GIGI GOES GAGA

25 OF 30: HOME

I woke up feeling thoroughly unhinged today; for a while there I wasn't sure if I'd just had a dream because it still felt so real to me. All I can remember now is that I'd found myself sitting inside an auditorium beside a man who I could only assume was my date, like I'd just been instantaneously transported there through space and time without any apparent disruption. It was 1987 and I was in downtown Los Angeles all over again.

The details are fuzzy now, but I know that once I'd figured out where I was I felt a twinge of almost unbearable excitement. That year, you see, was not a very good one for me (okay, it was awful) and I realized I now had a chance at a do-over -- and better yet, this time I had not only my youth but also experience, and especially wisdom, on my side. Soon, however, joy turned into confusion. I realized I didn't know where my home was and how I was supposed to get there. I moved around so much during the second half of the 1980s that if you named a month and year I couldn't tell you where I lived then.

Most of my recurring nightmares have to do with feeling unmoored or being lost. I suppose it's because for nearly three decades the concept of home has been an unfettered one for me. When I lived in Los Angeles I thought of Manila as my home -- and the reverse was true, too. And now that I'm Seattle-based I feel like I have two other homes waiting for me. I may never set roots in Southern California again but practically everything I own still remains in storage over there. In this place where I now live -- without my furniture, household goods, even clothing -- I don't feel quite settled, yet.

Wherever I am something seems to be missing. Here in the States I regularly get homesick for the Philippines, yet when I'm there I miss it here, too. And even if I absolutely love it here in Seattle, I miss my friends and ol' stomping grounds in both Los Angeles and Manila. At times it feels I have too many homes and yet none at all.

They say that home is where the heart is, and that might be the reason I feel this way: I've left a huge chunk of myself in every place I've ever lived and loved in. Yet I know that change is not only inevitable but constant, and that what I remember about each place often transforms or disappears the moment I get up and leave. It's why I often feel sad when a favorite restaurant shuts down or a familiar building is demolished. One more touchstone, gone.

But I never feel trapped anywhere. If I don't like it somewhere, I can always move -- as I've done many times before. My world can't completely fall apart if there's always a space elsewhere I can find refuge in, somewhere that still feels familiar even if it's not quite the same as I remember it to be.

I suspect I'll always have these dreams of being somewhere I once was and feeling lost. The good news, however, is that when I wake up I'll be home. Wherever that might be in the world.

JUST BREATHE

It used to be so easy getting up. Literally and figuratively, I mean. Although I'm not yet feeling the pain of arthritis scraping away at my joints, there's already a bit of the ol' dreaded creaking that happens when I have to reposition my body these days. Maybe that's why so many women my age are headed for yoga studios; I really should, too.

But worse than physical inertia is the one that can't be easily felt or seen: the kind that happens within, the one of emotional and mental resistance. It creeps up on you much more insidiously. One day you've convinced yourself that you're fearless because of all the risks you've taken in your life, then the next you find yourself asking more questions before you do, or even giving into your fears.

I think this happens naturally as we get older. After falling down and getting up, and doing that over and over again, it's like arthritis develops and suddenly it hurts doing both. Sometimes we find ourselves holding onto a stable surface much more tightly until our knuckles turn white; other times we're down and find it easier to just sit there for a while longer and catch our breath.

Earlier this year I quit my job to go home, to Manila, and spend time with my parents whom I've been so far away from for more than 25 years. It was like one day I woke up and they were old and much more fragile than I remembered them to be. Both walk with a cane now and often need to hold on to something or someone to keep their balance. Their voices sound weaker, more shaky.

For the past couple of years I've noticed that I've been writing out more and more messages of sympathy to friends and relatives, and I dread the day I start receiving them in return. As my mother emailed me recently, "I want to go out and spend more time with friends but most of them are dead now." None of my friends can imagine being away from their children for even a few weeks or months and -- I don't know why I'd never thought of this before -- maybe it hurt my parents even just a bit that I'd already been away from them for a lifetime.

The reason I was able to just up and leave after all these years is because I'd practically lost everything else in my life. There wasn't much to hold on to so I had to find a way to stay up. In a way I was mourning, deeply. I needed to go home and start again.

For the four months I was home I got to rest and think -- a lot. I decided I needed to come back here and get back on track so I could be self-sufficient and independent, to fight my demons, and to find myself. It was just like why I came here the first time, 26 years ago. I felt like I was going home with my tail between my legs, and it just didn't feel right. I was made of stronger stuff than that.

So now I'm back here, but I've chosen to start again in a brand-new place. It feels right, you know. There's nothing here to remind me of the past; no memories associated with any of the sights, smells, and sounds around me. But at the same time it hurts to be away from my friends and family, and it's scary whenever I realize that I don't know my way around here. I feel completely lost.

Scary is a word I've been saying a lot lately. Try finding a job during a recession, with the unemployment rate averaging about 10 percent. Now try to find one at my age, too. I have to remind myself that I'm still as smart, capable, and resourceful as I ever was -- probably even more so. The past few years, and especially the beating that I've taken, have changed me in ways that I can't possibly describe because I'm still in the thick of things. But I know what's important now, and I'm thankful for what I do have. But, yes, it hurts and I get scared.

So I decided I was going to do whatever scares me, that I wasn't going to let fear be the reason that I walk away. I realize this sounds almost counterintuitive; one would think that I'd be seeking tender shelter instead. But the only way that I can stop being so frightened is to face fear directly and keep pushing it out of the way every time it stares me down. Eventually, I figure, I'll find myself in the clear; I'll look and see that I can stop fighting so hard now, that I can finally exhale.

The other day an acquaintance of mine, a magazine editor, asked if I could help her. She had interviewed a businessman for an article but had run out of time to write it and her deadline was in less than two days. She could send me the audio file, a brief press release his office had issued, and a link to another article recently written about him -- but other than that, I was on my own. Oh, and please make that 1200 words, thanks.

"Are you kidding?" I stared at my computer screen. "There's no way I could do this." Sure, I can type up a blog post in less time than I can make breakfast, but I'd never met the fellow and I'd have to transcribe her interview and do a bit of online research myself. Did I have enough time to commit to the task without panicking and failing?

Sure you do, a voice whispered from some forgotten recess of my brain, you've done this before. And I had, many times in fact, when I was with the Philippine News way back when. I juggled college and full-time newspaper work simultaneously, and I had to find a way to get all my articles in somehow, no excuses. And this was during a time when there was no internet, when I had to find phone numbers in an actual phone book, go to the library if I needed background research, and bang out my story on a typewriter. Yes, I could do this.

And so I did. I submitted my article in less than 24 hours, way before deadline. It felt good, I could still pull something like this off, I still had it within me, and I was no longer scared. Then I exhaled, and took another deep breath.

Now where's that nearest yoga class? Maybe a bit more twisting in unnatural positions will be good for me after all.