not know what tale the newer book contains. But I know the story is being written out, even as I type these words out. I am tempted to break the chest open, tempted to take a look at what is going on in that book – but that would just ruin everything. The chest. The book. The tale.

And I know that one day, someone will give me the key. And then I’ll be able to take that book out. And then I’ll be able to read the words that were written. And anticipate those that are still to be.