I HAD a pen that got lost. Three months ago, I accepted the fact
that it was never meant for me—that is, till its ink drains
out.
"Manang Mona—is this the pen you've been looking for?"
Fully concentrated on the computer keyboards for an overdue report,
I nevertheless turn around to the seemingly incomprehensible question
coming from my back.
Fanny waves a familiar fat writing instrument with black ends.
I freeze despite the heat.
"Does it have a—uhh—"
"Green label inside with the name 'MON' scribbled in it? Yes!"
was Fanny's unusually excited baritone.
O my Lord! It's my Pilot G-2 05 pen!
"Found it in Manang Vangie's drawer," heroically chanted
Fanny. To think that Manang Vangie had been retrenched five months
already!
There was no soul in the office and the whole nine yards who had
not heard of the lost pen. My special pen. Why special? Well, it
got lost for—errr—can't remember now how many times.
I stopped counting the 3rd time it did land on someone else's fingers
or drawer for days, even months! It was even found under a bed once
and tables too often, till I or someone else who knew it was mine
recovered it for me, often, when I came to the point that I lost
all hopes of finding it again. And today, someone handed it to me—again—after
its longest sojourn to the unknown.
My G-2 is not as hi-tech as it sounds. It is your usual gel sign
pen quite affordable even to regular high schoolers. Cost me P54
only from the campus bookstore in UP Los Baños on my last
trip there for my academic transcript. That had been over two years
now. But even if it had gotten lost several times, only ¼
of the ink gel has gone transparent. Meaning, it still contains
much ink! But then again that hardly passes for a magic trick to
make it all so important. What really amazes me to this date is
a nearly two-year lost-and-found charade. Besides, almost always,
someone else would somehow spot my G-2 somewhere and would promptly
return it to me. It was never me who found it.
It would have been so temptingly easy to remove the green strip
of my ID coiled in the ink case. My nick is written in the green
cartolina plastered with double-sided tape. It would have been a
piece of cake to remove it and tell the world it is one of the G-2
pens issued by the office. No such explanations would have been
that necessary even. But even non-colleagues but participants to
the training center I am connected with, who are obviously familiar
with me and my pen always bring to me my G-2.
So—with a jubilant spirit on its nth return to me after its
absence for the longest period, I got so much inspired. In the middle
of the afternoon amidst another Friday rush in the office, I felt
obliged to write G-2's saga.
Of course, I instantly wove metaphors the moment Fanny handed
it to me (I felt so deeply indebted to her that I vowed to mention
her name as often in this article as possible). I suddenly lost
consciousness of rattling computer keyboards, office chatters, or
my boss's wheels routine screech for a huge turn in the parking
lot.
My consciousness suddenly pivoted to a slight but fond remembrance,
which a smile in my lips betrayed. An attack of melancholia I haven't
had for some time since that last bout with my life's hang-ups.
Love wronged-love requited. Love lost-love found. Dream faded-dream
rekindled. Joy killed-excitement revived.
In my 27 years, that's how I picture existence—loose some, then
win some. But sometimes, I settle to being an extreme optimist.
It has a real potency to make living much easier. That is, I take
my mistakes not as a lose of a single speck from my dignity but
a sort of expense necessary to get somewhere. Assuming I'm traveling.
It is something that is bound to happen even if I usually fail to
foresee it would be incurred. I treat it like an increase in fare
going to some place. Or treating fare for a friend I incidentally
bump into on the same bus.
With the rate of how things are in our country—an ailing economy,
turbulent political environment, and a string of our societal woes,
not to mention a world crisis for a seemingly impending war, who
wants to count mistakes as loses?
Mistake in trusting? Learn a lesson! Mistake in deciding? Learn
a lesson!
And since I do not consider my mistakes as loses, I seldom regret
my decisions which led to such undesirable consequences. But I have
a qualifier for an unregretable decision—that it should be what
I thought was the right option when I made it.
Who in their saneness, anyway, would not opt for a decision that
would preserve one's happy existence rather than end it? So, if
ever I chose a decision that I know from the very start is the wrong
choice, and which beget an unpleasant result, that is the only time
I bang my head in the concrete wall after a "told you so!"
spank.
When I come to think of it, that happens to me often too. When
I am made bitter because of my own pride, I loose. When something
or someone is taken away from me because of my naivety thinking
it/they will always stick with me even if I often ignore them, I
loose. When I fail to appreciate or even just see the small blessings
when they are still there, I loose. When I carelessly do something
so trivial yet devastating, I loose.
Indeed, we all have lost some and have won some. It is good to
have an inventory of what we have lost and what we have found that
may replace them. But some things are just irreplaceable. Time is
one. A person is another. Dignity. Trust. The list is endless. But
while we are still breathing, it is nice to track down how we are
doing in this lose-win business. At the end of the inventory, am
sure most of us are winning if we learn to consider the seemingly
trivial good things as winnings and the huge honest mistakes as
lessons instead.
Like how each time my G-2 pen is returned to me, I feel extremely
blessed. Things such as honesty make my life more bearable and worth
traveling. Who will second me with that? Anyone?
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